Page 23 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
Mrs. Hart breezed into the room and eyed Amelia with disapproval. “Stop lying about in bed. You ought to be preparing to receive callers.”
Amelia checked the clock and winced. “I’m sorry. Time got away from me.”
Mrs. Hart scowled. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Our guests will be here soon, and you must look your best.”
“Of course, Mother. I’ll call for Mary now.” She was just relieved her mother hadn’t seen the papers and that she’d avoided a scolding. Mrs. Hart’s temper was a fragile thing when it came to Amelia failing to live up to her expectations.
“No need. I will summon Mary,” Mrs. Hart said. “Youmust freshen yourself up. There’s a pot of water in the corridor. Once you’ve done that, we can choose your dress.”
Amelia’s face fell. She’d hoped that she’d be able to select her own attire today, but since her mother was here, then she would simply have to accept whatever she thought was best.
“Yes, Mother.”
Mrs. Hart left to find Mary, for which Amelia was grateful because it allowed her to dart into the corridor, retrieve the pot of warm water, and scrub her ink-stained hands with peppermint soap before anyone else could see them. She splashed her face and checked in the mirror to ensure there were no ink smudges on her cheeks or chin.
Mrs. Hart and Mary arrived seconds after she locked the desk drawer with her notes tucked safely inside.
“Good morning, miss,” Mary said, dropping her chin respectfully.
“Hello, Mary,” Amelia greeted in return.
There was nothing more she could say with Mrs. Hart present, so as much as she might like to ask what the other maids thought of her ideas for Joceline, some of which she’d shared with Mary last night, she would have to wait.
Never mind. Amelia could be patient.
Mrs. Hart removed a dress from the wardrobe, and Amelia exhaled a breath of relief. It was a simple frock of pale blue that would actually flatter her complexion and potentially even look rather nice.
“This one,” Mrs. Hart declared.
Mary took it from her, laid it on the bed, and helped Amelia remove her nightgown. She folded the nightgown on the padded seat at the end of the bed and then positioned the dress for Amelia to step into.
Mary lifted the dress up over Amelia’s hips, and they both ignored her mother’s tutting about their difficult size—as if it were Amelia’s fault they were not either willow slim or of the impressive proportions labeled as “childbearing.”
She simply was as she had always been.
Average.
The worst possible outcome, as far as Mrs. Hart was concerned. At least if she were one extreme or the other, people would notice her.
“I think the pearl necklace today,” Mrs. Hart mused.
Amelia almost chuckled. God forbid anyone forget for a single second just how wealthy the Harts were.
She held still while Mary buttoned the back of her dress, and her mother fetched the aforementioned necklace from a drawer and held it up in front of Amelia.
“Yes. That will pair nicely with the dress.” She placed it atop the cabinet beneath the mirror. “I do wish you’d been more mindful not to waste the morning like a layabout. As it is, we don’t have the time to dress your hair properly.”
Amelia was quietly pleased that they would not be able to do anything too extravagant. It was an awful nuisance trying to comb out her hair after an event for which her mother insisted on an elaborate style. Her scalp always stung something fierce, and the tangles brought tears to her eyes.
“I am sure that Mary is more than capable of coming up with something appropriate in the time we have,” she said, flashing the maid a smile.
Mary glanced at Mrs. Hart and, finding her waiting, nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I think, considering the hour, we would be best to leave her hair loose and perhaps swept over her shoulder. We can set a few curls around her face.”
Mrs. Hart sighed and waved her hand dismissively. “Fine. But next time, I expect you to be prepared earlier.”
She stalked out—no doubt to double-check her own appearance—and Amelia sat while Mary fixed her hair.
When her mother returned to escort her downstairs, she drew in a deep breath and braced herself for a morning of either painful chitchat or uncomfortable silence, depending on whether or not they received any callers.
