Page 67 of The Unforgiven
“Because you are real,” George replied with a casual shrug, as if the answer should have been obvious.
“I will wear it always,” Madeline promised, kissing his cheek. “May I have a photograph of you to put inside?”
“Are you sure you should carry a photograph of your cousin so close to your heart?” George joked. “Poor Gilbert might get jealous.”
“I don’t care about Gilbert.” Madeline pouted. “Why do you keep mentioning him?”
“Because maybe I’m the one who is jealous.”
“What reason would you have to be jealous?”
“I’m jealous because he’s free to marry you, and I’m not,” George replied, his expression growing serious. “You might tire of waiting for me.”
“Don’t be silly, George. You’re such a fuddy-duddy sometimes,” Madeline said, laughing. “I love you. I will wait for you forever, if that’s what it takes.”
“Forever is a long time, Maddy, especially when you’re sixteen.”
When Cissy arrived to help Madeline dress for the ball, she ejected George from the room.
“You must leave now, Mr. George,” Cissy said sternly, brandishing the hair tongs. “I’ve much to do. Joe has polished yourshoes and brushed down your coat. I’ll come by and tie your cravat for you after I’m finished with Miss Madeline.”
George gave Cissy a thoughtful look. “Perhaps I should have my hair curled. What say you, Madeline?” he asked, flipping his hair and batting his eyelashes.
Madeline and Cissy both giggled. “Go on with you,” Cissy said, “or I’ll make you look like that fellow in the alcove.”
The bust in the alcove was of some Roman god whose hair was so curly it looked as if he were wearing his brain outside his skull. George gave the two women a look of mock horror and departed for his dressing room, where he would likely read the paper and smoke a cigar until it was time for him to don his suit. He didn’t require two hours of preparation.
A joyful smile stretched across Madeline’s face as she slowly woke the next morning. She stretched luxuriously. The sun was already riding high in the sky, but she’d gone to bed just as the first rays of the morning sun lit up the wintery sky, so it was all right to sleep in.
She thought back to her conversation with George as she reverently touched the locket. Warm from her body, it felt like a living thing rather than a piece of jewelry. She found it endearing that George worried about losing her. She’d wait as long as it took for him to extricate himself from his marriage. He had assured Madeline that Amelia wouldn’t object, so there was nothing to worry about.
“Planning on getting up today, Miss Madeline?” Cissy asked as she swept into the room. “’Tis past noon, and Mrs. Besson would like a word.”
Madeline reluctantly got out of bed and walked over to the dressing table. She laughed out loud when she caught sight of herself. She looked like a wild woman with her hair as unruly as alion’s mane and her face flushed and slightly puffy from all the punch she’d enjoyed the night before.
Cissy shook her head in dismay as she picked up the brush and motioned for Madeline to sit down. “This will take some doing,” Cissy said as she ran the bristles through the first tangled section of hair.
“Ow, that hurts,” Madeline complained.
“Should have brushed and plaited it before going to bed,” Cissy replied, unfazed. “Now sit still.”
Madeline complied and tried not to yelp every time Cissy combed out a particularly nasty tangle. The only thing that made Cissy’s ministrations bearable was that Bette brought Madeline a cup of coffee and a buttered roll fresh from the oven.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Bette said. She exchanged loaded looks with Cissy and left.
Madeline took a sip of coffee and sighed gratefully. It was strong and hot and made her feel less muddle-headed.
Half an hour later, Madeline was finally ready to face the world—and her grandmother. Sybil had seemed pleased with her last night, watching her as she danced with Gilbert and smiling at Mrs. Montlake as she commented on the waltzing pair. She’d even discussed the ball with Madeline in the carriage on the way back, while George stared out the window, half asleep after all the cognac and brandy he’d consumed.
Madeline knocked on the door and entered Sybil’s private parlor. She’d never been in there, and the feminine loveliness of the room surprised her. Sybil was all sharp angles and harsh words, but the room was nothing like its occupant. It was charming, with rosewood furniture upholstered in pale yellow silk and matching drapes. Several competent landscapes hung on the walls and a daguerreotype of George and Amelia on their wedding day held pride of place in a heavy silver frame. Sybil sat in an armchair bythe hearth, a pot of coffee on a low table at her side. There were two cups, which Madeline found encouraging.
“Good morning, Grandmother. I hope you slept well,” she said, hoping to recapture the unexpected camaraderie of last night.
Sybil took a sip of coffee and set the cup down before acknowledging Madeline’s greeting with a nod. Madeline expected her grandmother to invite her to sit down and have a cup of coffee with her, but Sybil didn’t offer the seat or the coffee. She looked Madeline up and down instead, displeasure curling her lip into a snarl. Madeline took an involuntary step back, wondering if she’d done something to offend Sybil without realizing it.
“Cissy informs me that you haven’t bled in three months.”
Madeline’s cheeks heated. Menstruation was not something she ever discussed with anyone. It had been Mammy who had explained things to her when she got the curse at the age of twelve, and Mammy who showed her how to care for herself and protect her clothes. Cissy left the necessary supplies in a bedside table, and replenished them when they ran low, but never asked Madeline about her courses or made any mention of the fact that she hadn’t used up the cotton napkins Cissy left for her.
