Page 13 of The Scarred Duke's Bride
She huffed in defeat, standing still on the box she’d been given, so the modiste could measure the length of her leg.
While she was still swirling in dark thoughts, the door opened, ushering in Mrs. Beecham and a strange girl. Mrs. Beecham closed the door, gently leading the girl along until they were both standing in front of Freya.
“Lady Freya, allow me to introduce your new lady’s maid, Diana Ferguson.”
Freya looked to the girl, who curtsied very correctly, her eyes kept modestly downward. She was aware that lady’s maids werede rigueurfortonladies, but she’d never had one before.
“Why now?" she asked softly.
“Your father says you need one. A proper lady cannot go about without one.”
Freya sighed, looking away from both of them. “Very well,” she agreed tiredly. “I hope you know what to do because I cannot teach you.”
The girl, Diana, curtsied even lower. “I came up in the Winchester household and was trained as a lady’s maid by Her Grace's lady's maid herself.”
Freya flicked a glance her way. “I am sure you have excellent references. My father would not have retained you if it were not the case. Forgive me if I seemed to cast doubt on your capabilities.”
Diana bowed her head. “Itis not my place to forgive you, my lady, but it is quite all right.”
Freya nodded. “Good. Now the farce may begin.”
Diana gave her an uncertain look before Mrs. Beecham ushered her towards the wardrobe, explaining where Freya kept all her gowns and other fripperies. Freya returned to her troubled thoughts and left them to it. What was clear to her was that her life was not only changing at a rapid pace, but that slowly but surely it was no longer her own.
Why am I even surprised? I should have known that Father would not leave us alone forever. He always has a plan for everything, including his daughters.
She thought with a pang of Isabella and what nefarious fate might be awaiting her sister in a few years. She was very afraid that just as her own life had been snatched out of her hands unceremoniously, the same would happen to Isabella.
What can I do? I cannot even help myself. How will I help her?
Mrs. Beecham came back, inspecting the gown that the modiste was currently fitting on Freya’s body. The satin gown was the deep red of port wine with belled sleeves made of thin muslin and an off-the-shoulder neckline. The gown's neckline and sleeves were joined together just above her armpit, with a black embroidered elaborate star design. The dress tapered to her waist before flaring out in an extravagant satin skirt, with a thin, black muslin petticoat peeking from underneath.
“Mm, you look very well in that.” Mrs. Beecham nodded her approval.
Freya might have agreed, might have even enjoyed wearing such a lovely gown were it not for the circumstances she found herself in. She just looked miserably at her governess and shook her head. “I suppose Mr. Campbell will be pleased.”
“Indeed, he should be. And credit to the modiste because that shade of red might easily have clashed with your hair. Instead, you look like a woodland nymph come to frolic amongst humankind for the night.”
Freya could not help snorting in amusement. “You are so ridiculous Mrs. Beecham.”
“Ach!” She waved her hand dismissively. “I only say what I see.” She turned to the modiste. “Will you be finished soon? We have much to do before we leave for dinner with her ladyship's betrothed.”
The modiste nodded. “I just need to put in one more pin, and then you are free to go, my lady.”
She matched action to word before carefully removing the gown from Freya’s body. Freya stepped off the box, wearing just her shift, with a sigh of relief. She looked at the governess. “Now what?”
Diana stepped forward. “Now I brush your hair in preparation for your bath. I have sent for hot water and lavender petals and some oils as well since you do not seem to have any.”
Freya was rendered speechless for a moment. “Oh…well…I shall leave that in your capable hands.”
Diana bowed her head and moved away, busying herself with getting the tub ready and putting an intimidating array of bottles, tubes, and brushes on the dressing table.
Freya gawked while Mrs. Beecham looked on proudly. “Oh, I think she’ll do,” she murmured, nodding to herself.
Freya turned to stare incredulously at Mrs. Beecham. “Are you serious?” she hissed. “I have never used so many products on my person in my life.”
Mrs. Beecham nodded. “And it is high time you began. A lady’s skin should always resemble that of an English rose, and you spend too much time in the sun without a hat. I have warned you many times that your skin will pay for it.”
Freya rolled her eyes, quite used to the other woman’s rants by now. She realized she was not going to find an ally in Mrs. Beecham. She was probably quite pleased that Freya was finally forced to conform to lady-like expectations.
