Angelica sighed. If Mary Wollstonecraft had been her mother, she would be writing now instead of suffering this ordeal. The stays cut off her breath as Liza jerked the laces with a murmured apology. Angelica held up her arms for the endless layers of petticoats and, finally, the gown. One had to admit that the ensemble was exquisite. The pale blue satin shimmered, appearing to be anywhere between sapphire and the palest cornflower, depending on how the light hit the fabric. The dress was unadorned except for a trimming of darker blue lace at the oval bodice and along the hem.
“Since most debutantes will be wearing paler colors, I believe this will help you stand out, especially with the right coiffure.” Margaret’s tone forbade argument.
When Liza had finished her hair, Angelica surveyed her reflection in the mirror. Her dark brown tresses were piled atop her head and threaded with pearls, while a few curls tumbled artfully down her back. Ebony eyes fringed with sooty lashes peered shyly from her heart-shaped face. Her full lips formed a slight smile. Why, she looked at least twenty years old!
Margaret nodded in approval. “You shall make a fetching picture indeed, my dear. I expect you to draw a line of titled young bucks within moments of our arrival.” Angelica grimaced as her mother pinched her cheeks to bring some color. “There, now I must see if your father rang for the carriage.”
The moment her mother left the room, Angelica frowned at the maid. “Why does she have to be so mercenary? I feel like a horse or a painting up for auction.”
Liza sighed. “Lady Margaret just cares for your future. She merely wants the best for you.”
Angelica snorted. “What future? She wants to sentence me to life in a cage more gilt than this one.” She leaped from the stool and paced the room like an angry feline. “That’s all marriage is for a woman. Hell, it’s all that life is for a woman. A prison! Well, I shall stand for this horrid slave-trade no longer! I shall—”
“You shall what?” Liza inquired, immune to the unladylike outburst.
“Never mind.” Angelica was tempted to inform her maid of her intention to ruin herself, but then considered the wisdom of doing so. Liza was like a friend to her, but she was still a servant, dependent on her parents’ good opinion to retain her position and the roof over her head. If Angelica succeeded in ruining her reputation and Liza knew about the scheme, her poor maid would likely be thrown out into the street without a reference. Liza was an agreeable accomplice to many of Angelica’s adventures, but it would be best if Angelica acted alone on this mission.
To evade her maid’s suspicion, she charged over to her bed and pulled a black silk garter from beneath her mattress.
Liza sighed again as she watched Angelica hike up her skirts to slip on the scrap of fabric. “Yer still wearin’ that bleedin’ thing? You never even met that poet.”
“Of course I am still wearing it. John Keats has only been dead a week. A creator of great works should be mourned. Since Mother will not let me mourn him in public, I shall wear this garter until a decent period has passed, perhaps even the requisite six months.”
Liza nodded. “At least you found the sense to mourn the penniless sod in secret now.” She obviously considered her station to be above that of the poet. “I’ll never forget the look on your mother’s face when you tried to wear black plumes in your headdress for your presentation to the King last Tuesday. She nearly ran mad!”
Angelica raised a brow. “What else could I have done? She burned my black dress.”
“The hem was too high, and even if I’d let the bodice out to its limits, the dress wouldn’t have fit,” Liza countered smoothly before she helped Angelica with her cape and shooed her out the door.
Papa greeted Angelica at the bottom of the stairs. “Could this enchanting creature truly be my little daughter?”
She grinned at her father and dropped into a low curtsy. It was not hard to believe that her mother had once lost her heart to him. Though Jacob Winthrop was forty years old, his ebony hair had not the slightest touch of gray and his gypsy eyes, which he had passed onto Angelica, were framed by only the faintest of wrinkles. Despite the fact that he was untitled, many ladies of the Quality blushed and simpered over him. How was it possible that Mother no longer loved him?
A touch of apprehension caught her at the sight of her father’s beloved visage. Would her ruination hurt him? She knew her mother would be devastated, and was surprised at the guilt that arose at the thought, despite her anger at Margaret’s betrayal. Surely Papa would understand. He’d never been one to care much for the opinions of others.
She lifted her chin and quoted, “‘To hold a pen is to be at war.’”
Jacob beamed. “Voltaire, correct?”
Angelica nodded. Even if Mary Shelley had forgotten that writing was war, she wouldn’t. And war meant making sacrifices. She must remember that.
As Papa escorted her outside, she peered at Burnrath House, visible through the naked branches of the hawthorn trees. The forbidding structure seemed to beckon her from the darkness. An intoxicating tremor ran all the way down to her toes. She pulled the fabric of her cape tighter around her bared shoulders.