granting her a prime opportunity to catch him in a leg-shackle. If not—well, he’d already hurt her once. That knowledge was one of his heaviest burdens—could he risk adding to it?
And what of her father? She’d indicated that Barty Halford did not wish her to continue their association. The man was nearly as influential in the racing community as Ryeton. If crossed, he could crush Stephen’s plans just as easily as the earl.
No.
Stephen closed his eyes and experienced again the burning need to make Fincote a success. The goal loomed ever larger in his mind—a holy grail that he could not stop chasing. He would never rest easy until it was done.
He groaned and leaned back against the tack-room door, gazing up at the horseshoe above him. He was going to need all the luck he could get. Could he truly be considering this? And the question remained—even if he convinced himself, how on earth was he to convince Mae?
* * *
‘Mademoiselle!’
Mae blinked. Her maid’s tone was sharp, the hairpin she’d just jabbed at her skull sharper yet. Still, it took a heroic effort to focus on Josette’s exasperated face in the mirror.
‘Almost I can see the very busy turnings of the wheels in your mind, but three times I have asked if you prefer the plain comb or the pearls.’ Josette wagged a finger at her reflection.
‘I’m sorry, Josette.’
‘Do not be sorry. Only pay attention, just for a moment. You can go back to your scheming once we have you ready for the day.’
Mae stared at her image. Good heavens, but her shoulders were drawn tight up around her ears. Deliberately, she relaxed and reminded herself that she
liked
what she saw in the mirror.
Yet thoughts of Stephen and his friend from last evening continued to trouble her. Mr Grange, who likely did not enjoy his reflection any more—but with whom she felt a kinship, none the less. He was an outsider, just like her. They were each undeniably different from the people about them—only Mr Grange wore his differences on the outside.
She sat straighter in her chair. ‘Josette, are we doing the right thing?’
‘What?’ the startled maid asked. ‘The pearls?’
‘No, no. The pearls are fine.’ Turning around in her seat, Mae let the words rush out. ‘The campaign. I know we’ve laid our plans and devised our strategies, but I’m beginning to wonder if it is a mistake to hidemy … foibles.’ She paused. ‘From the gentlemen I am meeting, I mean.’
Josette clucked and turned her around to face the mirror again. ‘Do you know what you are,
mademoiselle?
You are like a banquet prepared by the greatest chefs of my country, rich with ingredients and fascinating layers. But these Englishmen! Bah!’ She tucked in a curl and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Too long have they lived on bland, tasteless fare. They do not know enough to know what is best. You must give them a small taste at a time. Slowly they will become accustomed to the many delicious flavours that make you who you are. Only then will they discover it is too late to go back to their plain English misses.’
Mae laughed. ‘Bad enough my father puts me in the same category as his fillies, now you make me feel like a cassoulet.’
‘Either way,’ Josette said with a smack of her fingers to her lips, ‘you are
magnifique.’
Mae studied her reflection once more and chose to believe her. She knew she was not the same as most girls—had known it since she’d discovered that none of the others improved the efficiency of the kitchens by reorganising the cook’s battery of pots in order of frequency of use. At school she’d been the only one to keep her clothes hung in the wardrobe according to colour and age of the garment. But she’d always chosen to embrace her differences, to believe that they made her interesting and unique. She was different, not less—but it had been a battle to convince the world to believe it along with her.
Josette set down her brush and began to
And what of her father? She’d indicated that Barty Halford did not wish her to continue their association. The man was nearly as influential in the racing community as Ryeton. If crossed, he could crush Stephen’s plans just as easily as the earl.
No.
Stephen closed his eyes and experienced again the burning need to make Fincote a success. The goal loomed ever larger in his mind—a holy grail that he could not stop chasing. He would never rest easy until it was done.
He groaned and leaned back against the tack-room door, gazing up at the horseshoe above him. He was going to need all the luck he could get. Could he truly be considering this? And the question remained—even if he convinced himself, how on earth was he to convince Mae?
* * *
‘Mademoiselle!’
Mae blinked. Her maid’s tone was sharp, the hairpin she’d just jabbed at her skull sharper yet. Still, it took a heroic effort to focus on Josette’s exasperated face in the mirror.
‘Almost I can see the very busy turnings of the wheels in your mind, but three times I have asked if you prefer the plain comb or the pearls.’ Josette wagged a finger at her reflection.
‘I’m sorry, Josette.’
‘Do not be sorry. Only pay attention, just for a moment. You can go back to your scheming once we have you ready for the day.’
Mae stared at her image. Good heavens, but her shoulders were drawn tight up around her ears. Deliberately, she relaxed and reminded herself that she
liked
what she saw in the mirror.
Yet thoughts of Stephen and his friend from last evening continued to trouble her. Mr Grange, who likely did not enjoy his reflection any more—but with whom she felt a kinship, none the less. He was an outsider, just like her. They were each undeniably different from the people about them—only Mr Grange wore his differences on the outside.
She sat straighter in her chair. ‘Josette, are we doing the right thing?’
‘What?’ the startled maid asked. ‘The pearls?’
‘No, no. The pearls are fine.’ Turning around in her seat, Mae let the words rush out. ‘The campaign. I know we’ve laid our plans and devised our strategies, but I’m beginning to wonder if it is a mistake to hidemy … foibles.’ She paused. ‘From the gentlemen I am meeting, I mean.’
Josette clucked and turned her around to face the mirror again. ‘Do you know what you are,
mademoiselle?
You are like a banquet prepared by the greatest chefs of my country, rich with ingredients and fascinating layers. But these Englishmen! Bah!’ She tucked in a curl and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Too long have they lived on bland, tasteless fare. They do not know enough to know what is best. You must give them a small taste at a time. Slowly they will become accustomed to the many delicious flavours that make you who you are. Only then will they discover it is too late to go back to their plain English misses.’
Mae laughed. ‘Bad enough my father puts me in the same category as his fillies, now you make me feel like a cassoulet.’
‘Either way,’ Josette said with a smack of her fingers to her lips, ‘you are
magnifique.’
Mae studied her reflection once more and chose to believe her. She knew she was not the same as most girls—had known it since she’d discovered that none of the others improved the efficiency of the kitchens by reorganising the cook’s battery of pots in order of frequency of use. At school she’d been the only one to keep her clothes hung in the wardrobe according to colour and age of the garment. But she’d always chosen to embrace her differences, to believe that they made her interesting and unique. She was different, not less—but it had been a battle to convince the world to believe it along with her.
Josette set down her brush and began to
Similar Books
