handkerchiefs, a cuff link she'd found beneath the bed, and a book of poetry. These items could have belonged to anyone.
Fearing her knees would collapse, Zoe sagged against the wall and covered her eyes. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn't she looked beyond that handsome face? There must have been signs if she'd had the eyes to see, small slipups if she hadn't been too dazzled to notice.
"We're not permitted to cook in our rooms, but everyone does. I'll make some coffee." If Ma were here she'd throw up her hands. Not only had Zoe brought home her husband's other wives, she was about to serve them refreshments like the perfect little lady that Jean Jacques had believed she was. Or had he?
Opening her eyes, she stared at Juliette. Juliette perched on the edge of the divan, her spine not touching the back cushion. Her knees were modestly pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. With a sinking sensation, Zoe suspected Juliette was the genuine item. And they could not be more unalike. Zoe didn't possess Juliette's quiet stillness, nor her sense of style. She would never have sat as Juliette was sitting. Everything about Juliette March Villette proclaimed her pedigree. Her posture, her clothing. The way she spoke, the way she walked and carried her head. And the reverse must be true as well. Everything about Zoe Wilder Villette announced that she was a Newcastle girl with a chip on her shoulder and calluses on her palms. She knew how to work and fight and swear, and she suspected her background was as obvious as Juliette's.
Aching inside and no longer sure of anything, she went through the motions of making coffee atop the potbelly stove. At once the room became unbearably hot, so she opened her window, not caring if rain dripped inside. For a long moment she gazed at her watery image reflected in the upper panes. The face of a fool.
She should have known that Jean Jacques couldn't be real. Handsome princes didn't appear and lay a kingdom at the feet of someone like Zoe Wilder. What craziness had made her think she deserved to have her dreams come true?
"Oh, Ma," she said softly, pressing her forehead to the cool window glass. She had betrayed the people she loved most. Jean Jacques's aristocratic tales of wealth and the exalted life they would lead together had made her feel ashamed of her family. She had actually felt humiliated when she anticipated what the servants would think when Ma came to visit wearing her crushed hat and mended stockings. Shame almost dropped her to her knees.
She would never forgive him for making her feel embarrassed about her family.
"Thank you. This is good coffee," Juliette murmured after Zoe poured. She balanced her cup and saucer on her knees, making the feat look comfortable and easy.
Clara's eyebrows lifted toward a fringe of red hair. "What are you doing? This is the worst moment of our lives, and you're making polite comments about the coffee!" Disgust pursed her lips as she set her saucer on the floor beside her sensible shoes.
Zoe wished she had splurged and purchased the table she wanted to place before the divan. Later, Jean Jacques's other two wives would probably laugh and make cutting comments about how they'd had to place their cups and saucers on the floor.
"We needn't abandon proper manners because we're upset and distraught," Juliette announced, raising her chin. "Manners are the armor of civilized people. Manners will see one through the most difficult situations."
Clara sighed heavily and rolled her eyes.
First Zoe listened in disbelief. Then outrage stretched her skin tight across her cheekbones. Jean Jacques must have secretly chuckled every time he referred to her as a lady. Mortification flamed bright on her throat. She, who always believed herself too smart to be flimflammed, had been taken in completely. What stuck in her craw was how easily and quickly she had lost her senses. A few besotted glances. A few flattering honeyed words. Clean
Fearing her knees would collapse, Zoe sagged against the wall and covered her eyes. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn't she looked beyond that handsome face? There must have been signs if she'd had the eyes to see, small slipups if she hadn't been too dazzled to notice.
"We're not permitted to cook in our rooms, but everyone does. I'll make some coffee." If Ma were here she'd throw up her hands. Not only had Zoe brought home her husband's other wives, she was about to serve them refreshments like the perfect little lady that Jean Jacques had believed she was. Or had he?
Opening her eyes, she stared at Juliette. Juliette perched on the edge of the divan, her spine not touching the back cushion. Her knees were modestly pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. With a sinking sensation, Zoe suspected Juliette was the genuine item. And they could not be more unalike. Zoe didn't possess Juliette's quiet stillness, nor her sense of style. She would never have sat as Juliette was sitting. Everything about Juliette March Villette proclaimed her pedigree. Her posture, her clothing. The way she spoke, the way she walked and carried her head. And the reverse must be true as well. Everything about Zoe Wilder Villette announced that she was a Newcastle girl with a chip on her shoulder and calluses on her palms. She knew how to work and fight and swear, and she suspected her background was as obvious as Juliette's.
Aching inside and no longer sure of anything, she went through the motions of making coffee atop the potbelly stove. At once the room became unbearably hot, so she opened her window, not caring if rain dripped inside. For a long moment she gazed at her watery image reflected in the upper panes. The face of a fool.
She should have known that Jean Jacques couldn't be real. Handsome princes didn't appear and lay a kingdom at the feet of someone like Zoe Wilder. What craziness had made her think she deserved to have her dreams come true?
"Oh, Ma," she said softly, pressing her forehead to the cool window glass. She had betrayed the people she loved most. Jean Jacques's aristocratic tales of wealth and the exalted life they would lead together had made her feel ashamed of her family. She had actually felt humiliated when she anticipated what the servants would think when Ma came to visit wearing her crushed hat and mended stockings. Shame almost dropped her to her knees.
She would never forgive him for making her feel embarrassed about her family.
"Thank you. This is good coffee," Juliette murmured after Zoe poured. She balanced her cup and saucer on her knees, making the feat look comfortable and easy.
Clara's eyebrows lifted toward a fringe of red hair. "What are you doing? This is the worst moment of our lives, and you're making polite comments about the coffee!" Disgust pursed her lips as she set her saucer on the floor beside her sensible shoes.
Zoe wished she had splurged and purchased the table she wanted to place before the divan. Later, Jean Jacques's other two wives would probably laugh and make cutting comments about how they'd had to place their cups and saucers on the floor.
"We needn't abandon proper manners because we're upset and distraught," Juliette announced, raising her chin. "Manners are the armor of civilized people. Manners will see one through the most difficult situations."
Clara sighed heavily and rolled her eyes.
First Zoe listened in disbelief. Then outrage stretched her skin tight across her cheekbones. Jean Jacques must have secretly chuckled every time he referred to her as a lady. Mortification flamed bright on her throat. She, who always believed herself too smart to be flimflammed, had been taken in completely. What stuck in her craw was how easily and quickly she had lost her senses. A few besotted glances. A few flattering honeyed words. Clean
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