Jo Beverley by Forbidden Magic Page B

could—”
    â€œNo! It’s dangerous, Laura. Definitely not to be used for trivial things.”
    â€œA wedding dress isn’t trivial!”
    Meg hid a smile at this evidence of how young her sister was, of how right her decision was. “There’s a cost to the sheelagh, Laura. Too high a cost for vanity. You do know never to speak of it.”
    â€œOh yes.” She looked as if she would say more, but returned to the room to dig through the drawers. “Everything is awfully dull.”
    â€œSuitable for a governess. And very practical.”
    She pulled out a gown in light blue. “It’ll have to be this.”
    â€œGood,” Meg said, glad to have it settled. The gown was her Sunday best—a serge walking dress with dark blue trimming.
    â€œIt’s awfully plain for a countess, though,” Laura whispered, draping it over a chair. “We could retrim it—”
    â€œNo.” Meg was shocked—almost appalled—by the idea of being a countess. “I’m sure the earl will be pleased to buy me new garments more suited to my station.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œNo. Get to bed.”
    As they helped each other undress, Meg sighed at the thought of being a countess. She was ready to marry an eccentric earl, but had not thought it through. Why itshould seem so terrible to be a countess she couldn’t say, except that she was a very unlikely person for the part.
    As she plaited her hair, she studied herself. Shouldn’t a countess have a chiseled nose and a long swanlike neck? She shrugged. She would be a dutiful wife to an earl. That was the best she could offer.
    Laura’s fussing about clothes had raised another problem. As she settled into bed, Meg thought about her underwear.
    In her years with the Ramilly family, there had been many quiet evenings. She supposed some people might have thought of them as lonely, but she had found them peaceful. The main reason she’d sought employment, after all, was to escape the ramshackle chaos of her home. She loved her family dearly, but the constant disorganization, and her parents’ blithe dismissal of all concerns, had driven her distracted.
    The Ramilly household had been extremely well-organized. The family were sober and kind, the children well-behaved, the servants meticulous. Once her charges had been in bed, her evenings had mostly been her own, spent in her own private room, amid peace and quiet. Often she read, or wrote letters home. But she also spent much time in embroidery and lace-making, tranquil, delicate arts that gave her great joy.
    At some point she had tired of trimming handkerchiefs and making sober bands for severe gowns. She had begun decorating her plain, functional underwear. It had started mildly with a few sprigs of flowers on shifts and nightgowns. Then she’d settled to a narrow trim of Renaissance lace on a petticoat, which had certainly taken a nice long time.
    When that was finished, however, she couldn’t stop. Openwork and cutwork, drawn thread and counted thread, satin stitch and hardanger, her plain cotton garments had become canvasses for her imagination. She kept the colors subdued, for the laundry woman had to see everything, and most of it ended up blowing on the line to dry, but the designs were complex and satisfying to work.
    It had taken her some time to realize that she had two sorts of garments which no one but she ever saw—her corsets, and her drawers. Her corsets could not be washed, and her scandalous drawers she laundered for herself.
    On her corsets and drawers, therefore, Meg had let her wildest fancies break free. These clothes were her guilty secret, ridiculous for a plain young lady of a serious turn of mind, but so very precious. It had been easy to keep them from others. What of a husband, though?
    It shouldn’t be a problem. He would come to her when she was in her bed, wouldn’t he, and her nightgowns were very