you put it, how is that different
to the enticing way my mother smiled? She used her ‘pretty manners’ and
enhanced her beauty to enslave men. Do you think I wish to be called a harlot,
too?”
Sarah did not interrupt. Her heart went out to the girl.
“This birthday ball of mine-” Caro put a hand to her temple and
closed her eyes briefly. “I shall feel like an-an animal in the zoo. Everyone
will be watching me, studying me, making comparisons. They won’t come with the
object of helping Mr Hawthorne celebrate his daughter’s birthday. They’ll be
there to see if his daughter is as beautiful as her mother, as flirtatious as
her mother, as gay and lively and … and likely to be as immoral as her mother.”
She sank down upon the paint-chipped nursery chair and covered her
face with her hands. Sarah stifled the urge to go to her. A brisker approach,
she decided, was safer.
“You’ve made some interesting observations, Caro, and with your
permission I should like to conduct an experiment.” She smiled from across the
table, her tone matter-of-fact. “I have an aptitude for charades and amateur
theatricals, I am told, which will enable me to show you how to create any
impression you want.”
Caro looked at Sarah as if she were speaking nonsense.
“But the experiment is to be conducted in the evening, when your
aunt and father are out visiting. I believe they are to play cards with Colonel
Doncaster and his wife tomorrow night?”
“What do you want me to do?” Caro sounded suspicious.
“Oh, you don’t have to do
anything, except observe and” - Sarah crinkled her brow - “supply me with one
of your mother’s old dresses.” She gave a satisfied smile at Caro’s look of
horror. “One of her most alluring.”
Despite Caro’s apparent reluctance, the girl’s curiosity clearly overrode
her aversion to looking through the scandalous, diaphanous wisps of fabric that
had once clothed her mother. A sense of devilry obviously made her select the
most scandalous, diaphanous of them all.
Sarah was still wearing her own evening gown when Caro came to her
tiny bedchamber while Ellen put the girls to bed. The garment had been
bequeathed to her by Mrs Hawthorne but Sarah had transformed it into an
eye-catching sheath of peony-red gros de
Naples with three rows of gold trimming around the hem. She’d noticed Mrs
Hawthorne’s gimlet eye stray towards the creation throughout the evening. Mr
Hawthorne’s ill-concealed admiration had, however, been more gratifying, even
though he’d addressed her with the same studied coolness.
“Wait for me in the drawing room,” instructed Sarah, relieving Caro
of her mother’s evening gown.
“Why can’t we go down together?”
“Because I am the one issuing instructions and it’s my desire that
you take a seat by the fire and pretend you are simply a guest. I shall come
down in one guise, take my seat at the piano, and pretend to entertain my
audience. Remember, you are merely to observe. I shall then leave, and return,
as another person-”
“You mean my mother.”
“It doesn’t matter. Perhaps I will pretend I am Lady Venetia, or
perhaps I will pretend I am Caro who is pretending to be her mother. You will
know, believe me. Just do as I say, Caro.”
She leapt into action the moment Caro had closed the door. Out of
her trunk she pulled the real Sarah Morecroft’s most hideous garment and, with
satisfaction, struggled into the drab grey merino gown with its ill-made
trimmings. She then rearranged her hair to fall in two unflattering loops over
the sides of her face and topped it with a poorly sewn toque adorned with a
sadly drooping feather.
Regarding herself with satisfaction she proceeded down the stairs.
At the door to the drawing room she turned her attention to her posture. With
shoulders slumped, neck thrust out, eyes darting suspiciously from side to
side, she made her way to the piano.
Executing a clumsy, self conscious curtsy as if she were
to the enticing way my mother smiled? She used her ‘pretty manners’ and
enhanced her beauty to enslave men. Do you think I wish to be called a harlot,
too?”
Sarah did not interrupt. Her heart went out to the girl.
“This birthday ball of mine-” Caro put a hand to her temple and
closed her eyes briefly. “I shall feel like an-an animal in the zoo. Everyone
will be watching me, studying me, making comparisons. They won’t come with the
object of helping Mr Hawthorne celebrate his daughter’s birthday. They’ll be
there to see if his daughter is as beautiful as her mother, as flirtatious as
her mother, as gay and lively and … and likely to be as immoral as her mother.”
She sank down upon the paint-chipped nursery chair and covered her
face with her hands. Sarah stifled the urge to go to her. A brisker approach,
she decided, was safer.
“You’ve made some interesting observations, Caro, and with your
permission I should like to conduct an experiment.” She smiled from across the
table, her tone matter-of-fact. “I have an aptitude for charades and amateur
theatricals, I am told, which will enable me to show you how to create any
impression you want.”
Caro looked at Sarah as if she were speaking nonsense.
“But the experiment is to be conducted in the evening, when your
aunt and father are out visiting. I believe they are to play cards with Colonel
Doncaster and his wife tomorrow night?”
“What do you want me to do?” Caro sounded suspicious.
“Oh, you don’t have to do
anything, except observe and” - Sarah crinkled her brow - “supply me with one
of your mother’s old dresses.” She gave a satisfied smile at Caro’s look of
horror. “One of her most alluring.”
Despite Caro’s apparent reluctance, the girl’s curiosity clearly overrode
her aversion to looking through the scandalous, diaphanous wisps of fabric that
had once clothed her mother. A sense of devilry obviously made her select the
most scandalous, diaphanous of them all.
Sarah was still wearing her own evening gown when Caro came to her
tiny bedchamber while Ellen put the girls to bed. The garment had been
bequeathed to her by Mrs Hawthorne but Sarah had transformed it into an
eye-catching sheath of peony-red gros de
Naples with three rows of gold trimming around the hem. She’d noticed Mrs
Hawthorne’s gimlet eye stray towards the creation throughout the evening. Mr
Hawthorne’s ill-concealed admiration had, however, been more gratifying, even
though he’d addressed her with the same studied coolness.
“Wait for me in the drawing room,” instructed Sarah, relieving Caro
of her mother’s evening gown.
“Why can’t we go down together?”
“Because I am the one issuing instructions and it’s my desire that
you take a seat by the fire and pretend you are simply a guest. I shall come
down in one guise, take my seat at the piano, and pretend to entertain my
audience. Remember, you are merely to observe. I shall then leave, and return,
as another person-”
“You mean my mother.”
“It doesn’t matter. Perhaps I will pretend I am Lady Venetia, or
perhaps I will pretend I am Caro who is pretending to be her mother. You will
know, believe me. Just do as I say, Caro.”
She leapt into action the moment Caro had closed the door. Out of
her trunk she pulled the real Sarah Morecroft’s most hideous garment and, with
satisfaction, struggled into the drab grey merino gown with its ill-made
trimmings. She then rearranged her hair to fall in two unflattering loops over
the sides of her face and topped it with a poorly sewn toque adorned with a
sadly drooping feather.
Regarding herself with satisfaction she proceeded down the stairs.
At the door to the drawing room she turned her attention to her posture. With
shoulders slumped, neck thrust out, eyes darting suspiciously from side to
side, she made her way to the piano.
Executing a clumsy, self conscious curtsy as if she were
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