“Dost tha—I mean do you need a hand getting undressed, miss?” Betty said tentatively.
Lily, recalled to her senses, gave an embarrassed half laugh. “Not exactly,” she said, and dropped the rug. It pooled around her feet.
Betty gasped. “Oh, my lordy lord! A man’s shirt? Is that all? Ma said you’d lost all your clothes in the accident but—not even a shift!”
Lily grimaced uncomfortably, not knowing how to explain her scandalous lack of even basic underclothing. Before, in the carriage, when she was wet and half frozen, still dazed by the drug—and dizzy with relief to have escaped—it had seemed perfectly natural to strip down to her skin, dry off and then put on the only dry garment available.
At the time the feel of the finely woven fabric against her skin and the scent of clean linen with a hint of starch had been oddly comforting. Now, under Betty’s horrified gaze, she inwardly cringed.
Betty glanced at the smears of dried mud still clinging to Lily’s skin and the bruise on her cheek and her voice softened. “It musta been a terrible accident, miss. Hop into the bath now, before the water gets cold. You’ll feel better after a hot bath and some clean clothes and one of Ma’s good dinners.”
She tugged the shirt off over Lily’s head and stepped back. Lily stepped into the bath and sank gratefully into the steaming water. It was bliss.
Lily wet a washcloth and picked up the soap Mr. Galbraith had given her. A hint of sandalwood, the tang of lemon, the warm fragrance of cinnamon. Clean, spicy, exotic. Essence of Edward Galbraith.
She scrubbed herself first from top to toe with the rough-textured washcloth, determined to remove all trace of her noxious adventure, then knelt in the bath and lathered herself dreamily with Edward’s delicious soap. The scent surrounded her, like balm to her bruised spirits.
Betty bustled about, draping towels over a stand in front of the fire and chattering happily. “Ma’s the best cook in the village, so we’ll soon have you feeling fine and dandy. Better’n your poor maid, I’ll be bound.”
Lily blinked. “My maid?”
“Broke her leg in the accident, Ma said.”
Lily recalled the story Edward had told the landlady. “Oh, yes. It was terrible, poor girl.”
Betty gave her a critical look. “Washing your hair, eh? Then you’ll want some of Ma’s special rinse. Puts a nice shine on your hair, it does, and smells lovely.” She leaned forward and sniffed. “Though not as nice as that soap.”
“Thank you, but there’s no need—”
She broke off as Betty poked her head around the door and shouted, “Jimmy, fetch us up some of Ma’s hair rinse! She’ll know which one the young lady needs.”
A few moments later a small hand poked a corked bottle through to Betty. “Here you are, miss, Ma’s special rinse. Famous in the village she is for her rinses.”
Full of misgivings about the greenish-yellow contents of the bottle, Lily resolved to find some tactful way of refusing the offer. She soaped her hair, then stood to let Betty rinse off the suds from her hair and body with a pail of clean, hot water. She bent over, wrung out her hair and put her hand out. “Pass me a towel if you please, Betty.”
“Not yet, miss. There’s Ma’s rinse to go, remember?”
“Oh, but I don’t think—”
Betty emptied the bottle over Lily’s bent head, patting it thoroughly through the wet hair with enthusiasm. The liquid was cold and bracing and made Lily’s scalp tingle. While Betty fetched a towel from in front of the fire, Lily sniffed her dripping hair cautiously. “Is that berries I can smell?”
“That’s right, miss. Ma uses blackberry leaves for this one. Nice, isn’t it? Funny color, I know, but it smells like a breath of summer. Once your hair’s dry you won’t hardly be able to smell it, though, but your hair will be nice and shiny.”
Wrapping herself in towels that were threadbare but clean and beautifully warm from the fire, Lily stepped out of the bath and dried herself in front of the fire, then turned to try on the clothes that Betty had fetched. What if they didn’t fit? Betty was a strong and vigorous country girl, and the only thing plump about her was her bosom. Lily would be mortified if the clothes were too small.
The chemise and petticoat were loose and shapeless garments. Lily sucked in her stomach as Betty fastened a corset around her and laced it firmly. Then she tossed the dress over Lily’s head and tugged it down. “It’s me favorite go-to-church dress, but Ma insisted you have the best, you being gentry and all.” Made of vivid red linsey-woolsey, it was embellished with cream satin bows, pulled in with a drawstring under the bosom and flared out at the hips.
“There you are, miss, it’s perfect on you. Pretty as a picture, you are.”
There was no long looking glass in the inn, so Lily had to take her word for it. The dress was a little snug in the bosom, the design was far from fashionable and she’d never worn such a bright color. Again she mourned the beautiful dress Miss Chance had made for her, with the elegant layers of gauze that skimmed her curves lightly and made her feel . . . beautiful.
But there was no going back. Her poor dress lay abandoned in muddy ignominy, miles back, somewhere beside the road. She would have to face Edward Galbraith feeling—and no doubt looking—like a colorful cushion, tied in the middle.
Betty was watching her with an expectant expression.
Lily gave her a warm smile. “Thank you, Betty. It’s a very pretty dress, and it’s very generous of you to lend it to me.” She slipped her feet into the slippers Betty had brought. They were a bit
