“Did Colin talk to Priscilla?” Amy hesitantly asked Kendra.
“No, he talked to her father.”
“And?” Amy watched as Madame took up a small pot. “What happened?”
“Shh,” Madame interjected, applying pomade to Amy’s lips.
Kendra shrugged. “I don’t know exactly, but all is well. Don’t ask him about it. He’s rather furious. Still muttering about the buzzard or some such.”
Amy was about to ask another question, but Madame took her by the shoulders and swung her around to fully face the mirror.
She stared, her eyes sparkling. “I-I’m beautiful,” she breathed, watching in wonder as the words came from between her glossy lips.
“No,” Kendra corrected. “You’re magnificent. You’ve always been beautiful.” She bent to wrap Amy in a hug. “My lovely sister—can you credit it?” Sniffing, she wiped her eyes, and Amy wiped her own, too. “Oh, we’re both going to ruin our faces! Let’s get you dressed.”
As Madame fetched her clothing from the box, Amy stood in a daze, trembling from head to toe, plagued by second thoughts, yet excited at the unbelievable miracle of wedding Colin. Madame and Kendra didn’t seem to notice as they slid off the dressing gown and pulled a new chemise over her head, taking care not to disturb her carefully applied face. Next came the sapphire and cream gown that Amy had despaired of ever having the occasion to wear.
The moment they smoothed the satin skirts over her hips, her doubts scattered. It was going to happen. Dear heavens, she would be a countess before the day was out.
“Mine. I hope they fit.” Interrupting her thoughts, Kendra held out stockings and a pair of fashionable Louis-heeled shoes.
With a distracted smile, Amy drew on the stockings and stepped into the shoes, teetering on the high heels while Madame twisted a sleeve here and tweaked the waistline there until she was satisfied. She led Amy back to the dressing table and tucked a kerchief into the top of her gown, to protect the exquisite pearl-studded lace while she powdered Amy’s throat to match her face.
A curling iron was set to heat at the edge of the fire, and Madame set to work on Amy’s hair. “You really should cut this if you wish to be à la mode.” With the edge of her hand against Amy’s neck, the seamstress indicated the preferred length, just below ear level.
Remembering the feel of Colin brushing her hair dry, Amy blanched and gathered her long tresses into both fists.
Madame chuckled. “Perhaps not today.”
“Colin wouldn’t like it,” Amy stated flatly, and that was that. Madame’s deft hands twisted, plaited, and curled, and before long Amy’s hair was arranged in a semblance of fashionable style: long ringlets at the sides and a bun plaited together with sapphire ribbons in the back.
“No wires.” Madame patted Amy’s thick mass of curls.
“No fair.” Kendra pouted. “I need wires and false ringlets besides.”
“Now you’re being the goose,” Amy said. “What I wouldn’t give for that rich red color. And have you any idea how long it takes to dry this?”
“Mon Dieu, mesdemoiselles,” Madame clucked. “We all have to work with what God gives us, and you’re both lovely.” She rummaged with a fingertip through a tiny box of black beauty patches. “Hearts, stars, flowers…which do you think?”
“Hearts,” Kendra decided. “It’s for a wedding, after all.”
“No patches. I’m painted enough as it is. Colin will scarcely recognize me.”
Kendra snorted. “It’s not as though you’re painted like an actress. One patch?”
“This is not a negotiation.” Amy laughed. “No patches.”
“Madame?”
Madame took Amy by one elbow, stood her up, and guided her to the center of the chamber. Amy stood stiff as a poker while Madame walked all the way around her, looking her up and down. The seamstress backed across the room, her eyes narrowing as she contemplated her creation.
“Her complexion is flawless,” she said to Kendra.
“What difference does that make?” Kendra wondered. “Patches are all the rage; they’re not just to hide pimples and smallpox scars anymore.”
“She’s a perfect bride, n’est-ce pas?” Madame led Amy to the pier glass. “Look.”
Amy gazed in the mirror, transfixed. All evidence of her mistreatment was hidden. Veiled by the cosmetics, her face and neck appeared creamy and unblemished. Vanilla lace spilled from her sleeves and over her wrists, concealing the unsightly abrasions.
The glossy sapphire satin shimmered; the pearls on her collar and underskirt gleamed. Fat, springy corkscrew curls spilled artistically over her shoulders, and suddenly the ebony color seemed to suit her perfectly. To her vast relief, she didn’t look overpainted—to the contrary, owing to Madame’s skill, she looked very much like herself, only enhanced.
Her eyes met Kendra’s in the glass, and they shared a smile.
Amy had never felt so beautiful.
She would have stared at herself forever, but Madame gave them both a little push. “The groom is waiting. Allez-y!” With a graceful wave of her hand, she dismissed them.
SIXTY-THREE
THE CHASE brothers’ conversation had long since turned to discussing the interminable length of time girls always took to get ready.
Colin popped the cork on another bottle of sack. “I vow, they must have food in there.”
“Food?”
“Food. They never eat much in front of us, yet they always complain about how full they are after a few bites. My theory is they sneak food into their dressing chambers.” Colin paused for a swallow of wine from the green bottle. “While we’re out here, waiting and starving, they’re dining and laughing at us.”
Ford chuckled. “Just how long do you hypothesize this has been going on?”
“Since the dawn of time, at the very least.”
Jason smoothed his mustache. “And they’ve kept this a secret over the centuries?”
“It’s a vast conspiracy—every female is sworn to secrecy from birth.” Colin spoke solemnly, but the glitter in his eyes betrayed his amusement. He lowered his voice and leaned into the center of the table. “We’ve always teased Kendra because she eats her dessert first. Well, that’s because she already—”
An apparition coming down the stairs claimed Colin’s attention, effectively cutting off his words. A vision
