Someone to Love (Westcott #1)(38)
Her father? Anna stepped closer.
“Is it a good likeness?” she asked. Her heart was beating rather heavily.
“It is, my lady,” Mrs. Eddy said.
Anna gazed at it for a long time. High, starched shirt points and an elaborately tied neckcloth framed a fleshy, handsome, arrogant face from below and short, dark, artfully disheveled hair from above. He had been painted only from the waist up, but he looked portly. Anna could see nothing of herself in him, nor could she feel any of herself. A stranger gazed back at her from the canvas, and she found herself shivering and wishing she had brought her shawl down with her.
The tour ended in the kitchens belowstairs, where the cook signaled two maids and a manservant to come to attention while she presented them to my lady. Anna smiled and had a few words with them all. Then she remembered how some of the governors of the orphanage used to pay a visit to the home and nod with benevolent condescension upon orphans and staff alike but never spoke a word to anyone but Miss Ford. Perhaps, she thought, she was already committing a grievous error. But . . . perhaps she would continue committing it. She could not imagine herself, even in the persona of Lady Anastasia Westcott, ignoring servants as though they did not exist.
She would show my lady the linen closets and the silver and china and crystal cabinets another time, Mrs. Eddy suggested as they climbed the stairs from the kitchens—and the account books, of course. My lady would have noticed a slight scarcity of staff, though it would not affect the running of the house until the servants who had left could be replaced by the agency from which they always drew new staff as needed.
“If you will provide me with a list of the servants required, Mrs. Eddy,” Anna told her, “I will see if I can replace some of them myself. I have friends who are fast approaching adulthood and would be delighted to be offered training and employment at a grand home in London.”
“Friends, my lady?” Mrs. Eddy asked faintly.
Oh dear, another error. “Yes.” Anna smiled at her. “Friends.”
And that was when her day got really busy. The duchess, Aunt Louise, had arrived, and on her heels came Monsieur Henri, a hairdresser with waving hands and a French accent that was as fake as his name, if Anna’s guess was correct. But her aunt described him as the most fashionable stylist in London, and Anna could only trust in her judgment. Soon she found herself seated in the middle of what had been described as the sewing room during her tour of the house, a square chamber at the back of the same floor as the drawing room, overlooking the long back garden. A large, heavy sheet had been draped about her, and her hair had been taken down out of its pins and brushed out. Elizabeth sat by the window. Aunt Louise was standing in front of Anna, though far enough away not to interfere with Monsieur Henri, who was wafting about her, a comb in one hand while the other made artistic figures in the air as his head tipped first to one side and then to the other.
“A short style to suit my lady’s exquisite features, n’est-ce pas?” he said. “With curls and ringlets to give ’eight and beauty.”
“Short hair is all the crack,” Aunt Louise agreed. “And that hair is heavy and quite lifeless as it is.”
“My hair is straight,” Anna pointed out. “It would take a great deal of time and effort to coax a curl into it.”
“And that is precisely what hot tongs and maids are for,” her aunt said. “And a lady always has time to spend upon her appearance.”
Bertha loved fussing over the younger girls at the orphanage, braiding their hair and arranging the braids in different ways to give the girls some individuality. But . . . creating curls out of short, straight hair? Morning, afternoon, and evening? Surely the curls would not hold all day. And how long would it take each time? Anna would be spending half her life sitting in a chair in her dressing room.
“No,” she said. “Not short. I would like some of the length cut off, monsieur, if you will, and some of the thickness taken from it if that is possible. But it must remain long enough to be worn as I am accustomed to wear it.”
“Anastasia,” her aunt said, “you really must allow yourself to be advised. I believe Monsieur Henri and I know far better than you what is fashionable and what is most likely to make you appear to advantage before the ton.”
“I have absolutely no doubt that you are correct, Aunt,” Anna said. “I certainly appreciate advice and will always give consideration to it. But I would prefer to have long hair. Lizzie’s is long. Surely she is a fashionable lady.”
“Elizabeth is a widow of mature years,” her aunt said. “You, Anastasia, will be making a very late debut into society. We must emphasize your youth as best we can.”
“I am twenty-five,” Anna said with a smile. “It is not so very old or so very young. It is what it is and what I am.”
The duchess looked at her in exasperation and the stylist with sad resignation, but he set about cutting several inches off her hair and thinning it until she could feel the lightness of it and watch it swing about her face in a manner that gave life and even some extra shine to it. When it had been coiled again at the back of her head, a little higher than usual, up off her neck, it looked altogether prettier than Anna remembered its ever being.
“Oh, Anna,” Elizabeth said, offering an opinion for the first time, “it is perfect. It looks chic and elegant for daytime wear, yet leaves room to be teased and styled for more formal evening occasions.”