Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(14)

“Ecru?” Phoebe echoed with a slight frown.

“The silk one with flower trim.”

“Gracious, did you bring that one?” Phoebe had only a vague memory of the formal gown, which she’d had made and fitted in London before Henry had gone into his final decline. “I think I would feel more comfortable in my silver gray. I’m not quite ready for colors yet.”

“Ma’am, it’s ecru. No one would call that a color.”

“But the trimmings . . . aren’t they too bright?”

For answer, Ernestine pulled a garland of silk flowers from the box of trimmings and held them up for display. The silk peony and rose blossoms were tinted in delicate pastel shades.

“I suppose that will be all right, then,” Phoebe said, amused by the lady’s maid’s sardonic expression. Ernestine had made no secret of her wish for her mistress to be done with the subdued grays and lavenders of half mourning.

“It has been two years, milady,” the young woman pointed out. “All the books say that’s long enough.”

Phoebe removed her hat and set it on the nearby satinwood vanity table. “Do help me out of this travel dress, Ernestine. If I’m to make it through tonight without collapsing, I’ll need to lie down for a few minutes.”

“Aren’t you looking forward to the dinner?” the young woman dared to ask as she took Phoebe’s traveling jacket. “Many of your old friends will be there.”

“Yes and no. I want to see them, but I’m nervous. I’m afraid they’ll expect me to be the person I was.”

Ernestine paused in the midst of unfastening the buttons on the back of her dress. “Pardon, ma’am . . . but aren’t you still the same person?”

“I’m afraid not. My old self is gone.” A humorless smile tugged at her lips. “And the new one hasn’t turned up yet.”



Six o’clock.

Time to go down to the drawing room. A glass of sherry would be a welcome start to the evening, Phoebe thought, fiddling with the artfully draped folds of her dress. She needed something to steady her nerves.

“You look beautiful, ma’am,” Ernestine said, delighted with the results of her work. She had drawn Phoebe’s hair up into a coil of neatly pinned rolls and curls, winding a velvet ribbon around the base. A few loose curls had been allowed to dangle down the back of her head, which felt a bit strange: she wasn’t accustomed to leaving any loose pieces in her usual hairstyles. Ernestine had finished the arrangement by pinning a small, fresh pink rose on the right side of the coil.

The new coiffure was very flattering, but the formal gown had turned out to be far less inconspicuous than Phoebe had expected. It was the pale beige of unbleached linen or natural wool, but the silk had been infused with exceptionally fine metallic threads of gold and silver, giving the fabric a pearly luster. A garland of peonies, roses, and delicate green silk leaves trimmed the deeply scooped neckline, while another flower garland caught up the gossamer-thin silk and tulle layers of the skirts at one side.

Frowning at her pale, glimmering reflection in the long oval mirror, Phoebe experimentally covered her eyes with one hand, lifted it away, and repeated the motion a couple of times. “Oh God,” she murmured aloud. She was fairly certain that a quick glance at the dress gave a brief, startling impression of near-nudity, except for the flowers. “I have to change dresses, Ernestine. Fetch the silver gray.”

“But . . . but I haven’t aired or pressed it,” the lady’s maid said in bewilderment. “And this one is so pretty on you.”

“I didn’t remember the fabric shimmered like this. I can’t go downstairs looking like a Christmas tree ornament.”

“It’s not that shiny,” the girl protested. “Other ladies will be wearing dresses with beading and spangles, and their best diamond sets.” Seeing Phoebe’s expression, she heaved a sigh. “If you want the silver gray, ma’am, I’ll do my best to have it ready soon, but you’ll still go down late.”

Phoebe groaned at the thought. “Did you pack a shawl?”

“A black one. But you’ll roast if you try to cover yourself in that. And it would look odd—you would earn more attention that way than by going as you are.”

Before Phoebe could reply, there came a knock at the door. “Oh, galoshes,” she muttered. It was hardly a curse worthy of the situation, but she’d fallen into the habit of saying it when she was around her children, which was most of the time. She sped to the corner behind the door, while Ernestine went to see who it was.

After a brief murmured exchange, the lady’s maid opened the door a bit wider, and Phoebe’s brother Ivo stuck his head inside.

“Hullo, sis,” he said casually. “You look very nice in that gold dress.”

“It’s ecru.” At his perplexed look, she repeated, “Ecru.”

“God bless you,” Ivo said, and gave her a cheeky grin as he entered the room.

Phoebe lifted her gaze heavenward. “Why are you here, Ivo?”

“I’m going to escort you downstairs, so you don’t have to go alone.”

Phoebe was so moved, she couldn’t speak. She could only stare at the eleven-year-old boy, who was volunteering to take the place her husband would have assumed.