“Nothing.”
“Well, cease your prattle immediately. I find the sound of your voice particularly grating.”
Sophie ground her teeth together.
“Mama,” Posy said, “Sophie is going to dress my hair tonight like—”
“Of course she’s going to dress your hair. Quit your dillydallying this minute and go put compresses on your eyes so they don’t look so puffy.”
Posy’s face fell. “My eyes are puffy?”
Sophie shook her head on the off chance that Posy decided to look down at her.
“Your eyes are always puffy,” Araminta replied. “Don’t you think so, Rosamund?”
Posy and Sophie both turned toward the door. Rosamund had just entered, carrying her Marie Antoinette gown. “Always,” she agreed. “But a compress will help, I’m sure.”
“You look stunning tonight,” Araminta told Rosamund. “And you haven’t even started getting ready. That gold in your gown is an exquisite match to your hair.”
Sophie shot a sympathetic look at the dark-haired Posy, who never received such compliments from her mother.
“You shall snare one of those Bridgerton brothers,” Araminta continued. “I’m sure of it.”
Rosamund looked down demurely. It was an expression she’d perfected, and Sophie had to admit it looked lovely on her. But then again, most everything looked lovely on Rosamund. Her golden hair and blue eyes were all the rage that year, and thanks to the generous dowry settled upon her by the late earl, it was widely assumed that she would make a brilliant match before the season was through.
Sophie glanced back over at Posy, who was staring at her mother with a sad, wistful expression. “You look lovely, too, Posy,” Sophie said impulsively.
Posy’s eyes lit up. “Do you think so?”
“Absolutely. And your gown is terribly original. I’m sure there won’t be any other mermaids.”
“How would you know, Sophie?” Rosamund asked with a laugh. “It’s not as if you’ve ever been out in society.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time, Posy,” Sophie said pointedly, ignoring Rosamund’s jibe. “I’m terribly jealous. I do wish I could go.”
Sophie’s little sigh and wish was met with absolute silence . . . followed by the raucous laughter of both Araminta and Rosamund. Even Posy giggled a bit.
“Oh, that’s rich,” Araminta said, barely able to catch her breath. “Little Sophie at the Bridgerton ball. They don’t allow bastards out in society, you know.”
“I didn’t say I expected to go,” Sophie said defensively, “just that I wish I could.”
“Well, you shouldn’t even bother doing that,” Rosamund chimed in. “If you wish for things you can’t possibly hope for, you’re only going to be disappointed.”
But Sophie didn’t hear what she had to say, because in that moment, the oddest thing happened. As she was turning her head toward Rosamund, she caught sight of the housekeeper standing in the doorway. It was Mrs. Gibbons, who had come up from Penwood Park in the country when the town housekeeper had passed away. And when Sophie’s eyes met hers, she winked.
Winked!
Sophie didn’t think she’d ever seen Mrs. Gibbons wink.
“Sophie! Sophie! Are you listening to me?”
Sophie turned a distracted eye toward Araminta. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “You were saying?”
“I was saying,” Araminta said in a nasty voice, “that you had better get to work on my gown this instant. If we are late for the ball, you will answer for it tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course,” Sophie said quickly. She jabbed her needle into the fabric and started sewing but her mind was still on Mrs. Gibbons.
A wink?
Why on earth would she wink?
Three hours later, Sophie was standing on the front steps of Penwood House, watching first Araminta, then Rosamund, then Posy each take the footman’s hand and climb up into the carriage. Sophie waved at Posy, who waved back, then watched the carriage roll down the street and disappear around the corner. It was barely six blocks to Bridgerton House, where the masquerade was to be held, but Araminta would have insisted upon the carriage if they’d lived right next door.
It was important to make a grand entrance, after all.
With a sigh, Sophie turned around and made her way back up the steps. At least Araminta had, in the excitement of the moment, forgotten to leave her with a list of tasks to complete while she was gone. A free evening was a luxury indeed. Perhaps she’d reread a novel. Or maybe she could find today’s edition of Whistledown. She’d thought she’d seen Rosamund take it into her room earlier that afternoon.
But as Sophie stepped through the front door of Penwood House, Mrs. Gibbons materialized as if from nowhere and grabbed her arm. “There’s no time to lose!” the housekeeper said.
Sophie looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “I beg your pardon?”
Mrs. Gibbons tugged at her elbow. “Come with me.”
Sophie allowed herself to be led up the three flights of stairs to her room, a tiny little chamber tucked under the eaves. Mrs. Gibbons was acting in a most peculiar manner, but Sophie humored her and followed along. The housekeeper had always treated her with exceptional kindness, even when it was clear that Araminta disapproved.
“You’ll need to get undressed,” Mrs. Gibbons said as she grasped the doorknob.
“What?”
“We really must rush.”
“Mrs. Gibbons, you . . .” Sophie’s mouth fell open, and her words trailed off as she took in the scene in her bedroom. A steaming tub of water lay right in the center, and all three housemaids were bustling about. One was pouring a pitcher of water into the tub, another was fiddling with the lock on a rather mysterious-looking trunk, and the third was holding a towel and saying, “Hurry! Hurry!”
Sophie cast bewildered eyes at the lot of them. “What is going on?”
Mrs. Gibbons turned to her and beamed. “You, Miss Sophia Maria Beckett, are going to the masquerade!”
One hour later, Sophie was transformed. The trunk had held dresses belonging to the late earl’s mother. They were all fifty years out of date, but that was no matter. The ball was a masquerade; no one expected the gowns to be of the latest styles.
At the very bottom of the trunk they’d found an exquisite creation of shimmering silver, with a tight, pearl-encrusted bodice and the flared skirts that had been so popular during the previous century. Sophie felt like a princess just touching it. It was a bit musty from its years in the trunk, and one of the maids quickly took it outside to dab a bit of rosewater on the fabric and air it out.
She’d been bathed and perfumed, her hair had been dressed, and one of the housemaids had even applied a touch of rouge to her lips. “Don’t tell Miss Rosamund,” the maid had whispered. “I nicked it from her collection.”
“Ooooh, look,” Mrs. Gibbons said. “I found matching gloves.”
Sophie looked up to see the housekeeper holding up a pair of long, elbow-length gloves. “Look,” she said, taking one from Mrs. Gibbons and examining it. “The Penwood crest. And it’s monogrammed. Right at the hem.”
Mrs. Gibbons turned over the one in her hand. “SLG. Sarah Louisa Gunningworth. Your grandmother.”
Sophie looked at her in surprise. Mrs. Gibbons had never referred to the earl as her father. No one at Penwood Park had ever verbally acknowledged Sophie’s blood ties to the Gunningworth family.
“Well, she is your grandmother,” Mrs. Gibbons declared. “We’ve all danced around the issue long enough. It’s a crime the way Rosamund and Posy are treated like daughters of the house, and you, the earl’s true blood, must sweep and serve like a maid!”
The three housemaids nodded in agreement.
“Just once,” Mrs. Gibbons said, “for just one night, you will be the belle of the ball.” With a smile on her face, she slowly turned Sophie around until she was facing the mirror.
Sophie’s breath caught. “Is that m
e?”
Mrs. Gibbons nodded, her eyes suspiciously bright. “You look lovely, dearling,” she whispered.
Sophie’s hand moved slowly up to her hair.
“Don’t muss it!” one of the maids yelped.
“I won’t,” Sophie promised, her smile wobbling a bit as she fought back a tear. A touch of shimmery powder had been sprinkled onto her hair, so that she sparkled like a fairy princess. Her dark blond curls had been swept atop her head in a loose topknot, with one thick lock allowed to slide down the length of her neck. And her eyes, normally moss green, shone like emeralds.
Although Sophie suspected that might have had more to do with her unshed tears than anything else.
“Here is your mask,” Mrs. Gibbons said briskly. It was a demi-mask, the sort that tied at the back so that Sophie would not have to use one of her hands to hold it up. “Now all we need are shoes.”
Sophie glanced ruefully at her serviceable and ugly work shoes that sat in the corner. “I have nothing suitable for such finery, I’m afraid.”