One Forbidden Evening. Jo Goodman

not that they were like puppies in want of proper training: There were bound to be accidents. There had been noticeably fewer mishaps since Lily gave birth. The presence of a baby in the home had quieted them but in no way quelled their spirit. “I will tell them about your slip, of course. You can depend on it. You will have to add a shilling to their collection jar. It’s only fair since you set the rules.”

      Lady Rivendale’s generously full mouth flattened, and she harrumphed softly. “I disapprove of tattling, you know.”

      Cybelline merely smiled.

      “Though I might be tempted to tell Sherry and Lily what you’ve done to your hair.”

      Cybelline’s smile faltered.

      “Hah!” The countess possessed a remarkably smooth countenance for one in her fifty-fourth year. This was a consequence of a nightly regimen of creams and lemon juice and avoidance of the sun. Lines such as she had—at the corners of her mouth and eyes—did not overly concern her, as she believed they were righteously earned by love and laughter and surviving the vagaries of life. Her face crinkled now, amusement deepening twin creases between her eyebrows. “So you do not want your brother to know. Nor Lily either, though I imagine she would come to understand your actions much more quickly than Sherry. I wonder, however, if she will understand more quickly than I.”

      The threat was subtle but clear, and Cybelline did not miss it. Some explanation was expected. She was not hopeful that she could stray far from the truth and stand up to Lady Rivendale’s scrutiny. It was never comforting to have that steely, sharp-as-a-razor glance turn in her direction. Sherry had always been better at ducking his godmother’s inspection, and he would be the first to admit he suffered it far more often than was his wish.

      “It was you, Aunt Georgia, who suggested that some change might be in order.” It was a good beginning, Cybelline thought, reminding the countess of her own words. “You cannot have forgotten our conversation.”

      “No, indeed, but I think I remember it differently than you. We were speaking of your taking up residence at Penwyckham. I suggested that you consider spending a few months there with Anna. It was a change of scenery that I had in mind and well you know it.”

      “We were discussing change,” Cybelline said. “I was thinking of it in another manner.”

      “I doubt you were thinking at all. That is a most unfortunate shade of red you have acquired. There is not so much orange in it as to be carroty, but neither does it have the richness of auburn. You were right to cover it. I shouldn’t wonder if Anna might think you have burst into flame.”

      Somewhat self-consciously, Cybelline adjusted her cap again. She smoothed the ruffle where it had crumpled against her ear. “It is merely henna. I admit I thought it would be darker, but I do not think Webb mixed it to the proportions suggested by the chemist. However, I do not blame her. She disapproved, though naturally she would not fail to assist me.”

      “Undoubtedly because she determined you were set on the matter with or without her help.”

      “I’m certain you’re right.”

      “It’s a blessing, I suppose, that you did not go out like that last night. I cannot imagine what comments it would inspire—even at a masquerade. Forgive me for speaking frankly,” Lady Rivendale said as though it were not a common occurrence, “but it is a color more suited to a cyprian.”

      “That is precisely why I wore a wig.”

      “So you did do this yesterday?” Now the countess placed one hand over her heart and regarded Cybelline with astonishment. “Before you departed?”

      “I certainly did not do it after I returned. You noted quite correctly that it was late when I arrived home.” Cybelline leaned forward in her chair and extended one arm toward the countess. “You must calm yourself. No harm has been done. I showed you the powdered wig, remember?”

      “Yes, but not when you were wearing it. I was sleeping when you left, and you had not the good sense to wake me.” She let her hand drop away from her heart and took up Cybelline’s, squeezing it lightly. “Tell me, was your costume a great success?”

      “I think that is fair to say. I was the only shepherdess there with green streamers on her crook.”

      It took Lady Rivendale a moment to hear the meaning behind Cybelline’s words. She frowned. “The only shepherdess with green streamers? Pray, how many shepherdesses were there?”

      “I counted seven. One blue, three pink, two yellow, and my green.”

      “So you were one of seven. Oh, but that is unfair. They were not all cut from the same cloth, I hope.”

      “Panniers. White leggings. Lace trim on the underskirts. Bows on every tier of fabric. Perfectly coiffed white wigs in the French fashion.”

      “Beauty marks?”

      “Yes. I suspect we took our inspiration from the same painting.”

      The countess was having none of that explanation. “I suspect someone took their inspiration from me. I was the one who sat with the dressmaker while she put my ideas to paper. She said it was a complete original. I selected the fabric, the lace, the bows, and the streamers. Must I remind you that the painting hangs in my home?”

      “And you have noted that it is oft admired by your friends. Perhaps you should be flattered that they considered it so worthy of imitation.”

      “I cannot be flattered when I feel sorely abused.”

      Cybelline gave her a disbelieving look. “Aunt Georgia, you are making rather too much of it. I would prefer it if you returned to scolding me for my hair. I certainly was delighted to be in such esteemed company. Mrs. Edward Branson was one of the shepherdesses. Blue ribbons, I believe. I had not made her acquaintance before last night. She was everything gracious.”

      “Of course she was. She was wearing your costume.”

      Cybelline ignored that. As a rule, Lady Rivendale was not given to being disagreeable. Some tolerance was in order. “She is Lady Gardner’s stepdaughter. I did not make that connection before.”

      “I do not know her. She was married and gone from home when I made the acquaintance of Sir Geoffrey and Lady Gardner. She has a twin brother, I believe. I suppose he was present, given that the masque was in Miss Wynetta’s honor.”

      “Yes, though I cannot say I met him. He was pointed out to me.”

      “He was not also a shepherdess, I hope.”

      Cybelline smiled. Lady Rivendale was recovering her sense of humor, albeit tinged with sarcasm. “One of the Knights Templar. There were enough of them present to mount a crusade, I can tell you that.”

      “And Miss Wynetta?”

      “An exotic-looking Cleopatra. Indeed, her admirers were thick around her, which was the point of it all, I suppose.”

      “Then I was not wrong to insist you go without me?”

      There was but one way Cybelline could respond to that poser. It was difficult not to look away as she spoke. “No, you were not wrong.”

      “Does that mean you are prepared to rejoin society, Cybelline?” the countess asked gently. “I wish beyond everything that is so.”

      Cybelline removed her hand from under Lady Rivendale’s and sat back in her chair. “I am prepared, I believe, to enter a smaller society, Aunt. You will scarcely credit it, but I have been considering your offer of the house at Penwyckham. I would like to accept it. Last night’s entertainment convinced me that I am not yet comfortable with the crush. I did not find the conversation easy, nor of particular interest. There was gossip, of course, but I could not restrain the thought that sooner or later I would hear Nicholas’s name.”

      “Oh, my dear girl, that you should have suffered those thoughts. It has been over a year since…since his passing.”