"My final letters, were they read? Or were they written in vain?"
Although born in France, Juliette Villeneuve often spent her childhood summers in London. With the passing of each summer, her adoration for a certain Bridgerton boy grew. During thei...
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THE GRAND WINDOW IN HER BEDROOM OVERLOOKED GROSVENOR SQUARE and its frequent bustling nature. The wooden chair she was sat upon rudely dug into her skin, however, she was too fixed on the affairs of the square to notice. As usual, members of the high society mingled amongst themselves, laughing elegantly and spreading tales. The afternoon of the Crawford Ball was no exception.
Anne's nimble fingers stroked through the soft locks of Juliette's brown hair, releasing a chill down her spine. The feeling was closely followed by a sensation of comfort. Her lady's maid stood at the back of the chair, brushing through the tangles her hair acquired throughout the day.
They did not speak of what happened during the early hours of that morning when the moon hung high in the sky. Those were not events Anne dared to inquire nor was it words that Juliette had the strength to release. So, instead of saying anything, Anne delicately worked on Juliette's hair for the Crawford Ball while Juliette sat in silence, revelling in the comfort.
Once Anne was done, she handed a small hand mirror to Juliette. She asked, "Is it to your liking, Miss?"
A small gasp fell from her pink lips as she looked at herself in the mirror. Anne had outdone herself once again. A light rouge brightened her cheeks and the small diamond embellishments in her hair heightened the green specks of her brown eyes.
"Anne," Juliette smiled as she lightly touched the intricately styled updo donned with precious gems. "You always do such wonders."
"I try my best, Miss."
An elegant laugh graced the air of her bedroom.
Still enamoured by her appearance, Juliette said, genuinely, "Thank you, Anne."
Anne cleared her throat. Through the reflection in the mirror, Juliette noticed how Anne's eyebrows furrowed and how she bit her lip, as if deep in thought. The blonde lady's maid had been by Juliette's side since she was nine, and hadn't strayed. Anne was a constant in her life. Through her years in Paris to her summers spent in London, Anne was there. So, when Juliette expressed her gratitude, it exceeded the intricate hairstyle and rouge cheeks. She may not have disclosed it specifically, yet Anne knew.
"Juliette, I must ask as you are a dear friend, are you alright?"
"I'm quite well." Even though the words were freed from her own lips, Juliette struggled to believe they were of the truth. The lie hung heavy in the late afternoon air. She forcibly swallowed the remnants of the deception that sat heavily on her tongue.
Juliette refrained from turning to look Anne in the eye. Instead, she remained fixated on the mirror and the reflections it bestowed. The expression dancing on Anne's soft features explained it all. Juliette's weak words of deceit did not surpass Anne's instincts and cunning wit.
