Bisclavret

Chapter 12

My eyes are puffy from lack of sleep in the morning, and Henrietta frets over them. I feel like a child's doll as she dresses me in a pale green and white gown, lifting my arms when she tells me to, turning when she commands, but otherwise being very little help. Afterward, my hair is wrangled into another intricate pattern. Henrietta learned it last night from one of the visiting handmaids who serves a young, fashionable countess.

"The latest style," she says, looking at it with pride when she's finished.

I try to tell her it looks wonderful but end up yawning instead. She rolls her eyes at me and ties a ribbon around my throat that matches the green in my gown. My gaze shifts to my reflection, and I have to admit she's done well with what I've given her this morning.

"Thank you for making me presentable," I say, wondering if I should order more tea. I've already had two cups, but they did nothing to relieve my exhaustion.

"You're welcome," Henrietta says, grinning. "You must look your best for Lord Giroux."

I go still in my seat, watching her through the mirror. I've said nothing about Lord Giroux's ridiculous pledge to court me. She looks so young and sincere, with no hint of malice or intrigue in her soft grey eyes. Is she one of them? Or, if not, does she know what goes on here and is simply another set of eyes sent to watch me?

"Excuse me?" I ask, my heart fluttering.

She leans in and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "One of the footmen told me that Lord Giroux couldn't keep his eyes off you at dinner last night."

I nearly collapse in relief. Of course. How could I have forgotten in only three weeks that the staff of a house knows the lives of its employers even before they do?

"And another overheard his request to the marquise," she says. "'Tis a fine match, if I may say so. He is very handsome and so brave, leading all those raids. You must be proud to have your name tied to his." If she's being disingenuous right now, she's the best actress not on a stage. She looks absolutely thrilled for me.

"I am," I tell her, praying she won't see the lie in my face. "Speaking of which, I may need you to act as my chaperone occasionally."

"Oh! Of course." Her grin turns wicked. "I promise I'll be the best chaperone you could ask for. Just let me know the sign, and whenever you give it to me, I'll turn my back on any intimacies you don't want me to witness."

I nearly choke. "Ah, I don't think that will be necessary. All I'll ask is that you keep anything you may overhear to yourself."

She mimes stitching her lips shut, but her silence only lasts so long. "I would never repeat a word about you and him to anyone. I may like to hear gossip and relay it when the occasion calls for it, but I know where the line is."

"Thank you," I say, praying she's being truthful. Even though a large part of me wants to believe her, I still don't trust her. I can't. She lives and works alongside people she must know are not quite right. At best, she's willfully ignorant. At worst, she's complicit in whatever is going on here.

She opens a drawer and puts away an excess ribbon. "If that's all, I'd like to finish the green dress for tonight."

I nearly groan. "The green? It's worse than the red!"

Her expression turns pleading, and I don't know why I argue with her over these things when she almost always gets her way. "But it's such a beautiful gown, and you'll look so good in it," she says. "And really, with you being so thin, it's not that scandalous. The Baroness de Langfore's gown last night was a good two inches lower than yours. Even the marquise's mourning gown was more revealing." No doubt the information about the baroness came from one of her footmen informants. Sometimes, I think men are bigger gossips than women.