The Lady in Disguise

Chapter One (Part 2)

"London was awful crowded this spring," Emilia said to her father over supper, hoping to change the subject from him pressuring her to use her position for his dubious benefit. "Much more than last year."

"Aye, I bet it was," he groused. "Hundreds of people all crammed in everywhere ye go. Don't know how you survive these seasons of yours."

"They're not my seasons. They're Miss Prudence's. But somehow, I manage." Emilia was glad her father had grasped onto one of his pet gripes. He'd never been to London, nor Leeds or York nor any place bigger than Pickering, but he had decided he hated big cities. "It's not so bad for me. Miss Prudence has to deal with the crowds. I only dress her... when she lets me." It wasn't that Miss Prudence didn't allow her to do her job at all, but she certainly refused to allow Emilia to do it to her satisfaction.

She truly missed Miss Charity. Despite the madcap adventure the girl had dragged her on, she had always been her favorite, if only because she had a much higher opinion of Emilia's skills. She would not only take her advice on dress and hair, but proclaim it invaluable. "Work your magic," she'd say.

As for Prudence, there was no magic there. She'd simply tell Emilia not to bother. She supposed Prudence thought she was doing her a favor but Emilia, much like her mother, would rather do her job well than be paid for less than her best, let alone allowing Miss Prudence to rush about covered in paint as she was wont to do. In London, it was as if she had no control over the girl at all. She tended to gad about with only Lady Dartmore's coachman, the very terrifying Carter, for company. Visiting friends, she said, friends for which she didn't need a lady's maid in attendance nor a smart dress or even a passable one.

At least, in Yorkshire, Emilia had Lady Crewe to take her part when dressing Prudence for dinner or the odd party, convincing her that looking her best was not some failure of her strange, bluestocking ideals.

"Then again, I suppose London isn't all bad. Got all those parties with the fine food," her father offered. "I bet ye danced your feet off at one of them fancy balls."

"Me?" She laughed. The closest she'd come to a ball was when Lady Dartmore held one in her townhouse. Though she did eat rather well, she hadn't danced, unless her father counted her watching the couples from the hall, tapping her feet here and there. 

"Aunt Muriel says I'm not to refuse a partner," Miss Prudence had lamented as Emilia dressed her hair that night. "Not even with a very good reason. She says that even if I endeavor to twist my ankle, I must hobble my way to the floor with anyone who asks me."

"Aye, ye poor thing. Forced to dance? Next I'll hear she'll be makin' you eat cake." 

"No, she's right. Since we are hosting, it would be terribly rude of me. So... I will dance with anyone who asks," Miss Prudence finished slyly. And she did. But she made such a mess of herself -- as planned -- during the first reel that no one had dared ask again.

Emilia watched the entire debacle from the staircase, shaking her head, wishing someone had mistaken her for a lady and asked her for a dance. She'd have been less horrified at the idea. Granted, she didn't know all the dances, but she'd danced the odd reel at the village fair and Charity had taught her some country dances while begging her aid for practice. That practice had only showed her the male end, but she would be glad enough to dance even that rather than never dance at all.

But who was she to complain? What use had she for dancing?

"I suppose ye could say I danced as much as I needed to," she said to her father now, standing and clearing the plates. "Are we finished? You'd best get to bed."

"But it's too early for bed," her father protested. "I have so much more to tell about my big-"

"Ye've caught every cold in the village while I was away. Ye need your rest if you're goin' to tackle any idea, big or small. Off to bed."