Читать книгу The Marriage Wager - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 7

“YOU KNOW EACH other?” Francesca asked, astonished.

“We met last night,” Constance told her, hoping that she sounded more natural than she felt. It was absurd that her spirits should be so lowered by the fact that Viscount Leighton and Lady Haughston were clearly close. It was not as if she had actually thought she had any chance of attracting him. Anyway, he was clearly something of a rake, going about stealing kisses from young ladies whom he scarcely knew.

“Miss Woodley is too modest,” Leighton said, his blue eyes alight with amusement. “She saved my life last night at Lady Welcombe’s rout.”

“Hardly that,” Constance murmured.

“Ah, but you did,” he insisted, turning toward Francesca and explaining. “Lady Taffington was in hot pursuit of me last night, and Miss Woodley was so kind as to throw her off the scent.”

Francesca chuckled. “Then I am doubly your friend, Constance. I fear my brother is often in need of such aid. He is entirely too softhearted and cannot bear to be rude. You should take lessons from Rochford, Dom. He is an expert at damping pretensions.”

Constance scarcely heard Lord Leighton’s reply to Lady Haughston’s jest. The Viscount was Francesca’s brother! She told herself that it was absurd to be swept with relief upon learning of their relation. It could make no difference to her that the familiarity and affection between Lord Leighton and Francesca came from family ties, not a romantic understanding.

“Come with us,” Francesca urged her brother. “We are done with our shopping, so you needn’t worry about being dragged into any stores.”

“In that case, I will accept your kind offer,” Leighton answered, extending his hand to help his sister up into the coach.

He then turned to Constance, offering her the same assistance. She slid her hand into his, very aware of his touch, even though their flesh was separated by both his gloves and hers. She glanced up into his face as she stepped up into the carriage. She could not help but remember that moment in the library when he had kissed her, and something in his eyes told Constance that he was thinking of it, too.

Heat rose in her cheeks, and she glanced away from him, quickly getting in and sitting down beside Francesca. Leighton climbed in and dropped into the seat across from them, laughingly shoving aside the profusion of boxes.

“I can see that you have had a successful afternoon,” he told them. “I trust that not all of these belong to you, Francesca.”

“No, indeed. Miss Woodley made a good accounting for herself, as well. We intend to dazzle everyone at Lady Simmington’s ball tomorrow evening.”

“I am sure that both of you will do that in any case,” Leighton responded gallantly.

Constance was painfully aware of how plain she must look beside Francesca’s elegant loveliness. She wished that she had put on her newly purchased bonnet for the remainder of their shopping trip and relegated her old hat to the box. At least then, however dull her dress might be, her face would have been becomingly framed, the blue satin lining complementing her skin and eyes.

“Are you attending Lady Simmington’s ball?” Francesca went on. “You should escort us. Constance is to come to my house tomorrow to prepare for it, and then we shall go together.”

“That would be a pleasant duty indeed,” Leighton responded easily. “I would be honored to escort you.”

“We shall guard you from matchmaking mamas,” Francesca teased.

Leighton answered her back in the same light vein, and their banter continued as the carriage made its slow way through the streets of London. Constance contributed little to the conversation. She knew few of the people of whom they spoke, and she was, in any case, quite content to watch and listen.

She had thought that perhaps she had remembered the viscount as handsomer than he actually was, that, in thinking about him, she had made his eyes a deeper blue or added a brightness to his hair or infused his smile with more charm. But, looking at him now, she thought that she had, if anything, imagined him less handsome than the reality.

He was not one who needed the soft glow of candlelight. Here in the bright light of daytime, his jawline was sharp and clean, his eyes an arrestingly dark blue, his hair glinting under the touch of the sun. Tall and broad-shouldered, he filled the barouche with his masculine presence. Constance was very aware of his knee only inches from hers, of his arm resting on the seat of the barouche, of the way the sun slanted across his face and neck.

It was not, she thought, surprising if matchmaking mothers—and daughters—were in pursuit of him. He was handsome and titled and no doubt wealthy, as well. If she remembered correctly what her aunt had said about Lady Haughston’s background, their father was an earl, and as viscount was typically a title given to the heir to the earldom, then he would someday possess the greater title of earl. For that title alone, he would have been sought after. To have good looks and charm, as well, must make him hunted like hounds after a hare.

It was all the more impossible, of course, that she should have any chance with him. Even if Francesca were right in her optimistic assumption that Constance could find a husband this Season, she knew that her patroness doubtless aimed lower than a title for her. And Lord Leighton’s kiss, however wonderful she had found it, was not anything on which Constance would be foolish enough to build her hopes. It had meant nothing to him, she was sure. At best it had shown that he was attracted to her; at worst that he simply was in the habit of kissing any young woman he caught alone. It did not mean that he had any serious interest in her; indeed, in all likelihood, it meant precisely the opposite. A gentleman, after all, did not make improper advances to a woman whom he would consider marrying. He made them to women he would not marry, but only dally with.

Of course, she had no intention of dallying with him. But a little light flirtation…now that was a different matter.

Constance turned her head toward the window to hide the secret smile that curved her lips. She was quite looking forward to tomorrow, she thought. It would be pleasant, indeed, to face Lord Leighton looking, for once, at her best.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a spacious redbrick house, and Leighton glanced out the window. “Ah, here we are.” He opened the door and stepped down, then leaned back in to say, “Thank you for a most enjoyable ride.” He made a general bow toward them. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.” His eyes went to Constance and he added, “I am very glad to have found you again, Miss Woodley. Promise you will give the first waltz to no one but me.”

Constance smiled back at him. It would be hard, she thought, not to return his smile. “I will.”

“Then I will bid you goodbye.” He closed the door and stepped back, and the carriage began to roll again.

“Your brother is a very personable man,” Constance said after a moment.

“Yes.” Francesca smiled fondly. “It is easy to like Dominic. But there is more to him than people assume. He fought in the Peninsula.”

“Really?” Constance looked at Francesca in surprise. “He was in the army?” It was an uncommon venture for the eldest son, the heir to the estate.

Francesca nodded. “Yes. The Hussars. He was wounded, in fact. But fortunately, he survived. And then, of course, when Terence died and Dom became the heir, he had to sell out. I think he misses it.”

Constance nodded, understanding now. It was common for younger sons to enter the military, or the diplomatic corps or the church, but if the oldest son died and the younger one became the heir, his future would change. He would one day inherit all the wealth and responsibilities of the estate, and the career he had been engaged on would have to be put aside. Besides, it would not do to have the heir to an estate risking his life in a war. Among noble families, the inheritance was all.

“And so now that he is the heir, he is fair game for all the marriageable young ladies.”

Francesca chuckled. “Yes, poor boy. He does not enjoy it, I can tell you. I suppose there are men who thrive upon that sort of popularity, but not Dom. Of course, he will have to marry someday, but I suspect he will put it off as long as he can. He is a bit of a flirt.”

Constance wondered if Francesca was giving her a subtle warning about her brother, telling Constance, in essence, not to endanger her heart with him. She looked at the other woman, but she could see nothing in Francesca’s lovely face to indicate any hidden meaning. Still, Constance did not need a warning. She was well aware that a man of Lord Leighton’s standing would not marry someone like her.

But, Constance told herself, as long as she was aware of that, as long as she knew not to give her heart to him, there would be nothing wrong in flirting a little with the man. She could dance with him, laugh with him, let herself have a little fun. And, after all, that was all she could reasonably expect from this Season.

When they reached the house that her aunt and uncle were leasing, Lady Haughston went inside with Constance. Aunt Blanche goggled at the sight of Lady Haughston’s coachman bringing in a number of boxes, with Constance carrying several more and even Lady Haughston herself helping out with the last few bags.

“My lady! Oh, my goodness. Annie, come here and take these things from her ladyship. What—” Aunt Blanche stumbled to a halt, looking from her niece to Lady Haughston in befuddlement.

“We haven’t bought out all the stores, Lady Woodley,” Francesca assured her gaily. “However, I do think that your niece and I put something of a hole in Oxford Street’s wares.”

“Constance?” Aunt Blanche repeated. “You bought all this?”

“Yes,” Constance replied. “Lady Haughston assured me that my wardrobe was sadly lacking.”

“Constance!” Francesca exclaimed, laughing. “I never said such a thing. You will have your aunt thinking that I am the most lack-mannered woman imaginable. I merely suggested that you add a few things here and there.”

Francesca turned toward Lady Woodley. “I find that girls rarely realize how many frocks they need for a Season. Don’t you agree?”

As she expected, Lady Woodley nodded her head, not daring to disagree with one of the foremost members of the Ton. “Yes, but I—well, Constance, this is a little unexpected.”

“Yes, I know. But I am sure I have enough room in my dresser for everything. And Lady Haughston has kindly agreed to help me sort through my gowns and decide what to do with them.”

At the news that one of the most elegant and highborn ladies in the land was going to be upstairs in her niece’s tiny room rummaging through her small store of decidedly ordinary dresses, Lady Woodley appeared torn between elation and embarrassment.

“But, my lady, surely…I mean, Constance should not have asked such a thing of you,” she said finally, stumbling over her words.

“Oh, she did not ask me,” Francesca assured her. “I volunteered. There is little I like more than dressing up one’s wardrobe. It is such a challenge, don’t you think?”

She swept up the stairs behind Constance, with Lady Woodley following them, babbling offers of tea and other refreshment, interspersed with admonitions to Constance not to impose on Lady Haughston.

At the door to Constance’s room, Aunt Blanche hesitated. The little room, barely large enough for the dresser, bed and chair that occupied it, seemed even smaller now with the piles of boxes and bags. There was hardly enough room for the three of them, as well, yet Lady Woodley clearly hated to leave Lady Haughston.

So she hovered by the door, looking uncomfortable and chattering on, while Francesca and Constance pulled out Constance’s dresses and laid them out on the bed.

“Such a small number of gowns, my love,” Aunt Blanche tittered. “I told you that you should bring more to Town. But, of course, a girl never foresees how very many gowns one will need.” She turned toward Francesca with a confidential look that suggested that the two of them were old hands at the social whirl. “And, of course, Constance is merely chaperoning the girls.”

“But what nonsense,” Lady Haughston said briskly. “Constance is much too young to be a chaperone…as no doubt you told her.”

“Oh, my, yes, of course!” Aunt Blanche exclaimed. “But what can one do? Constance’s nature is rather retiring, and she is, after all, well past the age of coming out herself.”

Francesca made a noise of disdain. “There are a good many years before Constance reaches that point. One has only to look at her to see how ridiculous it is to place an arbitrary age on a girl’s come-out. Some women are far more beautiful at this age than they were when they left the schoolroom. You have noticed that yourself, I am sure.”

“Well…” Aunt Blanche trailed off uncertainly. She could scarcely disagree with Lady Haughston’s pronouncements, especially given the way she so graciously linked Aunt Blanche’s thoughts with her own.

Lady Woodley watched as Francesca and Constance matched up ribbons and lace to some dresses and discarded others as unfit for anything but the most mundane daily wear, and talked of lowering necklines and adding overskirts or demi-trains, of replacing dull sleeves with others slashed with contrasting color.

Constance, too, had experienced a certain embarrassment at exposing her unimpressive wardrobe to Lady Haughston, but Francesca’s manner could not have been more matter-of-fact or uncritical. Her eye for color and style was unerring, which did not surprise Constance. One need not look at her long to realize that she was an artist when it came to clothes. But Constance did find it rather peculiar that someone like Lady Haughston should be so conversant with ways to modify, update and generally renew one’s wardrobe. It was as odd as her knowing where to buy ribbons, lace and other accessories at the best prices. Constance could not help but wonder if Lady Haughston might not suffer from something of a lack of funds herself. She had heard no rumors to that effect, of course, but clearly Francesca was quite adept at hiding such a thing, at least in regard to one’s wardrobe.

Before long, Georgiana and her sister drifted down the hall and stood with their mother, looking awestruck as they watched Francesca bustle about the little room. When, finally, Francesca left, reminding Constance that she was to come to her house the following afternoon before the ball, the two girls turned to their mother, their voices rising in a wail.

“Why is she going to Lady Haughston’s?” Georgiana cast a disparaging glance toward Constance. “Why can’t we go, too?”

“I am going because Lady Haughston asked me,” Constance told her calmly, refraining from pointing out the obvious corollary that Georgiana and Margaret were not going because Lady Haughston had not invited them.

“I know that,” Georgiana snapped. “But why? Why does she want you there? Why did she take you out today?”

Constance shrugged. She was not about to tell her relatives of Francesca’s plans for her.

“And how did you buy all these things?” Margaret added, looking at the dresses and adornments scattered all over the bed.”

“I used money I’d been saving.”

“Yes, well, if you have so much money, you might have thought to help us a little,” Aunt Blanche sniffed. “We have been giving you a roof over your head and food to eat for the past six years.”

“Aunt Blanche! You know I give you money every month!” Constance cried. “And I always pay for my clothes and personal items.”

Her aunt shrugged, as though Constance’s argument had nothing to do with what she had said. “I cannot see why Lady Haughston has such a preference for you. It is most inexplicable. Why does she not ask to take out Georgiana?”

“What about me?” Margaret asked indignantly.

“I am the eldest,” Georgiana told her sister haughtily.

The two girls began to squabble, and Constance turned away to begin to fold and put away the things that now lay all over her bed. After a few minutes, her aunt and cousins moved out of her room, continuing their conversation in the more comfortable arena of the sitting room.

But the subject did not die. Georgiana and Margaret brought it up again at the dinner table, until finally their normally lax and imperturbable father snapped at them to be quiet. The two girls lapsed into a sullen pout, but they took up their grievances again as soon as their father had retired to his port after dinner. Their mother, of course, agreed with them that it was neither right nor fair that they had not been taken under Lady Haughston’s wing instead of Constance. Constance retired early, claiming a headache—which was indeed the truth, after listening to the other women harp on the subject of Lady Haughston all evening. The next day she stayed to herself as much as possible, working quietly in her room on the various small things that she and Francesca had determined could be done to her dresses. The larger alterations, of course, she would have to take with her to Lady Haughston’s for the more skilled hands of Francesca’s maid.

Constance even considered foregoing her luncheon. Sir Roger always went to his club during the day, so there would be no one to put a stop to Georgiana’s and Margaret’s complaints. Their mother rarely reined them in, and in any case, Constance knew that Aunt Blanche also disliked the fact that Lady Haughston preferred Constance to the rest of them. Her worst fear was that Aunt Blanche would forbid her to go to Francesca’s house, even though it would clearly work against her own best interests. Aunt Blanche was often as slowwitted as her daughters, and much more stubborn.

However, Constance reasoned that if she did not show up for the meal, her aunt would decide that she was feeling ill and should not go either to Lady Haughston’s or to the ball this evening. So she went downstairs, vowing to keep a rein on her tongue and her temper, an ability that was often sorely tested by her cousins and aunt.

Just as she had feared, Georgiana and Margaret started in on what they saw as injustice before they even sat down at the table. Constance did her best to disregard them, but she could not ignore it when her aunt at last said to her, “Constance, I am thinking that, if the matter is going to cause this much dissension and misery in the house, perhaps you should not go to Lady Haughston’s this afternoon.”

Constance looked at her, trying to hide her alarm, and pondered briefly what would be the best tack to take with her aunt. “I should not like to offend Lady Haughston, Aunt. She is very powerful in the Ton, and she seemed most adamant about my joining her this afternoon.”

“Yes, well, I am sure that she would understand if you sent her a note telling her that you were feeling a trifle under the weather and could not come.” Lady Woodley’s face brightened. “In fact, the girls and I could call on her and deliver your regrets personally.” She nodded, looking pleased with herself. “Yes, that might be best.”

Anger flared up in her, but Constance firmly thrust it down. “But I am not feeling at all ill, and I should like to go to Lady Haughston’s this afternoon,” she replied calmly. “And I am not sure whether she would like anyone else to go to her house, uninvited.”

Her aunt’s eyebrows shot up. “She has called here. That makes it perfectly acceptable for me to call on her.”

“She will not like it if I do not come,” Constance told her aunt firmly. “She might very well retract the invitation to Lady Simmington’s ball tonight if she is displeased.”

“She can hardly expect you to come to her house if you are ill.” Aunt Blanche looked at her, her eyes hard.

“I am not ill.” Constance looked back at her, making her gaze as obdurate as she was able.

“Lady Haughston will not know that,” her aunt reasoned.

“Yes, she will,” Constance replied flatly.

Her aunt’s eyes opened wider in surprise. It was a moment before she could speak. “Are you—Do you defy me?”

“I intend to go to Lady Haughston’s this afternoon,” Constance replied calmly. “I do not wish to defy you, of course. Therefore, I do hope that you will not forbid me to go.”

If possible, Aunt Blanche looked even more astounded. She gasped, then opened and closed her mouth without saying anything, looking remarkably like a fish.

Constance took advantage of her aunt’s momentary speechlessness to lean forward and say earnestly, “Lady Haughston is very important. Her father is an earl. She is friends with the Duke of Rochford. She can do much for you and the girls, as you well know. But it would be equally ruinous for you to cross her. Pray, however angry you may feel at me, do not offend Francesca.”

Her aunt had been swelling with ill-feeling during Constance’s words, and Constance knew that she wanted to break into a long, loud tirade against her niece. But even as she opened her mouth, something flickered in her eyes, some bit of reason or caution, and she closed her mouth.

“Francesca?” she said at last. “She gave you the use of her first name?”

Constance nodded. She had spoken Francesca’s given name deliberately, for the use of it indicated a close relationship. She was glad to see that her aunt had noticed that fact.

“Please,” Constance said. “I know you do not like this. But think about the ball tonight. Think about telling your friend Mrs. Merton what Lady Haughston said to you when she called on you yesterday. Then think about not being able to say such things in the future.”

“You ungrateful wretch,” Aunt Blanche spat at her. “After all that I have done for you!”

“I am well aware of all that you have done for me, and I have told Lady Haughston about it. I have no desire to be on bad terms with you.” Constance forced herself to keep her voice firm, and her gaze equally calm and unyielding. She had often yielded to Aunt Blanche out of a sense of obligation and a desire to live in peace. But this time she was determined not to bend, even if it meant coming to a complete break with her aunt. She was discovering that she wanted this Season very much. “I am sure that Lady Haughston’s friendship will not last past this Season, and then our lives will return to normal. But think of how much you can accomplish for your daughters in the next few months, if only none of us act foolishly.”

Aunt Blanche’s nostrils widened, her lips thinning with fury, and for a moment Constance was afraid that her aunt would be unable to control herself. But after a moment the older woman swallowed hard, unclenched her fists and let out a long breath. Turning back to her food, she said in a cold voice, “Naturally, I would not stop you from going to Lady Haughston’s this afternoon, despite your insolence toward me. I shudder to think how your poor dear father would have felt had he seen you address me in this manner.”

As Constance was well aware that her “poor, dear father” had disliked his sister-in-law intensely and thought up any excuse to be absent when she came to visit, Constance rather thought that he would have applauded her actions. However, she refrained from saying so to her aunt and merely finished her food as quickly as she could, aware of her cousins’ amazed gazes upon her. As soon as she was done, she asked to be excused and was granted her request in frosty tones.

She fled upstairs, where she put the dresses for Francesca’s maid to redo into some of the boxes and bags that she had brought home the day before. Then she sat down to wait for the Haughston carriage. Fortunately, she did not have to wait long before Jenny, the downstairs maid, knocked on her door and announced with some awe that a grand carriage waited for her in the street.

Constance forced herself to stop and bid her aunt and cousins a pleasant goodbye. She was met with three silent, furious stares. Obviously, she thought, it would take some time to mend her relationship with them. Still, she could not regret what she had done, no matter how chill the air might be around the household for the next few weeks.

It was no surprise that Haughston House, an elegant white stone mansion in the classic Palladian style, lay in the center of Mayfair, that most fashionable of London districts. Constance, stepping out of the carriage and gazing at the imposing black iron fence railings and the enormous house beyond them, felt rather daunted. It was easy to forget when one was with Francesca that she was a descendant of men and women who had moved among kings and princes—as well as the widow of a man from another such family.

She wondered for a moment about the man who had been Francesca’s husband. Francesca had not mentioned him to Constance, even when they were talking about marriage and love. Constance was not sure exactly what that meant. She knew that the man had died several years ago, and that Francesca had never remarried. The romantic rumor was that she had loved Lord Haughston too much to ever marry another man. However, Constance thought that precisely the opposite might be true—that her first husband had given her a profound distaste for marriage.

Whatever anxiety the house inspired in Constance was erased, however, when Lady Haughston herself came sweeping down the staircase, hands extended in friendship. “Constance! Come up to my room. Maisie has worked her usual wonders. I cannot wait until you see.”

A wave of her hand sent one of the footmen hurrying to take Constance’s boxes, while Francesca herself took Constance’s hand and led her up the wide, curved staircase to the floor above.

“You have a lovely home,” Constance told her admiringly.

“Yes. Lady Haughston—my husband’s mother, that is—had excellent taste. The decoration is all owing to her. Had it been left to the old Lord Haughston, I am afraid it would have been all hunting scenes and enormous dark Jacobean furniture.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Of course, it is far too enormous to keep up. I have the east wing entirely closed off.” She waved vaguely toward the other side of the stairs.

She led Constance into her bedroom, a large and pleasant room overlooking a quiet back garden. With windows on two sides, it was filled with light and soft summer air. It was femininely decorated without being fussy, the furniture elegant and graceful, and there was ample room to move around in it, for Francesca had eschewed the habit many matrons had of stuffing as many pieces as possible into every space.

A neatly dressed maid was waiting for them, a blue gown laid out on the bed beside her. She turned and bobbed a curtsey toward Constance and Francesca.

“Oh, excellent, Maisie,” Francesca said, moving forward to look at the dress. “Constance, come see. This is the dress I was telling you about. Maisie has already changed it. She took off that ruffle with the Vandykes.” She pointed to a swath of material on which were sewn dark blue triangular shapes. “And she took off the sleeves—they were long. And, of course, the matching band of Vandykes around the bottom of the bodice. Then she made an overdress of lighter blue voile and the little puffed sleeves—it is a younger look, I think, more suitable for you.”

“Now, if you’ll just try it on, miss,” Maisie told Constance, “I can see how deep a band of lace we need at the hem.”

“It’s beautiful,” Constance told her, entranced by the frothy confection.

With Maisie’s help, she took off the dress she was wearing and put on the one that the maid had redone. She turned to look into the mirror as Maisie fastened the buttons up the back and drew in a quick breath at the sight of herself. She looked younger and prettier. Constance beamed, unaware of how much of the youth and beauty she saw in the mirror was due to the happiness that glowed in her face.

“It’s perfect. Oh, Lady—Francesca, I cannot begin to thank you enough.”

Francesca clapped her hands in delight. “There is no need. The way you look is reward enough. I knew that dress would be exactly right for you. Did I not tell you that Maisie was a genius with a needle?”

“Indeed, you were right.” Constance could not resist looking at her image in the glass as Maisie knelt, pinning on the wide band of lace around the bottom.

The blue did wonderful things for her eyes and her skin, and her breasts pushed up over the deep scoop of the neckline in a way that would have been, perhaps, too provocative, had it not been for the demure trim of blond lace and the almost girlish look of the small puff sleeves.

“A very simple little something around your neck, I think,” Francesca said, studying her. “A locket, say. And I have a shawl that will look perfect with that.” When Constance began to protest, she shook her head firmly, saying, “I will lend it to you, and that will make it perfectly all right, won’t it?”

When Maisie had finished pinning the dress, Constance and Francesca laid out the clothes that Constance had brought over and discussed with the maid their plans for altering them, bringing out the materials they had bought the day before. They spent the rest of the afternoon cheerfully discussing hems and necklines and overdresses and petticoats. Then Maisie left to finish her work on the dress that Constance would wear that evening, and Constance and Francesca settled down to cut the narrow blue ribbon they had bought the day before into pieces and make tiny bows for Maisie to sew on at regular intervals around the deep lace ruffle.

They took time out for tea, which they had in the shade in the pleasant little garden in back, then went back inside to begin their preparations for the party. They chatted and laughed as Maisie helped them into their clothes and did their hair. Constance could not remember when she had enjoyed herself so much. This, she thought, must be what it was like to have a sister—or what it might be like getting ready with her cousins if she did not spend all her time helping them into their clothes or putting up their hair or finding their lost gloves and fans.

Then, at last, Maisie was done and they were ready. As Francesca beamed at her like a proud mother, Constance went to the mirror for one last look at herself.

“Oh, my.” She could not hold back the soft exclamation.

Her hair was pulled up and caught in a cluster of curls, and feathery wisps curled softly around her face. Her dark brown tresses gleamed in the soft glow of the candles, warm and lustrous, the red highlights catching the light. The spray of tiny blue silk rosebuds that Francesca had bought for her the day before was pinned into her hair at the base of the cluster of curls.