style="font-size:15px;"> ‘The accident in the carriage that we told you of. I had my head shaved so that the surgeon could drill into my scalp to release the pressure on my brain.’
My God. No simple accident, then, but an operation that could have so easily killed her. He tried to hide his concern and concentrated on the fact that she had survived. ‘What colour is the hair beneath?’
‘Not this shade.’ The lowering sun radiated on her face, altering the plain sallowness of her complexion. ‘It is lighter. And curlier. I did not think it would take this long to grow back, though, so I retrieved this old hairpiece from my mother’s things. Now I regret it. But on saying so I do not wish you to think I am vain, it’s just that....’ She stopped, her teeth worrying her bottom lip and confusion sending her eyes away from his.
Sometimes she looked so unexpectedly beautiful that for the first time since he had met her he allowed himself to imagine something finer between them, his sex swelling with the promise. Amethyst Amelia Cameron was honest to a fault and forthright and direct. She did not simper or lie or pretend. He was so very sick of the deceit of women, that was the trouble. Charlotte Mackay had for ever cured him of liars and his sisters and mother had done the rest with their duplicity and falsities.
He wished they were somewhere else, somewhere quiet and private, some place that he might bring her up against him and reassure her that he did not think she was vain, but the pathways of the park were filling with more riders and the crease on her forehead told him that she was as astonished as he by their candour.
‘We should go back.’
She glanced away from him and nodded, her fingers tense on the leather reins and every nail bitten to the quick. He wondered why she did not wear the riding gloves he could so plainly see tucked into the fold of her belt.
* * *
The dream came again that night of the carriage turning over, the scream of the horses and the cold of the day. Her hand had been caught by her thick woollen glove against a seat that had come loose and she could not free herself and jump to safety as her father had done.
Over and over and over, in the slow motion of fear. She had not lost consciousness when her head slammed against the roof or lapsed into a faint as her wrist had broken. No, she had lain there as the dust settled, the bright stream of blood turning the day to red and listening to the last dying breaths of one of the horses.
Her father had reached her first and by his expression she knew things must have been bad. ‘My broken doll,’ he had whispered, words so unlike his usual diction she had thought she must already be dead.
But the pain came later, as did the fear of heavy gloves, and carriage speed and long-distance travelling. Unreasonable, she knew, but nevertheless there. She had seen Daniel look at her bare hands and wonder.
Her fingers went up to feel her hair. It was finally growing, a good amount of curl now covering the pink baldness of her scalp. She could have almost dispensed with the wig altogether, but it had become a sort of disguise that she liked in the time since she had put it on and now she was loathe to simply do away with it. People did not notice her as they once had. She blended in more, the colour of the hairpiece picking up some tone in her skin that kept her hidden. She could walk amongst a crowd and barely feel a glance.
Her tresses had once been her crowning glory. Gerald Whitely told her that time and time again before she had married him. Afterwards he had barely mentioned it, the long silences between them hurtful and unending.
A light tap on her door had her pulling the neck of her nightgown up.
‘Come in.’
Her father walked forward, the silver cane the only vestige of his fall the other evening, though he leant on it with quite some force.
‘I saw the light under your door.’
‘You could not sleep either?’
He shook his head. ‘You seem out of sorts lately and I keep wondering whether this marriage agreement is the cause of it? Lord Montcliffe is after all quite forceful and if you should wish to nullify—’
‘No, Papa.’ She cut across his words and watched his face light up. ‘I am quite happy with things as they are.’
‘It is just the marriage notice will be in the paper tomorrow and I should imagine after that things might change a little.’
‘Lord Montcliffe said the same this afternoon when we were riding. He asked me to a ball on Saturday evening, a formal occasion with much of society in attendance.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘He made it difficult to refuse.’
Her father sat down on the chair opposite and wiped his brow. ‘I am uncertain of the ways of all this. Perhaps we should employ a chaperone for you, Amethyst, so that we don’t get things wrong.’
‘I do not think it will be necessary, Papa. We will repair to Dunstan House as soon as we are married and then we need not worry at all.’
‘Montcliffe is amenable to that?’
‘He once told us that he would be. Besides, a friend of his, the Earl of Ross, asked if his sister might be able to assist in the preparation for the wedding. Perhaps I could also ask her for a little assistance with the ball as well. It seems she is most creative with these things and I have a few gowns that could be altered to make them more fashionable without too much trouble.’
The smile on her father’s face was bright with relief. He looked happier than he had been in a long while.
‘If we had some notion of how many people would attend your marriage ceremony, that would also be of a help. The contract stated the marriage would take place before the end of July and the weeks will run away if we do not get it all in hand.’
‘It will be a small group, Papa. No more than twenty.’
‘But the Montcliffe family will be there?’
‘I am not sure, Papa. They all seem distant from one another.
‘A shame that, for family is all you have to rely on in the world when it comes down to it.’
‘I am uncertain Lord Montcliffe would agree as he seldom speaks of his.’
‘Well, I shall send them invites, nonetheless, for it is only good manners.’
A sense of dread began to play in Amethyst’s mind. Would the Montcliffes be difficult? Would they accept her? Would they come? Only a few weeks until her wedding and she still had not procured a dress. Tomorrow she would send a note to Lady Christine Howard to see if she might consent to help her.
* * *
‘You are marrying whom?’ His mother’s voice was shrill and disbelieving.
Both his sisters sat very still at the dinner table, their eating utensils poised to listen.
‘Miss Amethyst Amelia Cameron.’
‘And you say her father is a man of trade?’
‘Mr
