She thought it might make you more—comfortable. And these were just delivered this morning. I asked Bridget to lay them out for you.”
Tessa felt tears sting the backs of her eyes and sat down hastily on the edge of the bed. The thought that Charlotte, with everything else that was going on, would think of Tessa’s comfort at al made her want to cry. But she stifled the urge, as she always did. “Sophie,” she said, her voice uneven. “I ought—no, I wanted—to apologize to you.”
“Apologize to me, miss?” Sophie said tonelessly, laying the hat on the bed. Tessa stared. Charlotte wore such plain clothes herself. She never would have thought of her as having the inclination or taste to choose such lovely things.
“I was entirely wrong to speak to you about Gideon as I did,” said Tessa. “I put my nose in where it was decidedly not wanted, and you are quite correct, Sophie. One cannot judge a man for the sins of his family. And I should have told you that, though I saw Gideon at the bal that night, I cannot say he was partaking of the festivities; in fact, I cannot see into his head to determine what he thinks at al , and I should not have behaved as if I could. I am no more experienced than you, Sophie, and where it comes to gentlemen, I am decidedly uninformed. I apologize for acting superior; I shan’t do it again, if only you’l forgive me.”
Sophie went to the wardrobe and opened it to reveal a second dress—this one of a very dark blue, trimmed with a golden velvet braid, the polonaise slashed down the right side to reveal pale fail e flounces beneath. “So lovely,” she said a little wistful y, and touched it lightly with her hand.
Then she turned to Tessa. “That were—that was a very pretty apology, miss, and I do forgive you. I forgave you in the drawing room, I did, when you lied for me. I don’t approve of lying, but I know you meant it out of kindness.”
“It was very brave, what you did,” said Tessa. “Tel ing the truth to Charlotte. I know how you feared she’d be angry.”
Sophie smiled sadly. “She isn’t angry. She’s disappointed. I know. She said she couldn’t talk to me now but she would later, and I could see it, on her face. It’s worse in a way, somehow.”
“Oh, Sophie. She’s disappointed in Wil al the time!”
“Wel , who isn’t.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant she loves you, like you were Wil or Jem or—wel , you know. Even if she’s disappointed, you must stop fearing she’l sack you. She won’t. She thinks you’re wonderful, and so do I.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Miss Tessa!”
“Wel , I do,” said Tessa mutinously. “You are brave and selfless and lovely. Like Charlotte.”
Sophie’s eyes shone. She wiped at them hastily with the edge of her apron. “Now, that’s enough of that,” she said briskly, stil blinking hard. “We must get you dressed and ready, for Cyril’s coming round with the carriage, and I know Mrs. Branwel doesn’t want to waste any time.”
Tessa came forward obediently, and with Sophie’s help she changed into the gray and white striped dress. “And do be careful, is al I have to say,” said Sophie as she deftly wielded her buttonhook. “The old man is a nasty piece of work, and don’t forget it. Very harsh, he is, on those boys.”
Those boys. The way she said it made it sound like Sophie had sympathy for Gabriel as wel as Gideon. Just what did Gideon think of his younger brother, Tessa wondered, and the sister, too? But she asked nothing as Sophie brushed and curled her hair, and daubed her temples with lavender water.
“Now, don’t you look lovely, miss,” she said proudly when she was done at last, and Tessa had to admit that Charlotte had done a fine job in selecting just the right cut to flatter her, and gray suited her wel . Her eyes looked bigger and blue, her waist and arms more slender, her bosom ful er. “There’s just one other thing . . .”
“What is it, Sophie?”
“Master Jem,” said Sophie, startling Tessa. “Please, whatever else you do, miss . . .” The other girl glanced at the chain of the jade pendant tucked down the front of Tessa’s dress and bit her lip. “Don’t break his heart.”
20
THE BITTER ROOT
But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart,
Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart;
A nd deep in one is the bitter root,
A nd sweet for one is the lifelong flower.
—Algernon Charles Swinburne,
“The Triumph of Time”