wonders, heâd be as fit as ever once this cold weather was over. I tried very hard to believe him, but the worry was always there in the back of my mind, niggling away, and I was always bringing a lap rug for his knees and making sure there were plenty of logs on the fire. Father shook his head at my concern and called me his silly pumpkin.
I turned sixteen in February and no one remembered my birthday except Solonge. She gave me a bolt of exquisite sky blue muslin sprigged with tiny violet flowers and tiny green leaves and told me it was time I made myself something really fetching. I was sad that day, not because Father didnât remember, he was much too busy with his history, but because I was growing older and life seemed to have no direction. Day followed day and nothing happened and I saw nothing ahead but more of the same.
I made the dress and it was fetching indeed, with short puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, a modestly low neckline, formfitting bodice and full, flaring skirt that belled out over my petticoat. Modeling it in front of the mirror as the March winds roared outside, I was amazed at the transformation I saw in the glass. The tall, slender young lady with the rich, abundant chestnut hair and violet-gray eyes certainly wasnât beautiful, not even pretty with those high, sculpted cheekbones and that wide mouth, but she bore little resemblance to the skinny, gawky adolescent who was all elbows and legs. My breasts were full, yes, but they no longer seemed terribly out of proportion now that I had filled out elsewhere.
I tied the violet velvet sash around my waist and turned to make sure the ends trailed properly in back, looking over my shoulder into the mirror. Sunlight angling through the window gave my long, wavy hair a luxuriant sheen. I sighed and turned back around, examining the young lady anew. Not the lovely, demure young lady in cream-colored silk and plumed bonnet I had imagined when I was strolling across the fields almost a year ago, but not ⦠not entirely plain either. I wished Hugh Bradford could see me now. Wouldnât be so quick to treat me like a child. Iâd snub him royally, I would, and he would scowl and look at me with those dark brown eyes and theyâd be filled with desire and ⦠I made a face at my reflection.
I wasnât likely to see Hugh Bradford again, and if I did heâd be rude and sullen and Iâd probably give him the finger or slap his face again or do something equally outrageous. He was a lout, a bumpkin, rough and uncouth and a complete sod. I wasnât interested in men, but if I ever was the man would be genteel and polite and charming. Certainly wouldnât be a surly country ruffian who spent his days inspecting farm equipment and making certain the manure was properly spread. I took off the dress and hung it carefully in the wardrobe. It was a lovely dress, the finest Iâd ever had, but where was I going to wear it? Downstairs to dinner? To the village on my errands? When I entertained one of the countless beaux who swarmed around vying for my favor? I slipped on my old blue cotton frock and went downstairs to peel the potatoes for dinner. Marie would have one of her snits if I didnât have them ready in time.
The winds continued to roar throughout most of March, making Marie testy and making me restless. When finally they died down it was almost April and the skies were a pure, pale white with only a touch of blue and the sun was a pale white disc. The trees were bare, the earth brown, but all the snow was gone and a faint green haze was beginning to appear. Spring would be here in no time, the flowers abloom again. A decade seemed to have passed since that spring day last year when I had picked the daisies and sprained my ankle and slapped Hugh Bradford across the face. That might almost have happened another lifetime ago, I thought as I came back from the village with the groceries Marie had sent me to
I turned sixteen in February and no one remembered my birthday except Solonge. She gave me a bolt of exquisite sky blue muslin sprigged with tiny violet flowers and tiny green leaves and told me it was time I made myself something really fetching. I was sad that day, not because Father didnât remember, he was much too busy with his history, but because I was growing older and life seemed to have no direction. Day followed day and nothing happened and I saw nothing ahead but more of the same.
I made the dress and it was fetching indeed, with short puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, a modestly low neckline, formfitting bodice and full, flaring skirt that belled out over my petticoat. Modeling it in front of the mirror as the March winds roared outside, I was amazed at the transformation I saw in the glass. The tall, slender young lady with the rich, abundant chestnut hair and violet-gray eyes certainly wasnât beautiful, not even pretty with those high, sculpted cheekbones and that wide mouth, but she bore little resemblance to the skinny, gawky adolescent who was all elbows and legs. My breasts were full, yes, but they no longer seemed terribly out of proportion now that I had filled out elsewhere.
I tied the violet velvet sash around my waist and turned to make sure the ends trailed properly in back, looking over my shoulder into the mirror. Sunlight angling through the window gave my long, wavy hair a luxuriant sheen. I sighed and turned back around, examining the young lady anew. Not the lovely, demure young lady in cream-colored silk and plumed bonnet I had imagined when I was strolling across the fields almost a year ago, but not ⦠not entirely plain either. I wished Hugh Bradford could see me now. Wouldnât be so quick to treat me like a child. Iâd snub him royally, I would, and he would scowl and look at me with those dark brown eyes and theyâd be filled with desire and ⦠I made a face at my reflection.
I wasnât likely to see Hugh Bradford again, and if I did heâd be rude and sullen and Iâd probably give him the finger or slap his face again or do something equally outrageous. He was a lout, a bumpkin, rough and uncouth and a complete sod. I wasnât interested in men, but if I ever was the man would be genteel and polite and charming. Certainly wouldnât be a surly country ruffian who spent his days inspecting farm equipment and making certain the manure was properly spread. I took off the dress and hung it carefully in the wardrobe. It was a lovely dress, the finest Iâd ever had, but where was I going to wear it? Downstairs to dinner? To the village on my errands? When I entertained one of the countless beaux who swarmed around vying for my favor? I slipped on my old blue cotton frock and went downstairs to peel the potatoes for dinner. Marie would have one of her snits if I didnât have them ready in time.
The winds continued to roar throughout most of March, making Marie testy and making me restless. When finally they died down it was almost April and the skies were a pure, pale white with only a touch of blue and the sun was a pale white disc. The trees were bare, the earth brown, but all the snow was gone and a faint green haze was beginning to appear. Spring would be here in no time, the flowers abloom again. A decade seemed to have passed since that spring day last year when I had picked the daisies and sprained my ankle and slapped Hugh Bradford across the face. That might almost have happened another lifetime ago, I thought as I came back from the village with the groceries Marie had sent me to
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