and the enormous chandelier that had traveled with Lydia from England
had to be taken down and every separate piece of crystal washed and polished
before it could be rehung. All the other rooms, both downstairs and up, had to
be brought to their shining best as well. Besides creating many hours of extra
work, and much bother for Sarah and the staff, the ball was costing Edward a
great deal of money that he could not at the moment afford. But Lydia had
insisted that her daughter come out in true English style, and, as usual,
Edward had bowed to his wife’s wishes.
“Sarah! You look positively unkempt! If I didn’t know
better, I would think you had been cleaning out the stables!” Lydia was
coming down the stairs just as Sarah started up them; her distaste made the
frown lines that she was usually careful to avoid crease her forehead. Sarah
sighed as she approached her stepmother, who swept her skirt aside as though to
avoid contamination when they passed on the stairs. An older, plumper version
of Liza, with the same dusky brown hair worn in nearly the same artless style
and with her daughter’s spaniel eyes, Lydia had never made any secret of
the fact that she merely tolerated her husband’s daughter. Sarah, for her
part, could not summon for Lydia any of the fondness she had learned to feel
for her stepsister. The daughter of a minor baron, Lydia’s first husband
had been a wealthy cit, attracted as much, Sarah suspected, by Lydia’s
noble connections as by her person. Lydia had come to Australia with the very
young Liza in tow when her husband had died and left them, against all her
expectations, nearly paupers. Edward had been dazzled by the widow’s
charming smiles during one of his twice-yearly visits to Canberra, and had
married her within the week. Sarah’s mother had by then been dead for
nearly five years, and although Lydia’s and Liza’s advent had been
something of a shock, Sarah had been prepared to be fond of her new stepmother.
Certainly she had admired her. With her dazzling array of bright silk and satin
dresses, her perfumes and lotions and soft femininity, Lydia had seemed to the
fifteen-year-old Sarah the very epitome of a lady. For months she had
tried—futilely—to emulate her. When, finally, Lydia had driven it
home to her that, with her too-thin body and pointy face and hopeless hair, the
best Sarah could hope for was to be clean and tidy, Sarah had been crushed. All
her secret longings to be beautiful ruthlessly exposed for the idiocies they
were, Sarah had determined to eschew fashion entirely. Lydia had made it clear
in a hundred different ways that Sarah could never hope to rival her own and
her daughter’s looks; Sarah, accepting Lydia’s evaluation with the
humility of the young and untried, had never again attempted to compete.
“I had an accident,” she said now, briefly, to her
stepmother. She knew Lydia would not be concerned enough to press her for
details. Quite simply, she was not interested in what happened to her
husband’s daughter, as long as it was not something that would interfere
with her own comfort.
“I would hope so.” The faintest suggestion of scorn
was discernible through the British upper-class accent Lydia carefully
cultivated. “I would hate to think that you had taken to aping the style
of a ragamuffin. Although, now I come to think of it, it wouldn’t be much
of a difference.”
“Excuse me.” Ignoring Lydia’s dig, as she had
learned to do over the years, Sarah passed her stepmother and continued on up
the stairs to her room at the back of the house.
Edward and Lydia shared one of the large bedrooms at the front of
the second story, and Liza had the other. Sarah’s room overlooked the
orchard and was adjoined by a very pretty little sitting room she had converted
from an unused bedroom. Furnished in palest green and peach, her bedchamber was
dominated by the large four-poster that had been
had to be taken down and every separate piece of crystal washed and polished
before it could be rehung. All the other rooms, both downstairs and up, had to
be brought to their shining best as well. Besides creating many hours of extra
work, and much bother for Sarah and the staff, the ball was costing Edward a
great deal of money that he could not at the moment afford. But Lydia had
insisted that her daughter come out in true English style, and, as usual,
Edward had bowed to his wife’s wishes.
“Sarah! You look positively unkempt! If I didn’t know
better, I would think you had been cleaning out the stables!” Lydia was
coming down the stairs just as Sarah started up them; her distaste made the
frown lines that she was usually careful to avoid crease her forehead. Sarah
sighed as she approached her stepmother, who swept her skirt aside as though to
avoid contamination when they passed on the stairs. An older, plumper version
of Liza, with the same dusky brown hair worn in nearly the same artless style
and with her daughter’s spaniel eyes, Lydia had never made any secret of
the fact that she merely tolerated her husband’s daughter. Sarah, for her
part, could not summon for Lydia any of the fondness she had learned to feel
for her stepsister. The daughter of a minor baron, Lydia’s first husband
had been a wealthy cit, attracted as much, Sarah suspected, by Lydia’s
noble connections as by her person. Lydia had come to Australia with the very
young Liza in tow when her husband had died and left them, against all her
expectations, nearly paupers. Edward had been dazzled by the widow’s
charming smiles during one of his twice-yearly visits to Canberra, and had
married her within the week. Sarah’s mother had by then been dead for
nearly five years, and although Lydia’s and Liza’s advent had been
something of a shock, Sarah had been prepared to be fond of her new stepmother.
Certainly she had admired her. With her dazzling array of bright silk and satin
dresses, her perfumes and lotions and soft femininity, Lydia had seemed to the
fifteen-year-old Sarah the very epitome of a lady. For months she had
tried—futilely—to emulate her. When, finally, Lydia had driven it
home to her that, with her too-thin body and pointy face and hopeless hair, the
best Sarah could hope for was to be clean and tidy, Sarah had been crushed. All
her secret longings to be beautiful ruthlessly exposed for the idiocies they
were, Sarah had determined to eschew fashion entirely. Lydia had made it clear
in a hundred different ways that Sarah could never hope to rival her own and
her daughter’s looks; Sarah, accepting Lydia’s evaluation with the
humility of the young and untried, had never again attempted to compete.
“I had an accident,” she said now, briefly, to her
stepmother. She knew Lydia would not be concerned enough to press her for
details. Quite simply, she was not interested in what happened to her
husband’s daughter, as long as it was not something that would interfere
with her own comfort.
“I would hope so.” The faintest suggestion of scorn
was discernible through the British upper-class accent Lydia carefully
cultivated. “I would hate to think that you had taken to aping the style
of a ragamuffin. Although, now I come to think of it, it wouldn’t be much
of a difference.”
“Excuse me.” Ignoring Lydia’s dig, as she had
learned to do over the years, Sarah passed her stepmother and continued on up
the stairs to her room at the back of the house.
Edward and Lydia shared one of the large bedrooms at the front of
the second story, and Liza had the other. Sarah’s room overlooked the
orchard and was adjoined by a very pretty little sitting room she had converted
from an unused bedroom. Furnished in palest green and peach, her bedchamber was
dominated by the large four-poster that had been
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