The Bridal Season by Connie Brockway

colored, and
continued. “I mean, you are most generous in giving up all your High-Society
endeavors to come to us in Little Bidewell.”
    “My dear Miss Angela,” Letty said, “what Society could
possibly be higher than a marquis’s?”
    Angela’s face crumpled.
    “Why, m’dear, what’s wrong? You don’t look very happy.”
    “Oh, I am,” Angela said quickly. “I wish to wed Hughie above
all things! I love him so! It’s just that, well, things would be so much
simpler if he weren’t a marquis.
    “You can’t imagine what it’s like, Lady Agatha. Whenever I’m
with his family I go in terror that I might make some unforgivable faux pas and
be revealed as the insignificant creature I am.”
    “Oh, believe me,” Letty murmured, “I understand.”
    “I’m just not comfortable pretending to be something that I’m
not,” Angela said.
    Finally, a subject Letty knew something about. She waved her
fork instructively. “First and most important, you must believe yourself
into the role. When push comes to shove, simple self-confidence can mask any
little missteps.”
    “I can’t believe you have ever misstepped, Lady
Agatha.”
    “Well,” Letty lowered her eyes modestly, “I’m sure I must have
made some mistake at some time or other.”
    “I’m just not going to be any good at being a great lady.
There’s all these rules and codes and dictums ...” Angela said.
    “Just be guided by your own good sense and, of course, a
discreet observation of those whom you would emulate, and you will succeed.”
    “I’ve been studying this.” Angela said, reaching into her
skirt pocket and withdrawing a well-thumbed, softbound book. She handed it to
Letty. Our Decorum: Etiquette and Manners for Ladies of Breeding. “But I
see now that your advice is the best. I shall simply watch how you do things
and comport myself accordingly.”
    Only supreme self-control enabled Letty to keep from choking.
“Now, Miss Angela, that isn’t what I meant,” she croaked. Dear God! If she
ended up being responsible for breaking this girl’s engagement, she’d never
forgive herself. “I am quite sure you could find more suitable people to
pattern your manners after. After all, I am sure my deportment has ...” she
cast about, “has suffered through the necessity of my having to work for a
living.”
    “Never,” Angela said staunchly.
    Letty smiled weakly. “Besides, you are already as admirable
and well-bred a girl as any man could wish to wed. Sheffield is lucky to make
you his wife.”
    Angela stared at her in stricken silence, as if a friend had
suddenly turned on her.
    “Angela? What is it?” she asked in alarm. The girl’s face was
pale and her lips trembled.
    “Nothing,” Angela said hastily, turning her head. “It’s just
that I’m not as good as you... or... or Hughie think I am.” Her breath caught
on her betrothed’s name and she blinked rapidly.
    There was more here than Letty had first thought. But Angela
wasn’t ready to confide in Letty. Not yet, but—Letty gave herself a sharp,
mental slap. What was she thinking, ‘not yet’?! If she was lucky, not ever.
    But then, it wouldn’t hurt to give the poppet a spot of joy,
would it? It certainly wasn’t because of maudlin sentimentality or some
misplaced desire to be a do-gooder that she decided to show Angela the shatoosh
upstairs; it was only out of artistic curiosity. To see if she still had as
good an eye as her mother had once claimed.
    “I know,” she said. “Before the guests arrive for your aunt’s
picnic, why don’t we nip upstairs and take a look-see at that material I was
talking about?”
    The suggestion worked like a charm. What woman could resist
the pleasure of sorting through fabrics and poring over patterns? Ten minutes
later they were in Letty’s room, Angela’s eyes dry as the desert and bright as
the stars as she sorted through all the wonderful things Letty showed her.
Chapter 10
    Kindness costs nothing.
     
    THE AFTERNOON WAS FINE. ONLY A FEW clouds disturbed the
porcelain-blue tranquility overhead. A