The Kidnapped Bride by Amanda Scott

of virginal white silk embroidered with silver bugle beads at the bodice and another of cream-colored satinette embellished with a rose-pink sash, she chose instead a gown of which her aunt had disapproved strongly. Sarah had ordered it anyway and had had to submit to a blistering scold as a result, but she was glad now that she had held out. At least this gown would not make her look like a maid fresh from the schoolroom. She held it up and regarded her mirrored self with approval.
    It was a simple affair of gold satin with a high waist, short puffed sleeves, and a slim skirt with a gathered demitrain. The neckline, scooping dangerously low both back and front, was trimmed with delicate Brussels lace, but there was no further decoration. Instinctively, Sarah knew that Sir Nicholas would like this elegant confection. She did not spare a thought for her husband’s potential reaction.
    Betsy returned with the news that Tom and one of the stableboys would soon be bringing hot water.
    “Betsy, do you think you can do my hair?”
    “I can try, my lady,” the girl said doubtfully, “but I’ve not much know-how when it comes to London ways.”
    With a sinking feeling, Sarah looked at her. “Surely, you could contrive something!” She could not wear the golden dress with her hair all tumbled down her back. It would defeat the whole purpose. “Maybe I can help.”
    “Maybe. But ’tis an awful lot of hair, ma’am, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
    “Well, I cannot cut it off,” Sarah stated firmly. “And we’ve nothing to crimp it with even if I did. We shall simply have to contrive.” But an hour later as she sat in her wrapper before her mirror, glowing warmly from her bath, she shook her head in frustration. Betsy had brushed her hair till the tresses shone like spun gold, but now she seemed to be at a loss.
    “What does your woman do next, my lady?”
    Sarah grimaced, trying to remember. Lizzie never seemed to do anything special. Her fingers just twisted here and tucked there until the thing was done. Penny was not nearly so clever about it, but the outcome of her labor was always neat and becoming. “I don’t know, Betsy,” she confessed forlornly. “I’m afraid I never paid much attention to the how of it—only the results.”
    “Well, I wears mine down me back or pushed into me cap, ma’am. Don’t know much else ’cept plaitin’, and I doubt you wants that.”
    “No … that is …” Sarah stared at her reflection as a glimmer of an idea came to her. She closed her eyes tightly, struggling to remember. When she opened them again, they sparkled. “Betsy, do you think you could make two plaits, braiding very tightly and pulled up as you go?”
    Betsy nodded slowly, the expression on her face indicating that she thought it a rather odd notion. She began to part Sarah’s hair down the middle.
    “’Tis a style I saw in La Belle Assemblée last month,” Sarah explained. “They call it à la Didon , and it looks like a crown when it’s done. The two plaits are wound so—” She indicated with her hand, drawing a halo around the top of her head. “—and they had it decked out with diamond pins and feathers and such, but I daresay it would look well enough plain. Do you think you could manage that?”
    Betsy thought for a moment and then pronounced that she could, like as not. She was as good as her word, and the third attempt proved satisfactory. There were, as indeed there always seemed to be, various fine wisps of hair that refused to be confined. They curled instead around Sarah’s ears and the nape of her neck, but she decided that these enhanced the style and left them alone. Slipping off the wrapper, she let Betsy help her into the silken chemise that went with the gown and then into the gown itself.
    “’Tis a lovely thing, my lady,” Betsy breathed solemnly as she did up the tiny, satin-covered buttons in the back. “Makes you look like you was made of gold, it