Unforgivable(24)

“Short,” Rose replied.

“Yes, just a covering really; this long.” Lottie held her finger and thumb an inch apart. Had it really been as short as all that? Rose touched her head as though to check, but of course, her hair was long now, long and thick and luxurious, dark brown tresses that spilled almost to her waist.

“I remember it well,” Lottie went on, still brushing. “You were very poorly when I met you, and your hair was growing slowly. Your body had more important things to mend first.” She looked up, meeting Rose’s gaze in the mirror with those expressive black eyes that showed a depth of emotion that Rose hadn’t been able to understand back then. “You almost died.”

“Yes,” Rose whispered. She remembered the worst of it not at all, and much of the rest only dimly. Seemingly interminable days of fever, the days and nights running into one another, the hallucinations more real to her than the world around her.

The physicians had glumly told her father she would die; and she would have done so if left to them.

“But you saved me, Lottie,” she said, smiling at her friend in the mirror.

“Pshaw!” Lottie scoffed. “Anyone could see what you needed: rest, food, care. Those doctors would have had you in a coffin while you still breathed! But look at you now—so beautiful.” She beamed. “No, he won’t know you. On your wedding day, you weighed little more than a bag of feathers, and your skin was a mess. But look at you now! The marks are all gone!”

“Not quite,” Rose countered lightly. “I have a few scars.” Not merely physical ones either. She tried to dismiss the memory of a night in an inn long ago; a girl in a pink dress, a pink ribbon in her hair. A memory that still made her feel like that girl all over again.

“You call those scars?” Lottie retorted. “Those little moon-marks?”

There were hardly any scars on her face, which was amazing, considering how awful they had been. They’d been everywhere, even on her eyelids and inside her ears. But she’d been left with just three scars on her face, three little white circles at her left ear, her hairline and her chin. They were tiny, almost unnoticeable, the silvery scar tissue just a few shades lighter than her creamy skin.

There were a few more obvious battlefields on her body. A little ring of them on the back of her neck, like the interwoven links of a necklace; another clutch on the backs of her knees. A few other isolated ones here and there, on flank and thigh and arm. But none of them were unsightly, just little silver indentations in her flesh. They had long ago lost the power to make her feel ugly. Indeed, they made her feel proud now, to have survived.

Rose looked into the mirror and saw a woman who was beautiful. She saw her own beauty with satisfaction and joy and defiance. The gaunt, skeletal face of five years before had filled out to one of heart-shaped prettiness. The sad little cap of thin hair was now a thick, glossy mane. Her skin glowed, and her eyes shone with health.

“He won’t know you,” Lottie said again, but this time, the tone of her voice was almost wondering. “Not immediately. And certainly not masked.”

“Masked?”

Lottie smiled, a wicked slashing smile. “Have you ever been to a masked ball, cara?”

“What? No, of course not. They’re hardly de rigueur in deepest, darkest Northumbria.”

“Would you like to go to one this evening? I’m sure your husband will be there. And don’t you think that would be a much better place to meet him? Just think, instead of turning up as petitioner at his front door, asking for an audience, you set the time and place. And then you let him see your beauty, perhaps flirt with him a little—flirtation is the best language for your husband, cara, trust me. He responds to it better than English.”

“You think I should meet him in disguise?”

“Oh, you’ll reveal who you really are at the unmasking at midnight. But first you let him see your charms. Soften him up. Once you’ve caught his interest, everything else will be so much easier. Catch him with honey, cara.”

“But what if recognises me straightaway?”

“He won’t.” Lottie shook her head, quite certain. “I have a mask and domino you can borrow—you won’t even know yourself in them.”

“Whose ball is this anyway?”

“The ball is being held by dear Nev, so of course he’ll be delighted to have you attend. I’ll send a note round to him now.” Nev was an old friend of her father’s and more recently of Lottie’s.

“Does this mean it won’t be a respectable occasion?” Rose asked. Nev was known as rather a rakish sort.