A Lady of Resources Page 0,2

Fragonard gentleman had his exhibition.”

“Oh?” Claire’s eyebrow rose. “Have you seen the exhibition yourself?”

“I have, milady. That one called Anticipation caused quite a stir, with that young lady lazing about with hardly a silk curtain to cover herself.”

Claire smothered a smile. “But her hair, MacMillan. I thought it particularly striking at the time, and wondered if you had seen it.”

“Seen it and marked it for her ladyship. But I wouldn’t mind trying it out on you, if you don’t mind.”

“Have at it,” Claire said, settling back in the chair. “I just hope it doesn’t fall down when I curtsey to the Empress. If she finds time to attend.”

“No coiffure of mine will fall down under any circumstances, milady, empress or no.” MacMillan took down Claire’s simple chignon and brushed out her thick auburn waves. “It will look as though you had tossed it up and wrapped it about with a bandeau, but under it will be as much engineering as young Miss Elizabeth’s corset.”

“MacMillan, you are a treasure.”

“Thank you, milady. Her ladyship thinks so.”

Motionless under MacMillan’s authority, Claire caught Lizzie’s eye in the glass. “Does it feel strange to think that our time here is coming to an end? It does to me.”

“But it isn’t at an end for you, Lady,” Maggie put in. It was clear she was trying not to move very much, for fear of mussing herself up. Lizzie was tempted to reach over and give her braid a tug, but discarded that idea almost immediately. The wrath of MacMillan over her damaged handiwork was not worth the risk. Maggie went on, “You’re to join Uncle Ferdinand’s firm. Or have you changed your mind again?”

Claire rolled her eyes at herself. “I change my mind as often as my shoes—and with less success. But we were not talking about me. You girls have some decisions to make once the term ends in two weeks.”

“It’s not fair that you graduate so soon and we have all our exams yet to go,” Lizzie moaned. “It should all be the same.”

“You may certainly take it up with the Regents on the State education board.”

Lizzie felt rather proud that her five years in the lycee had enabled her to control the urge to stick out her tongue at the Lady. But she came close, all the same.

“How are we supposed to decide something as serious as this?” Maggie asked from the upholstered chair, where she had gingerly seated herself, back straight, feet flat on the floor, hands folded in her lap.

“Too many choices,” Lizzie agreed. Heedless of wrinkles, she folded herself onto the end of the bed and leaned on one of the turned posts with the pineapple on top. She ticked them off on her fingers. “Finishing school in Geneva … two more years of sixth form here … or sign the exit papers, graduate, and go back to London.”

“We’re going back to London for the summer, anyway, same as always,” Maggie pointed out.

“Well, yes, but in September? What happens then?”

“I should think it would be quite straightforward, miss,” MacMillan said. “What do you want to make of yourself?”

“That is the question,” Lizzie sighed. “I suppose I want to be a fine lady, but that doesn’t mean I’ll get to be.”

Claire straightened, then winced as MacMillan inadvertently ran a hairpin into her scalp. “I do beg your pardon, milady.”

“It’s quite all right, MacMillan. I should not have moved so suddenly. Lizzie, what do you mean? Why should you not be a lady and move in the finest Wit circles in any country, as you do here?”

How could she explain this without either offending everyone in the room or sounding like a fool? “Lady, you know as well as I do that it’s different here. Here, everyone’s accepted, as long as you’ve got a brain. I suppose that’s why you’ve decided to stay, innit?”

Claire’s expression softened. “I must admit it’s rather refreshing, considering the way I grew up.”

“But that’s just it. You grew up a lady, with a posh family, no matter what you chose later.” Lizzie swung her legs over the foot of the bed and wrapped an arm around the post, as if anchoring herself in a stormy sea. “Can you really believe that a mort who started out an alley mouse—who still is, never mind all the elocution lessons and walking about wi’ books on me ’ead—” She let her accent deteriorate on purpose. “—is going to be accepted in the drawing rooms of London?”

“Every drawing room that accepts