“Mira…”
Beatrice stared at herself in the mirror, wide-eyed.
“I know,” Mira whispered, standing just behind and to the side of her, taking in the same reflection Beatrice was.
“It is…”
“I know,” Mira whispered again, the reflection showing the pitying look on her maid’s face.
It was far too much, the gown Henry had designed for her. It was far,fartoo much. The last she’d seen its progress was two days ago when Henry and his designer had come for another fitting.She had not minded it then, but at the time, it was much simpler. The gown was a blush pink—not her favorite but a lovely color no less—and the low-scooping bodice was far more revealing than the dresses Algernon had made for her.
Little did she know that such a gown was simply a base for all of the other features Henry and his designer had added to it. Silk flowers in bright, jewel colors had been sewn into the dress. They covered every inch of the skirt—a skirt she had only found out a few hours ago was to be worn with a wide hoop, so it spread out wide from her hips. There was also one sewed into her left hip, on the right side of her waist, and a particularly large one at the center of her bosom. The short sleeves were also littered with the bright flowers, and atop her head, covering her updo, was a hat—or rather, one giant pink bloom that had white and gold feathers sprouting from the center to resemble a flower’s stigmas.
The grandiose of the…ensembledid not stop there, though. The designer had also fashioned a custom choker. A wide, watermelon red ribbon wrapped snuggly around Beatrice’s throat, and attached to it was another large bloom that matched the one she wore atop her head. It was so large in fact that if Beatrice attempted to look down, the edges of its petals tickled her chin.
What was more, Henry had also brought another friend. A cosmetic artist he’d made acquaintances with from the opera. The woman had powdered Beatrice’s face and bosom until it was a pearlescent white. A black beauty mark was drawn on the right side of her lip, and her lips were painted over with a most stunning pink.
At an opera or at the theater, Beatrice wagered that she would find the ensemble both striking and perhaps even pretty. It was, after all, expertly made. On her, though, as she was about to go to a ball for a first time in her life, the reflection of herself heightened her anxiety and made her stomach clench in discomfort.
“I cannot do this,” Beatrice whispered, suddenly struggling to breath. “I cannot do this.”
She began to pace as she placed a hand on the one of few bare spots on the gown over her stomach.
“Oh, Lady Beatrice, please do not fret,” Mira urged. “It might be a little more than what you are used to, but you do look stunning!”
Beatrice shook her head, pacing faster as if that would somehow ease her stress, and she did not notice that her bedroom had opened.
“Beatrice,” Algernon’s deep voice vibrated through the room, “Henry is wondering if you are?—”
Beatrice stopped pacing as Algernon’s words came to an abrupt halt, and she turned to look at him so fast, it caused a pain to travel up her neck. He stood in the doorway, his wide, tall stature nearly taking up the entirety of the space, and he had a hand cupped to his mouth as his wide eyes stayed fixed on her.
“You are back,” she said, happiness at seeing him tunneling through her anxiety.
“An hour ago,” he acknowledged, his tone muffled and tight behind his hand. “I have been speaking with Henry downstairs. He insisted I come up and hurry you along.”
Then a moment later, his wide shoulders began to shake, and a sound erupted in his throat.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes at him, giving him a warning glare.
“Do not,” she warned, raising a pointed finger at him. It also boasted a flower though it was made of jewels and sat upon a ring. Another gift from Henry to further emphasize the apparent theme.
He shook his head quickly, but even so, another sound erupted from his throat. Then, as if he could not take it anymore, he dropped his hand from his mouth, threw his head back, and let out a roaring laugh.
“Do not laugh!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air.
In response Algernon only laughed harder, the expression taking over him so greatly that he leaned down and braced his hands on his knees. Suddenly, Beatrice’s anxiety was gone. It was replaced with rage at him, and she was half tempted to tear off one of the silk flowers and throw it at him.
“You look like a cake!” he said through his laughter, “Good heavens, I thought Henry’s ensemble was a bit much, but this is… you are…” He lost his words to laughter again, and Beatrice positively glowered at him.
She was no longer happy to see him, she decided. In fact in that moment, she wanted to shove him out the door and demand he go back to Morcaster. Why did he have to return right then at that very moment?
“I donotlook like a cake,” she gritted out, her skirts making an annoying swishing sound as she marched toward him. “I look ridiculous!”
“No. No,” Algernon stammered out, looking as if he was trying to get his laughter under control as he rose up to a standing position. “You look… um… bright. Very…”
He ran his gaze up and down her again and let out high-pitched giggle that alarmed her. His voice was normally so very deep; she had no idea he could reach such a high pitch.
“Very bright,” he finally finished then let out another chuckle.