“It suits you,” Elinor said, not flattering, simply stating.
Maria touched a star on the bodice with a careful fingertip. “It suits him, too,” she admitted. “His idea of me, I mean.”
Elinor pretended to adjust the fall of the skirt while she considered that. “Ideas change,” she said. “Let him have this one tonight. Tomorrow you may show him another.”
“That sounds like work.”
“It is, sometimes,” Elinor said. “But you are good at work.”
Maria looked down at the gloves on the chair. “Help me?”
Elinor eased the first glove up, smoothing over the wrist and forearm, then the second. The kid’s leather was cool and then warm.
“There,” Elinor said. “Take a turn about the room.”
Maria obeyed, learning the dress by walking in it—how the skirt moved, where the hem caught the air, how much space she needed to turn.
“Better,” Elinor said. “Stand near the window. The light is honest there.”
Maria went to the window. The pale afternoon made the blue clearer. She could hear the carriage being brought round, the muffled orders in the yard, the faint agitation that follows any house preparing to send its people into public.
“I am still nervous,” she said.
“Keep a small piece of it,” Elinor said. “It will stop you from running. Give the rest to the dress. It can carry it.”
Maria looked at her in the mirror. “You make very odd speeches for a maid.”
“I make very useful ones,” Elinor said, unbothered. “Now. You will need your fan, your card case, and the pin if the bodice shifts. And a handkerchief, because ladies always need one when they swear they will not.”
Maria picked up the fan and tried to snap it open, but the fold closed. “If I forget how to talk to anyone, do I wave this as a signal?”
Elinor’s eyes sparked. “If you forget how to talk to anyone, look at the duke as if he were the only person who could hear you. He will do the rest.”
Maria went quiet at that. “He has been doing the rest lately.”
“Then you may let him,” Elinor said. “Sometimes.”
A knock sounded at the door. “Your Grace?” came the footman’s careful voice. “The carriage is ready.”
Maria drew a breath. “Thank you. Two minutes.”
Elinor moved to the dressing table, lifted the small vial of scent, and held it out. “Here. Not too much.”
Maria held out her wrist. “If I smell like a garden, tell me.”
“You smell like a woman who knows where she is going,” Elinor said, dabbing once at each wrist and once at the base of Maria’s throat.
Maria turned to the mirror one last time. “Do I look like her?”
“Yes,” Elinor said. “And if anyone doubts it, they will learn.”
Maria nodded, steady now. “Very well.”
Elinor opened the door. “Your cloak,” she said softly, settling the light wrap around Maria’s shoulders. “For the steps.”
Maria reached for her reticule, then paused and went back to the note on the table. She touched the single initial with her glove and smiled.
“Ready,” she said.