The Inconvenient Duchess

anything new in the village shops?’
    ‘No, Polly. My things will do nicely.’ With each trip to the village to arrange for help or supplies or to check on the progress of the silk Miranda had ordered for the dining room, Polly had become more insistent that she buy something for herself. Miranda sighed. There would be hell to pay when the bills came due, if she could not find a husband to write the cheques. Why add additional purchases for herself to the growing stack of necessities?
    Polly picked up the hem of the evening gown. She’d found the section where the trim simply ended, only to reappear from a seam a foot away. ‘The cloth was fine enough once, your Grace—’
    When it was new, Miranda added to herself.
    ‘—But I don’t know how much longer these sleeves will hold. Perhaps if you bought lace to freshen them up?’
    ‘No need, Polly.’
    ‘A new bonnet, perhaps?’ There was a note of desperation in the maid’s voice.
    With her husband gone and no real understanding of the accounts, she dared not risk such a frivolous expense. She’d better wait until he returned and set some kind of allowance. ‘I think not,’ she said.
    ‘Oh, well, ma’am. I could see that you might find the stuff you can purchase hereabouts a mite simple for a fine London lady. And when his Grace returns, he’ll have brought back presents for you.’
    Perhaps when his Grace returns, he’ll have forgotten he’s married. She held no great hopes of him purchasing hat trims.
    ‘Now, about your hair.’
    ‘My hair?’ Miranda touched the plait, worried for a moment that Polly was going to suggest they purchase a wig.
    ‘It’s not quite the style that ladies are wearing nowadays. Rather unusual.’
    And easy to keep up, thought Miranda. No need for curling irons or a maid to dress the back.
    Polly pulled a much-handled sketch from behind her back. ‘I thought, perhaps, you might let me try something more like this.’ It was a page from Le Beau Monde or some other fashion magazine, and had probably been through the hands of most of the ladies’ maids in the area.
    Polly pointed a stubby finger at a style in the background. ‘Maybe a bit longer in the back, but not much. Parted on the side, here. The curls would call attention to your eyes, your Grace, and you do have lovely eyes.’
    It could be a disaster, she thought. A scissors and curling iron in untrained hands. ‘Do you know much about hair, Polly?’
    ‘Oh, yes, your Grace. I do for my whole family. My sisters look right smart.’
    ‘Do any of them work here?’ She crossed her fingers that it would not turn out to be the parlourmaid with the horriblesquint that looked like she’d trimmed her hair with hedge clippers.
    ‘No, your Grace. But I’ve got three of them, all younger. I know all about hair.’
    ‘All right.’ She must throw a bone to the poor woman, to make up for the sorry wardrobe and the lack of excitement she must present as the new lady of the house.
    ‘Oh, thank you, your Grace. You stay right here and I’ll get the scissors.’
    Now? Dear Lord. She’d imagined sitting down for this in some distant future, and agreed, hoping that it would satisfy the maid. She sank on to the chair by the dressing table. No time to prepare herself.
    Polly was back and holding a pair of scissors. She gave an experimental snip, the gleaming blades slicing the air. The maid nibbled her lip.
    Do your worst, Miranda thought, eyes closed, listening to the sound of the snipping going on behind her back. She felt the first lock fall away and felt strangely lighter, like the headache that had plagued her for days was the result of the hair dragging upon her mind.
    The snipping continued and she relaxed under Polly’s ministrations. It really was rather nice to be done for, rather than doing for others. And Polly was good humoured, one of the few such people in this house. She kept a steady stream of information coming about her sisters, their hair, their beaus, and then she stopped. ‘You can open your eyes now, your Grace. See, it wasn’t so bad as all that, now was it? I’ll get you a cup of tea and heat up the curling irons. You’ll see it will be most fine when we’ve finished.’
    She stared at her reflection in shock. Polly had been right. It changed her face, when the hair was trimmed away andthe bone structure allowed to show. And she had good eyes. Not dull and hard as she had thought. Surrounded by curls, she looked almost playful. She was