Pride and Petticoats by Shana Galen

Author:Shana Galen
Language: eng
Format: mobi, pdf
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The opera turned out to be no small affair. The box Middleton had acquired for them was to be occupied not only by Dewhurst, his cousin, and her, but also Dewhurst's mother and sister Lydia. Charlotte had worn her green dinner dress again as she had no opera gown ready, but Dewhurst had not commented, so she supposed she did not look too unsuitable.

Hester, Dewhurst's maid, volunteered to style Charlotte's hair, and Charlotte reluctantly agreed, hoping the maid had more of an aptitude for hair-dressing than she did for cleaning. Hester, lazy and usually rude, had found her forte as a hair-dresser, and for the first time Charlotte thought her red hair looked pretty. Not that the dress or the coiffure would survive the night.

It started on the way to the opera. She was squeezed next to Dewhurst in his gleaming black Town coach, which, although spacious, was overcrowded with five passengers—Charlotte, Middleton, and the three Dewhursts.

Quarters were so close, she had practically been forced to sit on Dewhurst's lap. He was in full dandy persona, and while she tried to forget her discomfort, he complained endlessly about the possibility of her crushing his cravat. She had wanted to thump him over the head with her reticule, came very close to it in fact when he told her she looked "all the crack."

Lydia assured her he meant it as a compliment, but Charlotte had seen his eyes dip to the low-cut bodice of her dress. She'd wanted to wear a wrap to cover the excess cleavage spilling out, but Freddie had snatched it away, remarking that it was not at all the thing. Charlotte had asked if catching her death of cold was more fashionable, but her husband had been unperturbed, flashing his lazy smile at her.

Despite Freddie's comment, in the end Charlotte had been glad she'd left the shawl at home. She was not cold; in fact, the opposite was true. The heat from being jammed in the carriage and then crammed tightly in the crowds once they reached Covent Garden was almost too much. No wonder the British women never wore wraps despite the cold weather; there were simply so many people about that they packed up against one another and generated heat that way.

When they finally made it through the crush, as Dewhurst had called it, and arrived at the box reserved for the evening, Charlotte took a deep breath and slumped in her chair. She was exhausted, and the evening had barely begun.

But as Charlotte gazed about the theater, all her fatigue melted away. Covent Garden was absolutely the most beautiful place she had ever seen. The stage was large, hidden by a rich crimson drapery, and ornamented by an elegantly paneled arch. On each side of the arch rose two female figures represented in relief, who looked as though they had just stepped out of an ancient Grecian temple. Above her, the elaborate ceiling of the theater was painted to give the appearance of a cupola, the painting depicting an ancient lyre.

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