Turning Page ↠ Bridgerton

06. Diamond In The Rough

LADY WHISTLEDOWN
Formed under pressure, desired by many, yet possessed only by a fortunate few, there is nothing on earth quite so envied as a diamond. Might our queen finally extinguish the fevered speculation and bestow the highest of honors to a most fortunate young lady tonight? With so many futures at risk, I do suspect this author is not the only one waiting with bated breath.

     Abigail is suddenly faltering in her reflection, smoothing down her dress insecurely. "I won't... stick out too much, will I? Amongst all those other pretty debutantes—"

     "Of course not, my dear," her mother interjects.

     "I know, it's just..." the girl gulps, "it is the queen's ball."

     Octavia takes Abigail's hands in hers, seeming determined. "Hold your head high and know your worth. Then it shall not matter what you are wearing." Then, breaking free from thought, she whirls around the room impatiently. "Speaking of which... how long has Jemima been in there?"

     From behind a curtain, there is a loud clatter, followed by Jemima's voice feebly admitting: "... I appear to be stuck."

     "How can you be stuck? You have people helping you dress!"

     "Erm, I– I just am! I am afraid I shan't be coming out any time soon."

     "Ah non," Madame Delacroix sighs, clasping her hands together. "Excuse me for one moment, ladies..."

     The modiste politely curtsies and leaves the room, slipping behind the curtain to check on Jemima. Whilst her mother and Abigail start chatting about preparations for the ball, Winifred casts her gaze around the modiste's shop, with its pastel walls and mannequins displaying all the latest fashions... and realises just how numb she feels to it all. Although she has never cared as much for fancy dresses or gilded ballrooms, she feels even less interested in them these days. Those material things all seem to pale with the perspective her grief has given her.

Perhaps Madeline senses her in deep thought, for when she looks back at her sister, her face is etched with concern. "Are you sure you do not want a fitting yourself, Winifred?"

"Quite sure. It would not feel... right." Winifred wrings her hands together on her lap. She is still in half-mourning, after all, keeping her clothing modest and in more somber shades. "I just feel guilty not paying for some of these dresses myself—"

"Oh, stop it! You must not feel guilty."

"But I feel useless just sitting here and—"

"Do not. Silas and I are doing this willingly. You are all our guests, and we are taking care of you," insists Madeline, stepping into her big sister shoes. "All you need do, my dear sister, is sit back and do what you feel most comfortable with."

"Very well..." Winifred sighs.

From behind the curtain, Jemima emerges, her long raven hair falling down the back of her dress, which has now been correctly laced-up. The dress is a bold shade of magenta — unlike the delicate, light peach of Abigail's gown — and has more petal-like sleeves. She might not believe it herself, but Jemima looks stunning. Madame Delacroix leads her to the podium with her own sense of pride over her work.