Chapter Three
“Stop scratching!” Georgina said.
Eleanor lowered her hand. “This wig is making my forehead itch,” she said calmly.
“Yes, but if Cecil wears wigs, he’ll be used to it. Now put on the spectacles.”
She handed the round-framed spectacles over, and Eleanor perched them on her nose. The lenses magnified everything slightly, giving the world a strange slant. She squinted at the round table in front of her, then at the oak bookcases across from her, then at Georgina, who was dressed in fine wool and looking off-kilter.
“You can’t peer at everything like that. You look about sixty. You’re supposed to be a young man.”
Eleanor adjusted the spectacles, but that only made it worse. They were squeezing her skull like some sort of medieval torture device. “Young men don’t wear wigs.”
“A somewhat eccentric young man,” Georgina corrected.
There was a tap on the door, and Robert poked his head in. He blinked when he saw his sister in a man’s wig and spectacles. “Cecil,” he said, peering at her. “Is that you? I’m delighted.”
Georgina laughed, and Eleanor rolled her eyes.
“Do you have the clothes?” she asked.
He pushed open the door to reveal the bundle of garments he carried. “I gave the servants the rest of the day off, so you are at your leisure to walk about in men’s clothing for as long as you want. My tailor was a bit confused when I gave him a request for these measurements, but he didn’t ask questions.”
Robert began to lay out the clothes on the settee—a snowy linen shirt, a blue waistcoat and black coat, a cravat, dark breeches with white stockings, and black dress shoes. He bowed as though he was a valet presenting clothes to his master, and then left to give them privacy.
“I think Robert is starting to enjoy this too much,” Eleanor muttered.
She held up the breeches and eyed them with trepidation.
Georgina shrugged. “It can’t be that difficult, if men do it every day.”
Her sister was correct—it wasn’t all that difficult. Luckily, Eleanor had small breasts, and they weren’t noticeable at all once she bound them and slipped into the waistcoat. She straightened, fully dressed in men’s garments, which felt quite strange, and then stared at the cravat clutched in her hands.
Georgina matched her quizzical glance.
Everything else had been self-explanatory…this part was indecipherable. Why did men wear these contraptions? They didn’t serve any purpose, at all, except to make one’s throat look festive.
“I think we need help.”
Georgina’s footsteps faded as she left to fetch Robert, and then two sets grew louder a few moments later. Robert pushed into the room first. Stopped. Stared.
A flash of unease went through her. “Is it all right?”
“It’s perfect!” Georgina assured her. “You look just like a Cecil.”
“Don’t tell her that,” Robert said. “That’s an insult.”
“You’ll have to work on your voice, though. It’s decidedly feminine.”
“Try to deepen it when you talk.”
She lowered her voice. “How about this?”
The effect must not have been good because both of her siblings laughed heartily. It was discouraging, to say the least.
“Well,” Georgina said when she caught her breath. “You have a few days to practice.”
Robert took the cravat from Eleanor, wrapped it around her neck, and showed her a simple way to tie it. “This is called the horse collar tie.”
“Men have names for the way they tie their cravat?”
“We have names for everything. The more fashionable might look down on this style, but you’re already wearing a wig, so I doubt it matters very much. You only need to be passable.”
She frowned down at his quick hands, thinking that, simple and unfashionable or not, she’d need to see it done a few more times before she figured it out. Who knew cravats were such a nuisance?
“Now walk across the room,” Georgina said.
She twisted her neck to stare at her sister. “Pardon me?”
“Men and women walk differently,” she explained. “Women tend to be more flowing, while men are more purposeful.”
“Er…I suppose,” Eleanor said.
“She’s right,” Robert put in. “Haven’t you noticed?”
“No. I thought everyone walked the same way.”
“That’s because you’re oblivious to anything that doesn’t crawl,” George said wisely.
“I’m not obliv—” Her words were cut off when Robert gave her a gentle push toward the center of the room.
With a huff, she walked to the window, turned, and walked back. “Well, how was that?”
Georgina and Robert looked at each other, communicating with raised eyebrows. It was entirely too annoying. “You don’t need to work on that,” her sister finally said.
“Are you…” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you saying I naturally walk like a man?”
“Not necessarily. Women are taught how to walk a certain way, and you just never learned, I suppose. It’s probably because you’re always caught up in your mind, thinking about your beetles. You don’t have time to flow.”
“They are not my beetles.” She didn’t really think it was important to walk a certain way, but she was a bit insulted that her siblings thought her walk was mannish. She’d simply thought she walked like herself.
“The world’s beetles. Nature’s delightful little monsters,” Robert said. “Whatever you call them.”
“They are not monsters. They are quite fascinating insects.”
“I’ll take your word on that.”
“So, truly,” George cut in, “your voice is the only thing you need to practice. Other than that, you are the embodiment of Cecil Townsend.” She picked up a looking glass from the table and pressed it into Eleanor’s hands.
Eleanor took a deep, uncertain breath, and then looked at her reflection. It was an odd thing, like two sides of the same coin. Eleanor and Cecil. Cecil and Eleanor. Her small, sharp nose was the same, the slope of her chin, her thin lips, and wide-set eyes. Behind the glass of the spectacles, one could only tell that her eyes were brown, but they couldn’t identify the exact shade of warm brown flecked with amber, or note the long, feminine lashes.
The tightly curled, powdered wig covered her hair completely, making her look about ten years older than she was, turning her face sallow.
In individual pieces, she saw herself. Together, as a whole, she saw someone else. Someone who was both familiar and not.
She saw a man—neither handsome nor unhandsome. Nondescript. Plain. About average in height. Smallish build. The quiet kind of man who wouldn’t draw too much attention.
Her heart surged, and for the first time since she’d agreed to it, she was actually convinced it would work.
She could continue writing as Cecil. She could present her talk as Cecil, maybe multiple talks, and no one would be the wiser.
She handed the looking glass back to her sister and made an attempt at deepening her voice. “What a lovely day it is!” The words erupted in a husky snarl.
Robert arched his eyebrow. “Do you wish to sound like you’ve just swallowed a lit cheroot?”
She sighed. “I’ll practice.”
She was far too close to victory to give up now.