“I don’t need that,” Garrett said irritably.

“Yes, you do.”

“I’m not weeping.”

“No. But you have pencil shavings on your forehead.” Although Havelock’s face was expressionless, he couldn’t quite keep the hint of satisfaction from his tone.

Chapter 10

No fairy godmother could have been more efficient than Lady Helen Winterborne, who had thrown herself enthusiastically into the project of making Garrett ready for the soiree. She had enlisted the store’s chief dressmaker, Mrs. Allenby, to alter a new dress she hadn’t yet worn, and refused to allow Garrett to pay for it. “You’ve done so much for me and my family,” Helen had insisted. “Don’t deprive me of the enjoyment of doing something for you in return. I intend to outfit you in a dress that does you justice.”

Now, on the evening of the event, Garrett sat at the vanity in Helen’s spacious dressing room. Helen had asked her own lady’s maid to arrange Garrett’s hair.

Unlike many lady’s maids who affected gallic names and accents to please their employers, Pauline was actually French. She was an attractive woman of middling height—broomstick thin, with the keen, world-weary eyes of someone who had, at an earlier time in her life, endured hard experience. As Garrett conversed with her in French, Pauline relayed that as a girl she had been a Parisian seamstress, and had nearly starved to death while working eighteen-hour days sewing slop-shirts. A small bequest from a deceased cousin had enabled her to move to London and find work as a housemaid, and eventually become trained for the position of lady’s maid.

To Pauline, the preparations for an evening out were a serious undertaking. After scrutinizing Garrett thoroughly, she picked up a pair of tweezers, used two fingers to stretch the skin of Garrett’s brow, and began to pluck.

Garrett flinched at each little sting of uprooted hair. “Is this necessary?”

“Oui.” Pauline continued to pluck.

“Aren’t they thin enough already?”

“They’re caterpillars,” Pauline replied, wielding the tweezers mercilessly.

Helen intervened in a soothing tone. “Pauline is only removing a few stray hairs, Garrett. She does the same for me.”

Regarding Helen’s sleek, fine brows, the tips ending in precise points, Garrett subsided uneasily. When the unruly brows had been deemed sufficiently tamed, Pauline used a soft-bristled brush to dust a fine veil of pearl powder over her face, giving it a satiny, even finish.

Garrett frowned as she watched Pauline set a pair of curling tongs over a spirit lamp in a wrought-iron base. “What are you planning to do with those? I can’t wear my hair in curls. I’m a doctor.”

Ignoring her, Pauline divided her hair into pinned-up sections, brushed out a long lock, and folded a curling paper around it. A waft of steam rose as she skillfully wrapped the hair around the tongs. Garrett held deathly still, fearing any sudden movement might result in scorch marks on her forehead. After approximately ten seconds, Pauline slid out the tongs and removed the paper.

Garrett blanched as she beheld the long corkscrew-shaped curl. “Dear God. You’re going to make me look like Marie Antoinette.”

“I think I’ll ring for some wine,” Helen said brightly, and hurried to the bellpull.

Pauline proceeded to turn every lock of hair on Garrett’s head into a bouncy spiral, while Helen distracted her with conversation. As the clock struck eight, Helen’s little half-sister Carys came into the room. The six-year-old was dressed in a ruffled white nightgown, her fine blond hair twirled around strips of calico that had been tied into little bundles on her head.

Reaching out with careful fingers to touch one of the long curls, Carys asked, “Are you going to a ball?”

“A soiree, actually.”

“What is that?”

“A formal evening with music and refreshments.”

Carys moved to sit on her older sister’s knee. “Helen,” she asked earnestly, “do Prince Charmings go to soirees?”

Sliding her arms around the child, Helen cuddled her close. “Sometimes they do, darling. Why do you ask?”

“Because Dr. Gibson hasn’t caught a husband yet.”

Garrett laughed. “Carys, I would rather catch a cold than a husband. I have no wish to marry anyone.”

Carys gave her a wise glance. “You will when you’re older.”

Helen buried a smile amid the little rag-curl bundles on the child’s head.

Pauline turned Garrett’s chair to face away from the vanity mirror, and began to pin her hair up section by section. She used a fine-toothed comb to tease and texture the roots of each curl before twisting and pinning it into place. “C’est finie,” she finally pronounced, and handed Garrett a hand mirror so she could view both the front and back.

To Garrett’s pleased surprise, the coiffure was lovely. The front had been left in gentle waves, with a few loose tendrils at the hairline. The rest had been formed into a soft coronet of loops and curls at the top of her head, leaving her neck and ears exposed. As a finishing touch, Pauline had inserted a few hairpins tipped with clear glass beads that glittered among the upswept locks.

“Not Marie Antoinette?” Pauline asked, looking smug.

“No, indeed,” Garrett said with an abashed grin. “Merci, Pauline. You’ve done a magnificent job. Tu es artiste.”

With great care, the lady’s maid helped Garrett into an elegant dress of pale blue-green silk with a transparent shimmering overlay. The gown needed little ornamentation other than a “fraise” trim, a thin froth of ruffle at the neckline. The skirts were drawn back to reveal the shape of her waist and hips, with the excess folds and draperies flowing gracefully to the floor. It concerned Garrett that the bodice was cut so low, although both Helen and Pauline assured her that it was by no means improper. The sleeves were little more than gauzy puffs through which her shoulders and arms could easily be seen. Carefully lifting the hem of the skirts, she stepped into heeled evening slippers covered in blue silk and sewn with glittering crystal beads.

Garrett went to the full-length looking glass, and her eyes widened as she beheld this new version of herself. How odd it felt to be dressed in something light, glimmering, and luxurious, the skin of her throat and chest and arms exposed. Was she making a mistake, going out like this?

“Do I look foolish?” she asked uncertainly. “Is this unseemly?”

“My goodness, no,” Helen said earnestly. “I’ve never seen you look so beautiful. You’re . . . prose that’s turned into poetry. Why would you worry about appearing foolish?”

“When I’m dressed like this, people will say I don’t look like a doctor.” Garrett paused before continuing wryly. “On the other hand, they already say that, even when I’m wearing a surgeon’s cap and gown.”

Carys, who was playing with the left-over glass beads on the vanity table, volunteered innocently, “You’ve always looked like a doctor to me.”

Helen smiled at her little sister. “Did you know, Carys, that Dr. Gibson is the only lady doctor in England?”

Carys shook her head, regarding Garrett with round-eyed interest. “Why aren’t there others?”