Seven Days Later

The note from Lady Nithsdale arrived as she had expected. Their neighbor would be calling this morning.

Jo asked Grace and her mother not to receive the woman, but rather to have a footman escort her ladyship up to her dressing room where a seamstress and Anna were putting the final touches on her wedding dress.

She didn’t have long to wait. Anna spotted the Nithsdales’ carriage coming along the drive.

Jo stared at her own reflection in the mirror. The short-sleeve pleated silver dress, embroidered with pearls, was costly in both materials and labor, but her mother had insisted on it. She’d made it known that Jo was her first daughter to marry, and she would have the most elegant dress imaginable, just as she deserved.

Wynne, too, made it clear to everyone that he wanted Jo to enjoy every aspect of preparing for this ceremony, even though they were already married. He wanted the whole world to know about their happiness. He’d gone so far as to have an official wedding announcement printed in all of the London and Edinburgh newspapers, naming the Earl of Aytoun and Mr. Charles Barton as the fathers of the bride, in addition to mentioning the rest of the family.

A few moments later, Lady Nithsdale was announced.

Jo took a second glance in the mirror, surprised at the serenity in her expression. She recalled all the times over the years when she’d feel sick to her stomach in this woman’s company. Lady Nithsdale had made a long career of conveying Jo’s personal history, true or invented, to whomever she could find to listen. She’d never looked forward to receiving Lady Nithsdale, but had borne it with stoic civility.

She nodded to Anna to let her in.

Lady Nithsdale barreled into the room with the grace of an old bull. Stopping short a foot from Jo, she gasped at the sight of the dress. In her usual false show of familiarity, she placed a kiss on each of Jo’s cheeks.

“And here you are, my dearest.” She stood back to admire the gown again. “Stunning. Regal. Absolutely fitting. You are the picture of the angel that you are. And what a shocking development, finding your natural father after all these years. Shocking. Shocking, indeed!”

Clearly, to Lady Nithsdale, she was beloved by Jo. They were the closest of friends and it suited her to be complimentary at this moment.

“I want to hear every detail of what happened in the Highlands. Especially, you must tell me all about you and Captain Melfort. Together again. Astonishing. A second chance at romance after all these years.”

She motioned to the servants to remove the fabrics and tools from a nearby chair so she could sit, and looked surprised when Jo shook her head and asked the women to go.

“Shall we be taking tea downstairs with the Viscountess Greysteil and Lady Aytoun?” she asked after they were left to themselves.

“My apologies, but my family is not receiving callers today.”

“Of course, dearest. You need to prepare. All of you. Only three days left to the wedding of the year. And only four days to the Summer Ball. Such exciting times for us here!”

Jo knew the true reason why this woman was here, and it certainly had nothing to do with taking tea or admiring a wedding dress.

Lady Nithsdale considered herself a Londoner, and lived for the wit and gossip of the clubs and salons and theatres and pleasure gardens. Then, when the fashionable crowd moved on, she followed for a month in Bath before her annual pilgrimage to the Borders in May and June. The only reason she came was because she would never dream of missing the ball at Baronsford. Jo had heard her say it a dozen times. The crowd that attended included many from Britain’s highest echelon, and Lady Nithsdale could sail about amongst them as if she herself were hostess.

And of course, many who would be attending the ball had also been invited to come to the wedding the day before.

“I should be home preparing as well, but first I thought I would enquire about our lost invitation.”

“Lost invitation?” Jo asked, trying to sound surprised.

“Why, yes,” the woman replied shrilly. “I blamed the servants for having lost it. But Lord Nithsdale said he believed no invitation had arrived. But I told him that Lady Jo will never, never, forget her oldest and dearest friends on the most important day of her life. Us. Those closest to her. Those who have known her since the first day she arrived at Baronsford. And he said to me it wasn’t only the wedding we were not invited to, we’d also received no invitation for the ball!”

“You weren’t invited to the ball?” Jo asked mildly, finding it amusing that her sister-in-law Grace—while making certain Wynne’s brother Sir John and his wife were included on the guest list—had crossed out some names as well.

“Exactly. Can you imagine? The Earl and Countess Nithsdale not being asked to the Baronsford Ball? I laughed right out loud at the idea. Can you imagine?”

Jo brushed away an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve. “Yes, I can imagine.”

“Imagine what?” The woman’s shrewd eyes narrowed.

“There is no mistake. No invitation. It means that you and Lord Nithsdale have not been asked to attend either event.”

“You’re saying . . .” Deep red blotches appeared on Lady Nithsdale’s face. “I am appalled! We’re neighbors. Friends!”

“You, m’lady, are a challenge,” Jo said calmly. “And we are certainly not friends.”

She would have been satisfied if Lady Nithsdale had chosen to flee at this moment and spared both of them further discussion. But the woman was, unfortunately, too accustomed to the polite and reasonable Jo she’d been maligning and bullying for decades.

“You had better reconsider your actions very carefully, young lady,” she said coldly, making her threat clear. “I could ruin you. It would be so easy. So tread lightly at this moment. Consider, if you will, what your other guests would think if I am not present to—”

“Pray allow me to tell you what the friends that we have invited to these events will think,” Jo said, cutting her off. “They’ll be grateful they’ve been spared the company of a loud, pushy, intolerant woman and her husband. They’ll be relieved, for they will not need to listen to your malicious gossip, your sharp tongue, your arrogance, your bold and unceasing interference.”

The woman’s mouth hung open as she searched for a response, but Jo was not finished.

“People I think of as friends, Lady Nithsdale, are tired of seeing the pleasure you take in besmirching a faultless reputation or running down something of value with no regard for the truth or for decency. Now, would you care to hear more on this subject, or have I made myself clear enough?”

Lady Nithsdale’s face had lost all color, but she managed to close her mouth. When she dropped a curtsy and fled the room, Jo watched her go with no small feeling of surprise. Her ladyship had surrendered the field.

Turning back to the mirror, she examined the expression on her own face. Relieved. Satisfied. In control. Strong. She liked the person she’d become.

And after sixteen years, she’d finally found the right words to say.