The Penwyth Bride (The Witch's Daughter Book 1) by Ani Bolton Page A

paste for my hair.”
    “Ah-hm?”
    The fingers stirred again.
    “And a few gowns,” I finished.
    Lady Penwyth smiled. “My sister is thoughtful,” she said, delicately plucking another bead from the box.
    I felt it prudent to nod and focus my attention back to the tray before me. I did not want to say that the box had been Sarah Eames’ way of hinting that I should exert myself socially.
    “In the summer months here those with property are too busy with harvest to have much time for anything more elaborate than a card party,” Lady Penwyth continued. “But in the fall there is a subscription assembly at St. Ives, and many other delightful occasions to celebrate hunting season, so you may not have to wait long to open your tin of powder yet.”
I murmured indistinguishably and ignored the familiar lunge of dread in my chest.
    Lady Penwyth licked the tip of her needle and picked up another bead.
    “Damon has returned from his engagement in Hayle,” she said. “So perhaps we shall see one of your new gowns tonight at family supper.”
    Beads soared through the air as I knocked the box over. With apologies I clumsily knelt on the carpet to scoop up the tiny colored globes scattering like rainbow mercury, biting my lip at the hours of work wasted.
    “Never mind, Miss Eames,” Lady Penwyth sighed wearily. “I’ll ring for Nanny.”
    ###
    It had been seven days since Lady Penwyth had asked Jenny to maid me; now she scratched on my chamber’s door and bade me let her enter.
    Since it was never my habit to question anyone, even a servant, I let her in without comment on her absence.
    In any case I was beginning to wonder how I would dress for family supper, eyeing a particularly complicated frock that Sarah Eames had sent from London. The ice-blue color could only be achieved by a careful wash of indigo dye and would need to be sponged rather than scrubbed in a tub. The frock’s alarmingly low-cut stomacher was embroidered with seed-pearls that snagged the lace fall edging the elbow-length sleeves, and the petticoat, bucked and starched until it was as stiff as a sheaf of hay, would be certain to bang against my bad foot instead of swishing easily.
    “A fine dress, miss,” Jenny said to me as she shook out the folds. A trace of envy ghosted across her porcelain face, and her cornflower blue eyes, lashed thickly with a black fringe, caressed the fabric. “The cloth be so light.”
    “It is French cambric,” I answered, allowing her to stroke the sleeve. When would she ever wear such a thing? I could not deny the girl, born in a cottage instead of a house, the brief pleasure.
    “French cambric,” she repeated carefully, tasting the syllables on her tongue. “Mistress don’t have cambric among her things, I know. Nor Miss Susannah. Be it a new fashion?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know.”
    “And this?” She held up a buffon, woven with gossamer threads that sparkled in the waning sunlight. I explained that the scarf was to wrap about my neck and bust, for I did not like the display that the low-cut stomacher afforded my breasts.
    A touch of scorn, swiftly veiled, quirked her mouth. Jenny might never hesitate to use any weapon at hand against a man, but I was not so bold.
    “And what be this?” she asked, pointing to Pretty Peter in his cage. “I never seen an animal kept indoors except for rattailed spaniels. Another fashion?”
    “Of a sort. Canary birds are kept for their song, but I don’t know how fashionable the practice is.”
    She asked me a few more questions about the fripperies coming out of my London-box. I answered her questions readily, feeling no annoyance. Jenny plainly hungered to learn about life above stairs. I saw in her the flame of envy, the kind that had driven my mother toward her excesses and her successes.
    A wave of sympathy for the girl doomed to drudgery rose in me.
    She caught it and returned an unpleasantly mocking smile as if it were I who should be pitied. Deftly she