Free A Perfect Likeness by Sandra Heath

evidently little used, for although the walls visible from the landing were freshly decorated and hung with small, colorful paintings, when she had the temerity to descend them a short way she noticed immediately that the walls were in need of a coat of paint, and there were damp patches here and there, evidently from the rather uncertain plumbing in the bathhouse above. Guests were not expected to use this staircase, and where guests did not go, there was no need for show.
    The bath was the very thing, making her feel a great deal better. She was glad to dispose of the clothes she had traveled in and put on a fresh pink-and-white-striped dress. Afterward, as she walked back along the gallery to her rooms, she looked down into the quadrangle and saw a gleaming carriage emerging from the arched gateway in the wall by the conservatory. Drawn by a team of perfectly matched chestnuts, it crossed the cobbles to the porch, and as it swayed to a standstill the steward emerged as if by magic to fling open the door and lower the rungs for the sole occupant to alight.
    Bryony found herself gazing down at the Duchess of Calborough, a tall woman whose rather tight-lipped face was dominated by a long, questing nose. She was very slender, although that was not because she had looked after her figure but rather because she was so thin that she had no figure to lose. Her back was as straight as a rod and she held her head high, looking very regal and striking in a bottle-green pelisse and a black hat from which sprang a flouncy plume.
    Her son and daughter bore no resemblance whatsoever to her, thought Bryony, and must therefore take after their late father, the fourth duke. She felt something akin to dismay as she watched the duchess glance coldly around the quadrangle and then proceed into the house, for there was something about that haughty expression and stiff manner which suggested that everything Delphine had said of her mother was true, and that did not bode well for the future Lady Sheringham, of whom the duchess could hardly approve, especially since the business of the letter from Anthony Carmichael.
    Bryony did not have long to wait before being summoned to the presence. A footman led her through the house to the great drawing room, which, being at Gothic Polwithiel, was known as the solar. It was another baronial room, this time with a splendid oriel window high in the north wall, but Bryony did not have time to inspect her surroundings; she could only look at the upright, rather intimidating figure seated upon a sofa close to the immense fireplace. Bryony paused in the doorway, around which there were dark red velvet draperies, and then she slowly approached the sofa, at the last moment sinking into what she prayed was an elegant curtsy.
    “Hmm,” murmured the duchess, her pale blue eyes moving critically over her charge, “I suppose one must hope that appearances are deceptive, for when I look at you I fear that my misguided nephew is about to make a most monumental error. To be sure, I think he has lost his senses anyway, for he could have had virtually his pick of the daughters of the greatest families in the land. However, I have agreed to take you on, and I intend to do my duty, which duty begins with matters concerning your appearance. Does that wretched rag of a dress pass for high fashion in County Down? Yes, I suppose it probably does. Well, it won’t do here. Long trains are the thing at the moment, missy, but yours barely brushes the floor behind you, and as to those dreadful ringlets, well, they will simply have to go. Is that clear?”
    Bryony was shaken by the severity and dislike in the woman’s expression and words. “Y-yes, your grace,” she stammered, “it is quite clear.”
    “Good, then I trust that when we dine tonight you will appear with your coiffure looking a little more up to the mark, either cropped short or worn up in a Grecian knot. Either will do. As to the gown ... well, if you have