Free Red Jack's Daughter by Edith Layton

“you see, it isn’t the thing at all.”
    It was not at all the thing for a demure young miss, he thought as he stared at her in the full light of the window. A whole spectrum of shades of hair were acceptable. Despite the fact that brunettes were in fashion this year, blondes w ere classic English beauties, and raven-haired lovelies were envied , there was yet enough latitude so that light-brown hair inspired poets. Even so, Jessica’s hair was not in style. For as he stood and looked at her, he saw masses of bright deep -red hair falling to her shoulders. Where shadows touched it, it was a dark living auburn; where sun struck it, it sparked blazing fire. It was neither carroty nor a ginger color; rather it was a true and startlingly distinct red.
    Cousin Cribb, whoever that gentleman was, Lord Leith thought, had been right. It was the hallmark of a courtesan or an a ctress. To have such blatantly colored tresses was undeni ably exceptional. To even be a redheaded person was thought in some way to be either sinister or strange, as if one were left -handed. There were still some rural places where to enc ounter a redhead was considered good luck; in others it w a s deemed bad fortune. Nowhere was it ignored. And, yes, h e thought, nowhere was it fashionable.
    Yet to see her standing there, wreathed around with that startling m ass of hair, was to be enchanted. For the color gave life to her face and brought the hidden fox fire in her ryes to blazing light. Even Lady Grantham was affected. She left off reading a most satisfactory missive addressed to Lady Franklin , requesting overdue bills be paid, to gape at Jessica.
    Lord Leith gave up his own reflections, to put up a hand to stop Jessica from braiding it up again. “No, leave it. It is lovely,” he said, unthinking.
    Jessica seemed to, shrink back at his words and at what she caught a glimpse of in his unguarded face.
    “It is,” he said, recovering his bland, amused expression, “certainly unusual, and yes, you are right, not quite fashionable. But don’t say you are suddenly concerned with being at the peak of fashion, and only after being in one of Madame Ce leste’s frocks for the space of minutes?”
    “But I don’t want to appear frivolous,” she said, looking a t him with trust again, “or spectacular, or as one who is trying to attract attention to myself.”
    Or delicious, he thought, though he said calmly, “Of course not. But to hide it only calls more attention to it. The best tactic, I think,” he said reasonably, “is to simply live with it. For what you cannot hide, you must accept. After all, I cannot say that being tall as a treetop is the most comfortable way to go through life, but if I were to slouch o r creep, I would look very strange indeed.”
    Jessica laughed a little at the thought of this imperio us gentleman crouching, and he said bracingly, “Come, we’ll le t the good Madame Celeste design some clothes that will suit and perhaps Aunt’s maid can style your hair in som e unobtrusive fashion, and we can forget the whole of it. ”
    “Forget?” Lady Grantham said, startled into speech . “Are your wits begging, Nephew? Why, she’ll be a sensation.”
    “No,” he said, giving his aunt a look of such force that she shrank backward. “Not at all. She will only look unexceptional.”
    Understanding came to his aunt and she only nodded.
    “You see,” Jessica said, “I don’t wish to be sensational In fact”—she laughed a little shakenly—“I recall when I was fourteen I concocted a brew that the apothecary book promised would turn my hair dark. And so it did. I was delighted . But each morning my pillow was a bit blacker, and after I combed it, little bits of soot kept falling. After a week Cook said I looked like a tortoiseshell cat. And so I did. Then is no way that the color could stay, you see,” she confided i n her husky voice.
    “Well I know it,” Lady Grantham said ruefully, remembering the results of one