Free Anne Barbour by Step in Time Page B

how to dance the minuet, or whatever was in vogue right now. Was the waltz in yet? She could probably manage that, but anything that involved changing partners and dosey-doe-ing, or whatever, would be far beyond her.
    On the other hand, she had already decided to receive visitors this afternoon, so by the time the day of the ball arrived, she would either have been accepted as the young Amanda, or she would be considered a candidate for the looney bin. She’d better get herself back to the Bridge ménage for some serious coaching. She thought for a moment before straightening her shoulders.
    “Of course. I plan to go to the rout. Mama would be seriously disappointed if I did not. I’ll just have to manage, somehow.”
    * * * *
    Sometime later, Amanda stood in her room facing Hutchings, whom she had just summoned to her presence.
    “Hutchings.” she began, “it is time to rally round your poor demented mistress. I am scheduled to make a personal appearance this afternoon in the drawing room. Where, so Mama informs me, I shall be receiving visitors. I need your help.” She continued hastily in response to Hutchings’ unpromising stare. “My memory is still among the missing, and if I am not to make a complete fool of myself, to say nothing of Mama and Lord Ashindon, I need some serious coaching.”
    “I see,” said Hutchings slowly. “You want me to tell you the names of your friends?”
    “Yes. I am going to limp along with my tale of a bump on the head and my subsequent loss of memory, which, I devoutly hope, will help explain most of my lapses, and I figured that if you could provide me with descriptions, personal habits, and that sort of thing, I might be able to muddle through.”
    “I’ll try, miss,” said Hutchings dubiously. “First, there is Charlotte Twining.”
    Amanda frowned. “That name sounds familiar. Oh—is she the one I’m feuding with?”
    “Yes. Two weeks ago, the Viscount Glendenning danced twice with you at Lady Beveridge’s ball and only once with her. She is your age, a little taller than you. She is a blonde, too, but her hair is lighter—and frizzier, and she is not nearly so pretty as you.
    “Your next best friend is Cordelia Fordham. She is plump and has a long pink-tipped nose that makes her look a little bit like a nice white rat. She thinks you are quite wonderful, and in her eyes you can do no wrong. You and she shared a drawing master last year and Miss Cordelia fancied herself in love with him. Her mama and papa, of course ...”
    The lesson went on at length, until Hutchings, glancing at Amanda’s bedside clock, declared it was time for her mistress to dress for luncheon.
    Amanda had decided by now that if she truly had the designing of her own fantasy, she would have eliminated the necessity of being dressed by another person. She found the whole process distasteful in the extreme, even given the fact that the gowns she wore were apparently fashioned so that one could not possibly climb into them alone. Each had a number of fastenings, mostly in the back and mostly inaccessible.
    Hutchings helped to choose a gown of pomona green French cambric. It had short puffed sleeves, as did most of her garments, and was lavishly embroidered in a floral motif. When she was dressed, Hutchings, perhaps feeling that her mistress needed additional fortifying, devised yet another hairstyle, this time parting Amanda’s hair smoothly in the middle and allowing a cascade of curls to fall on either side of her ears.
    “There, miss, if you don’t look a treat,” breathed Hutchings worshipfully. Amanda thought the hairstyle made her look like a simpering Victorian, but forbore to mention this, particularly since the phrase would mean nothing to Hutchings. Aside from that, she was forced to admit once more that this new Amanda was an absolute knockout. The color of the gown brought out the satiny cream color of her skin, and her curves were artfully delineated by its slim design.
    “Tell