Even as she thought it there was a light knock on the door. Ralph strode over to it and opened it halfway while Chloe raised the bedcovers to her chin—though much good they did stopping there.
“Chloe is not in her room or anywhere downstairs, Ralph.” It was Sarah, Mrs. Toucher’s, voice. “Is she in here, by any chance?”
“Of course she is in here,” he said. “She is my wife.”
“Yes, we all know that,” Sarah said. “You married her without any fuss or bluster, which, in my wayward opinion, was very sensible of you. Large weddings are an abomination. Is she . . . all right?”
“And why would she not be?” he asked. “I am not a monster. I have not been beating her.”
“He is being deliberately obtuse, Sarah.” Oh, goodness, Great-Aunt Mary was out there too. “Did she cut it off herself, Ralph? Made a mess of it, did she, and is ashamed to show her face—or, rather, her head? Oh, let us in, boy. That pirate’s face of yours does not make me quake in my slippers.”
“How did you know?” he asked, holding his ground while Chloe prepared to dive beneath the bedcovers.
“How did we know?” his great-aunt asked rhetorically. “I daresay the whole world knows. Who sent for a servant at close to midnight to sweep up the hair? If it was you, my boy, and you wished to keep the matter a secret, then you made a great tactical blunder. It is a good thing you were never promoted to general.”
“Besides, Ralph,” another voice said—the dowager duchess’s—“it cannot be kept secret for long, can it? Is dear Chloe all right?”
Chloe flung back the covers, got out of bed, and stalked down the steps and over to the door, which she pulled from Ralph’s hand and flung wide.
“I look a fright,” she said.
And, oh dear, there were six of them outside the door. Lady Trentham and Lady Ponsonby were there too. So was a wide-eyed Lucy. And Great-Aunt Mary already had her lorgnette to her eyes.
“I cannot in all good conscience contradict you on that, girl,” she said.
“Chlow, how could you!” Lucy cried. “All my life I would have given anything to have your hair instead of my own.”
“Come, Chloe,” the dowager said kindly, “we will take you to your own room and ring for Bunker. She will help you dress and make you feel a great deal better than you are feeling now. And we will discuss what is to be done about your hair. Seven of us plus Bunker will surely be able to solve one little problem.”
Little.
“Run along, Ralph,” Great-Aunt Mary said, waving her lorgnette dismissively in his direction. “You are not needed. Men rarely are when there are important matters under consideration.”
And he ran along, or at least he did not argue or try to follow as Chloe was borne off on a tide of ladies.
At least they did not ask her why she had done it. They kept their minds upon finding a practical solution to the world’s worst haircut. Miss Bunker was not much help except as a calming influence. She looked upon Chloe as though there were nothing different or unusual about her as she helped her into one of her black dresses and brushed what little hair she had left. She made no suggestions about repairing the damage, but that was hardly surprising since everyone else was making them instead.
Lady Trentham ended the discussion by offering up her own maid.
“I have a very good hairdresser in London,” she explained, “but it would take several days to summon him here. When I am not in town, my maid trims my hair and really does just as good a job of it as Mr. Welland though she does not have his prestige. Will you trust your hair to her, Duchess?”
“Oh, call me Chloe, please,” Chloe said. “I keep looking at Grandmama when I am addressed as duchess.”
“Then you must call me Gwen,” Lady Trentham said. “I will summon my maid, shall I?”
Gwen had short blond hair, very prettily curled. Chloe nodded.
“Please,” she said.
“You are fortunate enough to have thick hair, Chloe,” Viscountess Ponsonby observed. “And it has a natural wave. I believe it will look very becoming when it has been properly styled. And please call me Agnes.”
“But it was so beautiful as it was, Chlow,” Lucy said mournfully. “I can remember how all the gentlemen used to follow you with their eyes the few times I walked with you in Hyde Park during that Season when I was seventeen and Mama would not let me make my come-out with you. I was mortally jealous. Until I met Freddie, that is.”
She said no more. Great-Aunt Mary had swung her lorgnette her way.
Gwen, Sarah, and Agnes remained with Chloe while the repairs were being made. Miss Bunker had left earlier, and the older ladies went down for their breakfast, taking Lucy with them. She actually looked rather gratified when Great-Aunt Mary took her arm and informed her that since she was young and strong she might as well make herself useful.
Gwen’s maid looked critically at Chloe’s hair and ran her fingers through it after she had been told that she had carte blanche to do with it what she thought best, provided it ended up looking better than it did now. Not that that would be a difficult task. Then she set to work with her scissors while the other ladies watched.
“Lady Darleigh has red hair too,” Agnes said, “though not as red as yours, Chloe. Hers is more auburn. She cut it off too, long ago when she was a girl. She has grown it back since she married Lord Darleigh last year. She was a thin, shorn little waif when I first met her shortly after their wedding. She is pretty and dainty now. They are very happy, I believe. No—I know.”