A Touch of Elegance
The next day, Anastasia was invited once more to share his breakfast.
As if she had known all along, Natasha drew from the wardrobe another new dress Anastasia had never seen and dressed her in it. Having noticed that Anastasia disliked anything that left her throat bare, Natasha chose only garments that buttoned modestly just below the neck and covered the arms completely.
When Anastasia cast a look of quiet protest toward the shawl she had folded the day before, Natasha snatched it up at once, opened the door, and thrust it into the hands of a passing maid.
“This has a stain on it. It needs washing—see to it, will you?”
Had there really been a stain? Anastasia was certain none had been there when she folded it. All she could know for sure was that today she would not be allowed the shawl.
Natasha did not stop at choosing clothes.
“Miss, would you sit here a moment? I’ll do your hair afresh.”
She guided Anastasia to the vanity that had appeared in the room only a few days earlier. When Natasha returned with a large comb and ribbons of many colors, Anastasia waved her hands in refusal.
“I’m fine, really. Just…”
She meant to say she would comb it herself, but Natasha spoke first.
“Doesn’t your hair get in the way when you eat?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“If we pin it up neatly, you’ll be able to enjoy your meal far more comfortably. I think Master Mikhail would like it as well.”
At the mention of Mikhail’s name, Anastasia’s hands slowly lowered.
“Do you… think so?”
“Of course! Just stay still. I’ll have it done in no time.”
Natasha had already grasped that her young mistress obeyed every suggestion that involved Mikhail. She had deliberately brought up his name. Exactly as she expected, Anastasia’s resistance melted away.
Comb in hand, Natasha twisted the long hair upward and secured it with a slender wooden stick, then carefully began to comb the remaining lengths from the bottom. The hair she had washed clean the night before carried a pleasant fragrance.
As Natasha’s hands moved, the tangles loosened. There was a slight natural wave, yet the strands were fine and smooth by nature. What troubled Natasha was how dry and brittle they had become from long years of poor nourishment. She set the comb aside, poured a little oil from a bottle on the vanity into her palm, and worked it gently through Anastasia’s hair. The dry strands quieted and took on a soft sheen.
While Natasha combed the now-manageable hair, Anastasia studied the surface of the vanity. Even the piece of furniture itself was a marvel to her; the array of objects meant for adorning a face was stranger still. She had never imagined such things. When she first learned their purpose, she had snatched her hands away as if she had touched a devil’s relic.
Yet after Natasha left the room, she had approached step by step and carefully opened the little boxes. Pretty dishes filled with powders in colors she had never seen, each releasing a scent like summer flowers gathered and crushed together.
Everything she had been taught said these were wicked tools of the devil, meant to lure men. But could something so evil truly be this beautiful? The scent of the oil Natasha was using filled the room—the brief, fleeting perfume of roses that summer sometimes allowed.
A flower of temptation that held people with its dense fragrance and color. The moment she understood that, Anastasia’s fingertips trembled.
Is this all right?
The thought that she was doing something wrong made her heart hammer. And yet… she did not want to stop Natasha. More precisely, she wanted to sit more neatly at Mikhail’s table. She wanted to look a little better in front of him.
She knew how wicked that desire was. To adorn oneself in order to please a man—according to her father’s teachings, according to the Count’s teachings, that was the behavior of vulgar women. Perhaps this was the lewdness whose meaning she still only half understood.
But…
Anastasia’s gaze moved between the vanity and Natasha, who was still patiently freeing the last knots. Natasha, quick to notice that her mistress wished to speak, paused at once.
“Is something the matter?”
“Those things… are they only for me?”
“Pardon?”
Natasha did not immediately grasp the intent and asked again. Anastasia, who had seemed ready to fall silent, gathered her courage.
“These—do Lady Elizabeth and Lady Catherine have them as well? Other people use them… don’t they?”
Even though they shared the Lauderdale name, Anastasia never failed to call the two girls “Lady” in front of others. Recalling everything she had observed of Anastasia’s manner, Natasha finally understood the anxiety beneath the question. She smiled gently.
“Of course. Every young lady of a noble house would have them.”
Relief washed over Anastasia’s face. Had the things been given to her alone, she would have refused them. But if Elizabeth and Catherine possessed them too, then surely they could not be sinful objects.
While Natasha returned to her careful work, Anastasia silently rehearsed everything she had learned the day before. Mikhail had taught her the names and proper order of every piece of cutlery, and because the table had been laden with so many dishes, she had been able to practice with them all. He had shown her not only how to use the utensils but every manner that belonged to each course.
Anastasia’s hands moved carefully in the empty air. As Natasha deftly arranged her hair, Anastasia committed yesterday’s lessons to memory again and again.
I don’t want to disappoint Master Mikhail.
No one had ever taught her so kindly. Everything she had learned before had been beaten into her or stolen by eavesdropping. Had anyone ever listened to her without anger and patiently shown her the way?
Even if Mikhail had not been kind at all, the simple fact of learning what she had never known would still have made her happy.
“Good morning, Master Mikhail. I hope you slept well.”
Anastasia inclined her head in a careful greeting—the one Natasha had taught her before she left the room. The man who had been seated on the sofa rose. Behind her she heard Natasha’s quiet departure.
She had expected him to guide her to a seat as he had yesterday, yet Mikhail remained standing before the sofa, simply looking at her. Under that gaze Anastasia lifted a hand to touch her hair.
Natasha had spent a long time on it. When at last she lowered her hands, Anastasia had stared into the vanity mirror in astonishment. A portion of her hair had been tightly braided and arranged like an ornament across the side of her head; the rest fell long and free. She looked like one of the noble young ladies she had occasionally glimpsed in paintings.
Never in her life had she adorned her hair this way. The face in the glass felt strange. And yet… she thought it pretty. Not herself, precisely—only the hair—but it was the first time she had ever thought any part of her body beautiful.
All the way here she had kept reaching up to touch it, even though Natasha had warned that handling it would spoil the style. Then she had met Igor in the corridor. He had spoken a greeting, yet answered only vaguely while staring at her so intently that sudden fear rose in her chest. Was it strange after all? Natasha had said it suited her…
The bright excitement of moments before drained swiftly into worry. And now, with Mikhail still silent, the anxiety grew heavier. When he offered no word at all, Anastasia’s hands flew up and tugged at the innocent braids.
“Do I look very strange?”
Her fingers were already prepared to undo Natasha’s careful work and return the hair to yesterday’s wild fall. Mikhail stepped forward at once.
“No. Not at all. Leave it as it is.”
He caught her hands gently and led her toward the table, drawing out a chair. Had he asked Natasha for advice? Anastasia carefully gathered her skirts, inclined her head in quiet thanks, and sat.
Only a single day had passed, yet she was showing him a new face. Mikhail’s eyes rested on the pale column of her throat, free of any shawl. Even a high collar could not hide it completely. The red hair, combed smooth with what must have been rose oil, gleamed richer and more beautiful than yesterday. And the meticulous braid that ornamented it…
Natasha, was it?
When Yury had brought servants from Sokolov, he had singled her out as sharp-eyed and capable, and Mikhail had assigned her to Anastasia. Yury’s judgment had been exact. Mikhail saw that the maid was carrying out his order to care for Anastasia with thoroughness. Before the day ended she would receive a generous reward for her efforts—very generous indeed.
The table was set much as it had been the day before. Anastasia unfolded the napkin exactly as Mikhail had taught her and laid it across her lap, then reached for the fork and knife.
I’ll have to start the lessons over from the beginning…
But as he watched her movements, Mikhail’s expression hardened. She was repeating every motion he had shown her yesterday with perfect precision—as though she had performed them for years.