The Copeland Bride

Начало книги

"Noelle, ma petite, if we just hang on a bit longer, things will get better, you'll see."

Daisy Dorian was sitting at her cluttered dressing table carefully brushing into fashionable disarray the short blond ringlets that curled too youthfully around her face. With her littlest fingers she touched her lips lightly with coral and then, satisfied with the result, pouted prettily into the mirror.

The seven-year-old child sitting nearby gazed at her mother. She knew she had never seen anyone so beautiful. She did not notice the lines at the corners of Daisy's blue eyes or the puffiness under her chin, nor did she realize that the blond curls were a shade less bright and the upper arms a touch less firm than they had been. More than anything, Noelle wanted to look like her mother when she grew up.

"La bonne chance is finally going to smile on us," Daisy concluded. "Why, just today I overheard Mr. Lackland discussing the casting for Hamlet. I tell you, Noelle, he looked quite hard at me when he was discussing Ophelia."

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