No Conventional Miss. Eleanor Webster

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СКАЧАТЬ interrupted impatiently. ‘What is it, what do you want to say?’ Her voice took on a childish tone.

      ‘Well...’ Rilla tugged the brush through her hair.

      ‘You have some big-sisterly criticism. You disliked someone with whom I danced?’

      Rilla paused. ‘Jack St John, if you must know. He was obnoxious as a child and has not improved since. Julie says he gambles and drinks.’

      ‘Lud, every gentleman gambles and drinks. Even Father—’

      ‘I know. That’s why—’ Rilla stopped, gulping back her words. Imogene knew nothing of Father’s debts. Or Lockhart’s involvement. ‘I mean, I just think you should be wary. Be polite, but—keep him at arm’s length.’

      ‘Goodness, I only danced with him.’

      ‘And joined him for lemonade.’

      ‘Lud, how dreadful. What should be my punishment?’ Imogene had now abandoned all lassitude and sat bolt upright, her fingers working at the lace trim of the pillowcase.

      ‘Don’t be foolish. I am only worried for you.’

      ‘Foolish? May I remind you that I have been reading the Tatler for years? It is perhaps you who are foolish with your Greeks and...and butter churn.’

      ‘My churn? My churn has nothing to do with this. I just wanted to warn you.’

      ‘I don’t need your warnings.’

      ‘Obviously.’ Rilla pushed her hair back from her forehead and dropped the brush with a clatter on to the dressing table.

      What a mess. She should have known not to mention the matter while Imogene was both tired and excited from the ball. Likely she was still raw from that moment of nerves earlier. Besides, who was she worried for—Imogene or herself?

      Imogene had not been the subject of Lockhart’s insidious comment about ‘odd tales’.

      Imogene had not heard voices in the middle of a dance.

      Imogene had not talked about baths or felt that peculiar, prickly, apprehensive, excited attraction to Lord Wyburn.

      The silence stretched, broken only by the clock ticking and a branch tapping intermittently against the window.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Rilla said at last. She was always the first to make peace. Her anger both came and went swiftly. ‘I’m fussing, as Mrs Marriott would say. After all, you could hardly refuse to dance with a neighbour.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Imogene said, still stiff, her gaze focused on the wallpaper as though much fascinated by the painted roses. ‘I certainly did not wish to give the earl any special favours. Besides you danced with Lord Alfred Thompson twice.’

      ‘I did,’ Rilla acknowledged, although the foppish Lord Alfred was a vastly different man than Lockhart. ‘Anyway we shouldn’t quarrel. It would be a sad way to end such a special night.’

      ‘True,’ Imogene smiled, looking away from the wallpaper. ‘Besides, the earl will be too busy with his own set. We will not see him much.’

      ‘You’re right, of course.’ Rilla stood and, blowing her sister a kiss, left for her own chamber.

      But once alone, Rilla felt her body wilt with exhaustion and her spirits drop to an oppressive low.

      She would feel better after a night’s rest, she thought, as she kicked off her slippers. Yet, despite exhaustion, sleep did not come. Her thoughts jumped and flitted.

      There was Lockhart with his silky tones and innuendos.

      And the viscount.

      And her reaction to the viscount.

      Worse yet, there was that soft, desperate voice and her own growing conviction that Lord Wyburn was connected to that voice.

      All of which meant, she should avoid him. She should not dance with him or chat about Romans, Greeks, butter churns or any other topic for that matter.

      And yet she could not stop seeing him. He was Lady Wyburn’s stepson.

      Even worse, she did not think she even wanted to...

      * * *

      Apparently a Wyburn soirée took as much preparation as Hannibal’s invasion, minus the elephants. Shortly after the ball, Lady Wyburn had decided to follow on this success with a dinner in the girls’ honour.

      ‘It would be just the thing. We will invite anyone who is anyone, which is an extremely confusing phrase because really everyone is someone, at least in their own mind. Besides, we don’t want people to forget you.’

      ‘Highly unlikely. We drink tea with the same people every afternoon,’ Rilla said.

      ‘I meant the gentlemen, my dears.’

      On the day of the event, the girls watched the bustling of all manner of servants and trades people. Florists trooped in, housemaids swept and polished so that lemon wax perfumed the air and Lady Wyburn rushed about, her grey ringlets dishevelled and her forehead shining with perspiration.

      ‘I thought the house already immaculate,’ Rilla whispered to Imogene as they looked over the banisters into the front hall.

      ‘Indeed, and Lady Wyburn describes this as an intimate dinner,’ Imogene added.

      Heloise, the diminutive French maid in charge of their appearance, hurried up the stairway, her feet tapping against the wood with businesslike efficiency. ‘There you are. I had been looking for you, oui. Miss Imogene, I need you to try on your gown. Miss Amaryllis, perhaps you should go to your chamber. You cannot be draping yourself over banisters all day.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Rilla, not unwilling to leave. With any luck she might even manage a few minutes with her churn. She had asked Heloise to save her bathwater and hoped to try out a modification in the design of her trough.

      Despite her evident disapproval, Heloise had followed instructions and the bathwater remained. Although, Rilla noted, grinning, Heloise had relegated the churn to a far corner, half-hidden by the curtains.

      The contraption consisted of a trough which channelled water on to a waterwheel which powered the churn. She had recently altered the design of the trough, hoping that if she carved a deeper channel, the force would increase, but less volume would be required.

      Taking a small knife, Rilla scraped the wood with regular, methodical motions, enjoying the rasp of metal against wood, the roughness of the grain and even its smell. She liked this tangible link with home and the concrete practicality of the task.

      Both the viscount and odious Jack St John were coming tonight. Of course, she’d seen the earl every day that week—that man was an all-too-frequent visitor, lingering like the smell of fish on Fridays. Moreover, Imogene apparently found him wildly humorous, although in Rilla’s opinion he had a stolid, humourless personality.

      She dug energetically into the wood.

      Still, СКАЧАТЬ