over the
page of her own transcriptions. “I take them with me, wherever we go. Mother
swears I prefer books to gowns. I’m afraid she is right.”
“Don’t blame you.” He looked
longingly at the journal. “Beautiful drawings. You did them yourself?”
“Copied from copies of copies.” Old
drawings that still held true. “Actually, if you are ever so careful, I could
let you take Grandmother’s journal… This was copied from that. It just
doesn’t hold my notes.”
“I will treat it as the rare jewel
that it is.”
“Fine, I will have them wrapped and
delivered to you before I leave.”
“Splendid!” He gathered his hat
from a hook by the door. “I’d best be off. Please send my regrets to your
mother.”
“Oh dear!”
“What?”
“I forgot all about dinner. Mother
won’t be pleased, what with a house full of guests.” Felicity shut her journal,
carried it over to a wall of shelved journals. “Especially as she knows where I
am, letting her down again, preferring the stillroom to dinner parties.”
“But this time you have a gentleman
waiting for you, as well.”
Yes,
she did , she thought, as she showed Samuel out the door.
He hesitated, before climbing up
into his gig. “Do you think he will accommodate your interests, Lady Felicity?”
“But of course he will,” she lied,
remembering their walk that afternoon to the Smiths’. You are good to sit with your tenants when they are ill, he’d said.
But she didn’t just sit with them.
“You are lucky, then. Most men are
not so understanding.”
****
For the second time that day,
Felicity stopped just shy of a doorway to gather courage and settle the
butterflies swirling inside.
Once inside that room, her father
would announce the betrothal.
She shook out her skirts, patted
her hair and took a deep breath—for calm—and sneezed.
Oh,
dear.
Of course. She should have known.
The
carriage with the golden curlicues and tall plumes in the porte-cochère that
afternoon, the one she couldn’t place. Who else would commission such a
conveyance?
Aunt Vi, and her wake of perfume,
deigned to visit. Felicity closed her eyes, sent a quick prayer to the heavens.
Not that it would help. Aunt Vi couldn’t help but be her exhausting self.
It was futile to wish for any
difference.
Vi was Vi and nothing could change
that. Felicity sighed. She really didn’t want to be the center of attention,
truly she didn’t. To be fussed over, winked at, hugged by a house full of
guests. She squashed any foolishness of the sort and stepped into the room.
Andover stood with their neighbor,
Sir Bertram, his split lip no better and his poor aristocratic nose, not so
aristocratic anymore. He should have used the salve she sent up and kept ice on
it rather than gallivanting off to the Smiths with her, but he refused to even
discuss it.
She would have to nip that
avoidance, if they were to have a happy marriage.
Thomas, her other patient, leaned
against the mantle, looking into his drink. The skin around his eye a puff of
deep purple and red, with the merest slit to spy through. No doubt he refused
the walking stick, as not manly enough, which was why the mantle held him in
place.
Quick to flare, sulking was not his
normal behavior. But he was most certainly sulking now and the look he sent,
with his one good eye, toward Andover reeked with satisfied fury. Somehow he
had won a round in whatever battle they waged.
Felicity headed toward her mother,
as a billow of perfume forewarned she’d be stalled. Aunt Vi glided near enough
to wrap her in an embrace, all arms and bosom and overly sweet scent. It was
not enough to disguise the sour smell of an overworked liver.
“Cis!” Vivian cried, for she never
spoke below an exclamation.
“Aunt Vi.” Felicity pulled free,
scanned her aunt’s face. A yellow cast dulled the whites of her eyes. Her use
of powder failed to hide the sallow tint of her complexion. “I didn’t know you
were expected.”
“I
page of her own transcriptions. “I take them with me, wherever we go. Mother
swears I prefer books to gowns. I’m afraid she is right.”
“Don’t blame you.” He looked
longingly at the journal. “Beautiful drawings. You did them yourself?”
“Copied from copies of copies.” Old
drawings that still held true. “Actually, if you are ever so careful, I could
let you take Grandmother’s journal… This was copied from that. It just
doesn’t hold my notes.”
“I will treat it as the rare jewel
that it is.”
“Fine, I will have them wrapped and
delivered to you before I leave.”
“Splendid!” He gathered his hat
from a hook by the door. “I’d best be off. Please send my regrets to your
mother.”
“Oh dear!”
“What?”
“I forgot all about dinner. Mother
won’t be pleased, what with a house full of guests.” Felicity shut her journal,
carried it over to a wall of shelved journals. “Especially as she knows where I
am, letting her down again, preferring the stillroom to dinner parties.”
“But this time you have a gentleman
waiting for you, as well.”
Yes,
she did , she thought, as she showed Samuel out the door.
He hesitated, before climbing up
into his gig. “Do you think he will accommodate your interests, Lady Felicity?”
“But of course he will,” she lied,
remembering their walk that afternoon to the Smiths’. You are good to sit with your tenants when they are ill, he’d said.
But she didn’t just sit with them.
“You are lucky, then. Most men are
not so understanding.”
****
For the second time that day,
Felicity stopped just shy of a doorway to gather courage and settle the
butterflies swirling inside.
Once inside that room, her father
would announce the betrothal.
She shook out her skirts, patted
her hair and took a deep breath—for calm—and sneezed.
Oh,
dear.
Of course. She should have known.
The
carriage with the golden curlicues and tall plumes in the porte-cochère that
afternoon, the one she couldn’t place. Who else would commission such a
conveyance?
Aunt Vi, and her wake of perfume,
deigned to visit. Felicity closed her eyes, sent a quick prayer to the heavens.
Not that it would help. Aunt Vi couldn’t help but be her exhausting self.
It was futile to wish for any
difference.
Vi was Vi and nothing could change
that. Felicity sighed. She really didn’t want to be the center of attention,
truly she didn’t. To be fussed over, winked at, hugged by a house full of
guests. She squashed any foolishness of the sort and stepped into the room.
Andover stood with their neighbor,
Sir Bertram, his split lip no better and his poor aristocratic nose, not so
aristocratic anymore. He should have used the salve she sent up and kept ice on
it rather than gallivanting off to the Smiths with her, but he refused to even
discuss it.
She would have to nip that
avoidance, if they were to have a happy marriage.
Thomas, her other patient, leaned
against the mantle, looking into his drink. The skin around his eye a puff of
deep purple and red, with the merest slit to spy through. No doubt he refused
the walking stick, as not manly enough, which was why the mantle held him in
place.
Quick to flare, sulking was not his
normal behavior. But he was most certainly sulking now and the look he sent,
with his one good eye, toward Andover reeked with satisfied fury. Somehow he
had won a round in whatever battle they waged.
Felicity headed toward her mother,
as a billow of perfume forewarned she’d be stalled. Aunt Vi glided near enough
to wrap her in an embrace, all arms and bosom and overly sweet scent. It was
not enough to disguise the sour smell of an overworked liver.
“Cis!” Vivian cried, for she never
spoke below an exclamation.
“Aunt Vi.” Felicity pulled free,
scanned her aunt’s face. A yellow cast dulled the whites of her eyes. Her use
of powder failed to hide the sallow tint of her complexion. “I didn’t know you
were expected.”
“I
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