tugged briskly on the bell rope. “S o he brought you back to the house, did he? What ’ s he like? ”
Cynthia closed her eyes again, to avoid meeting her mother ’ s keen gaze. “Y oung, ” she said vaguely. “H e looks quite a bit like Lady Malcolm, in fact. Tall, like her. And he has the same dark eyes. The same smile. His hair is like hers, too. ”
“O h, I don ’ t care for curly-haired men, ” said Lady Ballymere, a bit too quickly. “T here ’ s something distinctly feminine about curls, don ’ t you think? ”
“Y es, Mama, ” said Cynthia obediently, suppressing a flash of irritation. But she could not resist adding, “A lthough Mr. Whittaker ’ s hair is not as curly as his sister ’ s. ”
Lady Ballymere gave a rather unconvincing little laugh. “Y ou seem to have studied him quite carefully. ”
Cynthia again felt the frisson of annoyance, and again suppressed it. “I saw what anyone would see. ”
Fortunately, a housemaid scratched on the door in answer to Lady Ballymere ’ s summons, so her mother was occupied for a moment in ordering Cynthia ’ s bath. By the time the door closed once more behind the maid, Cynthia had recovered her poise. It would not do, to let her mother see how close her emotions were to the surface.
Lady Ballymere hovered, irresolute, near the center of the room. “W ell, ” she said at last, “I shall just go and finish up my letter to your father. Enjoy your bath, my love. ”
Cynthia managed a smile. “T hank you, Mama. ”
Lady Ballymere swept out of the room, but paused just beyond the doorway. “I s he handsome? ”
Cynthia tried to look puzzled. “W hom do you mean? ”
“Y oung Mr. Whittaker, of course. ”
She pretended to consider the matter. “Y es, I believe you would call him handsome. But you may judge for yourself tonight, Mama. I daresay he will be present at dinner. ”
“P ooh! As if what I thought made any difference. ” But Lady Ballymere seemed reassured; Cynthia must have convinced her that Derek had made no particular impression. She left Cynthia alone, at any rate, to bathe in peace.
It was excessively tiresome to be watched all the time, but Cynthia understood her mother ’ s reasons. It would be catastrophic for Cynthia to fall in love. Her entire family was bound in a silent conspiracy to prevent that calamity if they could. So fa r, they had been successful… as far as they knew. Lady Ballymere ’ s attempts to monitor Cynthia ’ s opinions regarding every man she encountered were annoying, but at least they were transparent. Cynthia saw the little digs and prods coming and was able, therefore, to deflect them somewhat.
She used to feel guilty about the tiny deceptions she practiced every day, pulling the wool over her mother ’ s prying eyes. No more. The battle to maintain her privacy had loomed ever larger over the years. Her need for privacy now superseded, in her mind, her mother ’ s right to know. And in the present circumstances — with so much to hide — she would fight fiercely to evade her mother ’ s constant poking and probing. A girl had to have some secrets.
The relaxing effect of the bath enhanced her tiredness. She dried her hair before the fire, then crept between the sheets of her bed and slept dreamlessly. She woke, hours later, to her mother ’ s gentle shaking.
“ Cynthia , my love, are you ill? It ’ s time to dress for dinner. ”
She sat up groggily. “A s late as that? No, Mama, I am not ill. ” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and yawned.
Lady Ballymere regarded her worriedly. “I hope you are not contracting a cold. It ’ s most unlike you, to sleep the day away. ”
“I didn ’ t sleep last night. ” The unguarded words slipped past her sleep-drugged wits. Cynthia immediately regretted them.
Her mother ’ s eyes sharpened. “W hy ever not? ”
“I don ’ t know. ” That was almost a lie, and Cynthia was sorry for it. She amended it by saying, “I
Cynthia closed her eyes again, to avoid meeting her mother ’ s keen gaze. “Y oung, ” she said vaguely. “H e looks quite a bit like Lady Malcolm, in fact. Tall, like her. And he has the same dark eyes. The same smile. His hair is like hers, too. ”
“O h, I don ’ t care for curly-haired men, ” said Lady Ballymere, a bit too quickly. “T here ’ s something distinctly feminine about curls, don ’ t you think? ”
“Y es, Mama, ” said Cynthia obediently, suppressing a flash of irritation. But she could not resist adding, “A lthough Mr. Whittaker ’ s hair is not as curly as his sister ’ s. ”
Lady Ballymere gave a rather unconvincing little laugh. “Y ou seem to have studied him quite carefully. ”
Cynthia again felt the frisson of annoyance, and again suppressed it. “I saw what anyone would see. ”
Fortunately, a housemaid scratched on the door in answer to Lady Ballymere ’ s summons, so her mother was occupied for a moment in ordering Cynthia ’ s bath. By the time the door closed once more behind the maid, Cynthia had recovered her poise. It would not do, to let her mother see how close her emotions were to the surface.
Lady Ballymere hovered, irresolute, near the center of the room. “W ell, ” she said at last, “I shall just go and finish up my letter to your father. Enjoy your bath, my love. ”
Cynthia managed a smile. “T hank you, Mama. ”
Lady Ballymere swept out of the room, but paused just beyond the doorway. “I s he handsome? ”
Cynthia tried to look puzzled. “W hom do you mean? ”
“Y oung Mr. Whittaker, of course. ”
She pretended to consider the matter. “Y es, I believe you would call him handsome. But you may judge for yourself tonight, Mama. I daresay he will be present at dinner. ”
“P ooh! As if what I thought made any difference. ” But Lady Ballymere seemed reassured; Cynthia must have convinced her that Derek had made no particular impression. She left Cynthia alone, at any rate, to bathe in peace.
It was excessively tiresome to be watched all the time, but Cynthia understood her mother ’ s reasons. It would be catastrophic for Cynthia to fall in love. Her entire family was bound in a silent conspiracy to prevent that calamity if they could. So fa r, they had been successful… as far as they knew. Lady Ballymere ’ s attempts to monitor Cynthia ’ s opinions regarding every man she encountered were annoying, but at least they were transparent. Cynthia saw the little digs and prods coming and was able, therefore, to deflect them somewhat.
She used to feel guilty about the tiny deceptions she practiced every day, pulling the wool over her mother ’ s prying eyes. No more. The battle to maintain her privacy had loomed ever larger over the years. Her need for privacy now superseded, in her mind, her mother ’ s right to know. And in the present circumstances — with so much to hide — she would fight fiercely to evade her mother ’ s constant poking and probing. A girl had to have some secrets.
The relaxing effect of the bath enhanced her tiredness. She dried her hair before the fire, then crept between the sheets of her bed and slept dreamlessly. She woke, hours later, to her mother ’ s gentle shaking.
“ Cynthia , my love, are you ill? It ’ s time to dress for dinner. ”
She sat up groggily. “A s late as that? No, Mama, I am not ill. ” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and yawned.
Lady Ballymere regarded her worriedly. “I hope you are not contracting a cold. It ’ s most unlike you, to sleep the day away. ”
“I didn ’ t sleep last night. ” The unguarded words slipped past her sleep-drugged wits. Cynthia immediately regretted them.
Her mother ’ s eyes sharpened. “W hy ever not? ”
“I don ’ t know. ” That was almost a lie, and Cynthia was sorry for it. She amended it by saying, “I
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