“Hortense, dear, please try to avoid the mud puddles when you can. You’re absolutely ruining those slippers,” Amaryllis fretted.
“It’s not as though I’m trying to step in them, Amaryllis. In fact, I’m trying to very carefully step around them. It’s just not… working out as well as one would hope,” Hortense grumbled as she slipped on a particularly slick puddle.
Truly, nothing about this day was working out as well as Hortense had hoped. How could a day that started out so well, with sunshine, clear blue skies, and the promise of all sorts of mystery and intrigue, have ended up like this? That she was out strolling with Amaryllis again was bad enough. Given the events of the previous day, she thought she deserved at least a day’s reprieve from this sort of thing. Worse yet, the easy, mile-long walk along the main village road that Amaryllis promised was actually more of a stumble down a rutted, muddy lane, thanks to the previous evening’s rain. But that was not the worst part of this venture.
“Not too much further now. Just around the next bend in the road.”
No, worst, by far the worst of all, at the end of this walk she was expected to present herself to Mrs. Dinwiddie, wife of the village vicar, and spend the remainder of the afternoon taking tea and making idle chitchat, a skill she had never had much cause or opportunity to practice in the years she lived with her father.
Hortense cast a sideways glance at Amaryllis, the epitome of beauty and femininity, and sighed. Hortense knew that her cousin had flaws... had good cause to know it, after acting as her companion for the last few months. Amaryllis could be mercurial and vain, a trifle thoughtless, often silly, and more than a little selfish. But at moments like these, Hortense wondered if she wouldn’t rather be just a bit sillier, herself, if it meant that she could also be poised and socially adept and… accepted, as her cousin was.
Amaryllis smoothed imaginary stray hairs from her forehead and adjusted the wide pink ribbons that fastened her bonnet securely under her chin.
“Amaryllis, you look perfect,” Hortense said suddenly.
Amaryllis paused and gazed at Hortense with wide, amethyst eyes. “Really? Why, thank you, cousin! I worried, you know, whether this bonnet might be considered too extravagant for a country tea. But one never knows who one might meet in the village…”
“I’m sure you’re right. And it suits you, Ammy. Really,” Hortense declared sincerely.
“Oh, Hortense!” Amaryllis beamed. “And you…” Amaryllis assessed Hortense, from her skewed bonnet and perspiring face to her mud-drenched hem and ruined slippers. “You… have quite a lovely color in your cheeks. Quite… unmistakable.”
Just then, the road curved to the right and they entered the town proper. As the vicarage came into view, Amaryllis began smoothing invisible wrinkles from her rose-colored pelisse.
“Er…” Hortense tilted her head to the side and eyed her cousin critically. “Amaryllis, is there any particular reason why you’re so concerned with your appearance?”
“Oh, you know, it’s just… important to make a good impression on Mrs. Dinwiddie and… anyone else we might meet,” Amaryllis hedged.
“Anyone el…. Oh! It’s Mr. Peppercorn, isn’t it?” Hortense realized.
“Nonsense. It’s always important for one to look one’s best… although, I do think he’s such a dashing figure, don’t you? To think of the way he rescued you yesterday!” Amaryllis gushed.
Hortense thought privately that there were other adjectives she’d use to describe Mr. Peppercorn. Harmless, perhaps. Genial. Or… generally well-intentioned.
“… and his mother is a Pembroke… her father was Viscount Langley, you know?”
Hortense definitely didn’t know. And it rather boggled her mind that Amaryllis did. As her cousin rattled off incredibly detailed information about all of Mr. Peppercorn’s nearest and dearest, obviously having spent last evening poring over De Brett’s, Hortense pondered, as she often did, what sort of deficiency in her own brain prevented her from even being able to pay attention to this sort of information, let alone recall it so minutely.
“And so his great grandfather was made a baronet, for service to the Crown… Isn’t that fascinating?” Amaryllis finished, just as they reached the front door of the vicarage.
“Fascinating,” Hortense echoed miserably, as the housekeeper ushered them inside.
They found that they were not Mrs. Dinwiddie’s only callers that morning, as the vicar’s wife was already chattering animatedly to another guest. The guest, a grim but undeniably handsome middle-aged woman, was enthroned in the middle of a large settee, and appeared to be listening to Mrs. Dinwiddie’s chatter with thinly-veiled impatience. She noticed the moment the girls entered the room, and appraised them critically with sharp black eyes. Hortense straightened her posture and checked that her ruined slippers were hidden by the hem of her gown.
Mrs. Dinwiddie belatedly sprang forward to greet them, brown curls bobbing beneath her cap. “Oh, Miss Huntington! And Miss Worthing!” she exclaimed. “Welcome, welcome! I’m so thrilled to meet you at last. Lady Aberforthe has talked of little but your upcoming visit these last few months. It’s too sad that she’s been called away just as you arrived!”
“Indeed, ma’am,” replied Amaryllis smoothly. “I was quite disappointed myself. But her dear childhood friend Ambergris Pennington (nee Bartleby? Of the Lockchester Penningtons, you know?) fell ill, and my aunt rightly felt that her place was at her friend’s bedside. We expect that she’ll return soon. And in the meantime, the village ladies have been so kind in extending us invitations.”
Mrs. Worthington colored rosily. “Nonsense, my dear. Only too pleased. Come, please, sit and… Oh! Where are my manners? May I introduce you to Lady Peppercorn? She is the foremost hostesses, and her husband one of the most respected men, in our neighborhood.”
Hortense heard her cousin inhale sharply before quickly recovering herself.
“Lady Peppercorn, my dear, may I present Miss Amaryllis Huntington and Miss Hortense Worthing?”
Amaryllis greeted Mrs. Peppercorn with shining amethyst eyes and a beaming smile, a dazzling combination. Mrs. Peppercorn blinked, then narrowed her eyes as Amaryllis took her seat.
“Good afternoon, ladies!” interrupted a cheerful voice.
“Mr. Dinwiddie!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinwiddie. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“It’s not often that I have four such lovely ladies in my own parlor, and two of them newcomers to our parish. I thought I must come and say hello,” Mr. Dinwiddie returned, smiling. The vicar, a kindly man with large sideburns and twinkling blue eyes, looked to be about forty years old. And he reminded Hortense so much of her Papa that she swallowed… hard.
“We were just discussing Lady Aberforthe’s selflessness in attending her friend’s bedside, my dear,” said Mrs. Dinwiddie, as her husband sat down and she began passing out teacups.
“Miss Huntington,” cooed Lady Peppercorn. “Your aunt’s generosity is indeed well-known. It’s often said in the neighborhood that whenever disaster, death, illness, or scandal strikes, Lady Aberforthe will be the first to arrive.”
Hortense, who had been fully consumed with the challenge of balancing her teacup on its saucer without rattling it, looked up quickly at this remark, wondering if she had imagined the double meaning. Mrs. Dinwiddie looked unconcerned, but Amaryllis looked startled and her eyes narrowed. And Mr. Dinwiddie choked on a sip of his tea, and tried to cover it with a cough.
Mr. Dinwiddie cleared his throat. “Erm… Miss Worthing. Your father was quite a scholar of ancient folklore, was he not?”
“Yes, that’s right,” agreed Hortense, glad for a change of subject.
“I knew your father slightly, back at Cambridge. He and I had quite a few friends in common. I’m something of a scholar in that field, myself. In fact, I came upon a manuscript several months back that I thought he might help me translate… but before I could inquire as to his direction, I heard that he had passed away. He was a good man, my dear. You have my deepest condolences.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hortense replied gratefully. “It was an honor to work alongside him and help him in his research right up until the end. He was always patient with me, though my Greek was abysmal!” she said, smiling at the recollection. “I learned so much.”
“Good Lud!” exclaimed Lady Peppercorn in exaggerated horror. “Do you mean to tell me that your father died just recently?”
“Indeed, ma’am,” Hortense replied in confusion. “Just over half a year ago.”
“God forbid that a daughter of mine should ever disgrace my memory in such a way! Not even dead a year, and here you are gadding about the country, and not even dressed in mourning! When my father died, I couldn’t be persuaded to leave the house for an entire year, and wore nothing but bombazine for two! I knew my duty!”
“My father insisted upon it,” Hortense explained as politely as she could. “He despised mourning rituals.”
“Indeed,” sniffed Lady Peppercorn. “One would expect no less from a man who taught his daughter Greek and encouraged her to study. He would have done far better to teach you proper manners and how not to appear at a social call dressed like a ragamuffin.”
Hortense flushed deeply. They could insult her all they liked, but they should never dare to insult her Papa. She had just opened her mouth to say something ill-advised when Amaryllis caught her eye and gave a small negative shake of her head.
“Hortense, my dear,” Amaryllis began brightly. “Don’t you think that you could help Mr. Dinwiddie with his translation? Mr. Dinwiddie, would you be so good? I fear that my cousin is quite overcome with all this talk of her dear Papa, given that her grief is quite fresh,” she continued, directing the last to Lady Peppercorn. “She could do with some air.”
Hortense rose and sent a grateful glance at her cousin, who nodded slightly in acknowledgment. She felt slightly guilty about leaving her cousin at Lady Peppercorn’s mercy. But as Mr. Dinwiddie escorted her from the room, she heard Amaryllis say “You mentioned your daughter, Lady Peppercorn. How is dear Charlotte? Her engagement was the talk of the town last May, Mrs. Dinwiddie, and I heard she made Lady Peppercorn a grandmother before Christmas. No one could accuse her of being remiss in doing her duty. I’m sure she’s a great credit to you, Lady Peppercorn.” Hortense stifled a laugh. Amaryllis was in her element.
Mr. Dinwiddie showed her to his library and carefully removed a yellowing manuscript from its calf-hide wrapping.
“Why, it’s in Aramaic!” Hortense exclaimed. “My father had just begun teaching me before… before he passed. He would have been thrilled to see this,” she breathed.
“Any assistance you could give me with it would be invaluable, Miss Worthing! I…” he trailed off as the housekeeper appeared with a note.
“Ah, Miss Worthing, I’m afraid I’ve been called away. Please, do take your time with the manuscript, or even take it away with you, if you prefer. I apologize for rushing off. Shall I escort you back to the ladies?”
Hortense demurred, asserting that she was perfectly capable of seeing herself back to the parlor, and Mr. Dinwiddie took his leave.
Hortense sat down before the yellowed parchment and began the familiar task of deciphering the ancient script, searching for patterns and familiar words. Unconsciously, her thoughts turned to the many quiet evenings she’d spent hunched over her desk at home doing just this, while her father labored over a similar task at his own desk nearby. The words blurred on the page and hot tears fell from her eyes. If only Papa were here! But she gave in to the sorrow and homesickness for only a minute before hastily drying her eyes. It wouldn’t do for one of the servants or, worse, one of the ladies, to see her weep.
She was just returning the manuscript to its protective wrapping, having decided it would be better to work in privacy, when a flash of light outside the window caught her eye. Curious, she peeked out the curtains. She found that the library window faced the front yard of the Bull and Finch, the village’s only inn and tavern (as proclaimed on the wooden sign swinging by the door). The yard was deserted at this time of day, since the noon hour had long since passed and it was not nearly time for nighttime patrons to arrive at the tavern. The flash came again, and she saw that it came from something or someone hidden in a copse of bushes to the right of the yard. As she watched, a black-caped figure emerged from the bushes and walked surreptitiously (there was no other word for it, really) towards the stable. The figure was a familiar one, though she had only seen it from quite a distance the day before. She felt a tingle of awareness as the man from the Castle turned his head towards her. She let the curtain fall quickly.
Hardly aware of what she was doing, she crept quietly out of the library and down the hall, pausing for a moment to ensure that the ladies’ voices continued uninterrupted from the parlor. Then she snuck out the side door of the vicarage, taking care to leave the door unlocked behind her, and hurried across the street.
No comments:
Post a Comment