Hortense studied her reflection in the large front-hall mirror, squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then studied herself again. The image in the glass hadn’t changed one iota – the same curly brown hair was coiled atop her head, the same medium brown eyes stared back at her thoughtfully, the same pale skin sprinkled liberally with dratted freckles covered her face and bosom, and the same plain white satin gown from two winters past covered the rest of her. Last time she’d worn this gown, Amaryllis had good-naturedly teased that Hortense had certainly “grown these past two years.” And Amaryllis was right, Hortense thought as she tried to surreptitiously yank her bodice just a teensy bit higher. “But,” she reminded herself sternly, “It’s the only gown I possess that’s suitable for dining out with the county’s ‘first family,’ so it will simply have to do.”
In the mirror, she caught a glimpse of Amaryllis waiting patiently for the butler to announce them and show them in. Hortense frowned. This business of gazing into mirrors and worrying about clothing was usually Amaryllis’s occupation, while Hortense normally amused herself by studying the ancestral portraits lining the walls of any ton-ish home, and trying to determine which of their host’s forbearers was most likely given to criminal insanity. But yesterday’s events had been extremely lowering. First, she’d withstood a verbal assault from that vicious old biddy, Lady Peppercorn. Then, she’d made an abortive attempt at clandestine investigation (because, upon reflection, well-bred ladies never “skulk”) which led to a tremendously unsettling interaction with that rude, impertinent, handsome (wait, no, make that absolutely unremarkable) man who most certainly had been skulking around the inn yard. And, to cap it all off, she’d arrived back at the vicarage just in time to hear Amaryllis triumphantly accept Lady Peppercorn’s reluctant invitation to dine with the family this evening.
Hortense had lain awake the better part of last night replaying yesterday's conversations, supremely annoyed with herself and her changeable reactions. When Mr. Preston had waylaid her at the Inn, she’d unleashed the power of The Stare and given him a proper set-down, no matter that he’d found her in a rather compromising and unladylike position. That was the Hortense she knew herself to be. But when that loathsome Lady Peppercorn had insulted her… insulted Papa, her wits had completely deserted her and she’d been unable to utter a single word in her own defense (though she’d invented a thousand witty, cutting rejoinders after the fact). She’d known that being a companion wasn’t going to be thrilling or exciting, or even as fulfilling as her life with Papa, but she hadn’t expected to feel so self-conscious or so completely out of place. Really, it was enough to make anyone broody.
Pims, the Peppercorns’ impeccably elegant butler, quickly returned and showed them into the drawing room. The room was large and lavishly, if somewhat inelegantly, decorated in greens and purples. Amaryllis clasped her hands to her chest, praising the gorgeous décor, declaring the decorator to be a genius, and pretending to be all surprise when Lady Peppercorn acknowledged that she, herself, had decorated the room. Amaryllis likened the room to pictures she had seen of Versailles in its glory. Hortense thought the room rather looked like a picture of a harem that she’d seen in one of Papa’s books, right down to purple silk pillows and French velvet drapes. She imagined that Lady Peppercorn would not find her comparison nearly as gratifying, and had to swallow a giggle at the thought. Lady Peppercorn, as though able to read Hortense’s mind, gazed pointedly at Hortense’s far-too-well-displayed bosom and smiled maliciously.
They were quickly presented to Mr. and Mrs. Dinwiddie, who owned themselves delighted to see the girls again so soon, and to Mr. Peppercorn, a short, stout, balding man with a kindly smile, the very picture of a country squire and at least 20 years older than his wife. Once these introductions had been made, the ladies were offered glasses of sherry, and the men were offered whiskey. Hortense sipped the sherry gratefully. She’d never actually had the opportunity to try it before, but she hoped it might give her a little extra courage to get through this night.
As Hortense finished her drink, the missing member of the Peppercorn family strode quickly into the room, tugging his peacock blue waistcoat into greater prominence as he did so. Lady Peppercorn turned, surprised, and reluctantly performed one final introduction. “Ladies, this is my son, Mr. Digby Peppercorn. Digby, may I introduce Miss Amaryllis Huntington and Miss Hortense Worthing? Digby, darling, I thought you were dining out this evening.”
“Indeed! Indeed I was,” Digby replied genially. “But Throckmurtel’s had to leave town for a bit, unexpectedly. Gone to Town to see the grand-pater,” he explained.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” replied the vicar. “Is his grandfather quite ill?”
“Good Lud, no!” laughed Digby. “If anyone is in a bad way it’s Throckmurtel. Up the River Tick, don’t you know? Point non plus? Dun territory? Under the hatches? He’s had to go to his grandfather for money,” he finally explained, when Mrs. Dinwiddie’s expression remained blank. “And in any case, I’d have made certain to be at home if I’d known we were having such fascinating comp’ny,” he continued, with a tender look for Amaryllis, who blushed prettily. Hortense wasn’t sure which was worse – Digby’s absolute lack of tact regarding his friend’s finances, his sickeningly obvious flirtation with Amaryllis… or the fact that some small part of her was actually jealous that her cousin had someone to flirt with while she, most decidedly, did not. The third part was worst, she decided quickly. She refused to be envious of Digby. But she nodded yes when the maid offered to refill her sherry glass.
Lady Peppercorn pursed her lips in displeasure. “Digby, please ring for Pims, and have him inform Cook that there will be one more for dinner.”
“Best make that two, Aunt,” said a deep voice from the doorway. All eyes turned toward the tall, broad-shouldered man. He was impeccably attired in black evening wear set off by snowy white linen and a cream-colored waistcoat, his unfashionably long hair was carefully tied back in a queue, his face wore an expression of bored politeness that Hortense had never seen before, and there was nary a black cape in sight, but his eyes… Hortense would have recognized that intense green gaze anywhere. And when he turned that gaze on her and raised one sardonic eyebrow, she felt a tingling warmth bloom in her chest.
“Who let you in here?” demanded Lady Peppercorn.
All eyes in the room swung toward Lady Peppercorn, shocked by her outburst.
“Er, I did, Mother,” admitted Digby, crossing the room toward his cousin. “Met Cousin Oliver on the road home from Throckmurtel’s. M’new gray trotter, Fraus, had thrown a shoe, and Oliver stopped to offer assistance. Prime horseflesh, eh, cousin? Fraus is an Orlov Trotter,” he explained to Amaryllis. Amaryllis nodded sagely as though she met Orlov Trotters every day of her life. “I thought ‘If Oliver’s finally decided to take an interest in horseflesh, he’d best come home and see my stables,’ you know? Best stables in this part of the world,” he said proudly, slinging an arm around his cousin’s shoulder. “But I didn’t realize we were already havin’ comp’ny,” he finished, with a sheepish smile for his mother.
“Digby, I won’t have it!” Lady Peppercorn sputtered, turning purple. “You know I…”
“Enough!” interrupted Mr. Peppercorn.
“But… but, Eustace, you know that…” Lady Peppercorn interjected.
“I said enough, Myrtle. It appears that our nephew has come to dine tonight. I, for one, will welcome him,” he said, striding toward Oliver. “How are you, boy? It’s been a long, long time,” he continued, extending his hand to clasp Oliver’s.
Oliver, who had appeared rather amused by Lady Peppercorn’s outbursts and Digby’s flummery, seemed to be completely at a loss when confronted with Mr. Peppercorn’s open cordiality. He shook Mr. Peppercorn’s hand mechanically for several seconds, his brow furrowed, and he cleared his throat as though he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Pardon me, Mr. Peppercorn, but what did you say your horse’s name was?” Hortense blurted into the sudden silence. Hortense couldn’t say for certain what prompted her to interrupt. She wasn’t one to call attention to herself so boldly, even in the best of circumstances, and she’d rather enjoyed the notion that she’d relinquished the title of Lady Peppercorn’s Most Hated Guest the moment Mr. Preston had entered the room. But the silence had felt like a weight on her chest, pressing down harder and harder until she was compelled to say something.
“Er, Fraus, Ms. Worthing. All his line were named for gods. I didn’t choose the name myself, of course,” he chuckled, as if such a thing were not to be considered. “Fraus is the god of speed, if I recall correctly, although I daresay I haven’t spent much time learning about such things this decade or more,” he joked jovially. “’Higher education is for clerks and second sons,’ I always say,” he guffawed.
“Fraus?” Hortense repeated with dawning amusement. Fraus, she knew well, was the Roman god of fraud and deception. It was too, too perfect. “Ah… yes, I… I think I’ve heard of him.” She bit her lip, struggling to keep her face straight and her expression serious. Across the room, she heard Oliver make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough, and saw his lips quirk as he fought his own smile. She lifted her laughing eyes to his and…
Suddenly she could hear her own heartbeat, amplified a hundred or a thousand times, the rhythm pounding in her ears, drowning out all other sound. She felt every inch of her skin become more sensitive, more alert. Became intensely aware of her breathing, in-and-out, in-and-out, faster and faster. But her vision was focused entirely on his eyes. Captivated by green… so green… green like mountains, like forests, like grass. Endless fields of green where she could run and run and…
The spell ended and Hortense found herself sprawled on her hands and knees in the Peppercorns’ hideously elegant drawing room, gasping for breath.
“Hortense!” Amaryllis shouted, rushing toward her cousin.
“No, Miss Huntington!” Digby cried. “If your cousin has taken ill you must keep your distance. Such bad humours can be catching!”
“Ree-uh-lly!” Lady Peppercorn exclaimed, loading each syllable with shock and outrage.
“Miss Worthing, let me help you,” said a deep, calm voice directly in front of her. Oliver bent down and offered her his hand. But Hortense backed away from his hand, and instead pushed herself to her feet using one of Lady Peppercorn’s velvet sofas for leverage.
“I apologize,” she whispered in mortification, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. “I… I believe I fainted. I have… no idea what came over me. Please, I… please excuse me,” she stammered, and picking up her skirts, she fled the room then fled the house.
The dark quiet of the garden was a welcome change. Hortense sat on a low bench, and leaned her head against the cool stone wall behind her. Her first and only thought was ‘Amaryllis is going to be so mad at me. I’ve ruined any chance she might have had with Digby.’
“May I?”
Hortense opened her eyes, surprised to find she’d closed them, and saw Oliver gesturing to the bench next to her. “What for?” she asked rudely, closing her eyes again.
Oliver sighed and took the seat he’d indicated without answering. “You’ve been gone for quite some time, Miss Worthing. Everyone’s concerned about you.” Hortense squeezed her eyes shut more tightly, and did not reply.
He sat for several minutes before saying in a low voice, “Are you alright?”
“Oh. Me? Fine!” Hortense burst out, angrily, unable to keep silent any longer. “Let’s see… I’ve come to a dinner party, which, in retrospect was the really the first mistake, because dinner guests are expected to be charming and amiable and graceful, and I am none of those things. I have never been any of those things, and I don’t need or want to be those things. I despise people who aspire to those things,” Hortense rambled, opening her eyes now to make sure that Oliver was listening. He was. He nodded.
“But of course, it wasn’t my decision in the first place,” Hortense continued, “because I am my cousin’s companion, and whither she goest I go, or something, whether I will or no. But my dress is wrong,” she cried, grabbing a handful of her skirt and tossing it away. “And my manners are wrong. I know who Fraus is, Mr. Preston. I know Fraus and Loki and Vishwakarma and most every other god known to man. I know the legends of the werewolves and the kelpies and pookas. I speak 6 languages fluently, and can read and write in several more. And if I were a man, Mr. Preston, you would think me a braggart to list these accomplishments so baldly, but because I am a woman, I feel as though I’m confessing my sins to you. Isn’t that awful, Mr. Preston? To be really good at something, to have talents and skills, and to have to hide them, to pretend to be less than you are, just so that you can fit in?” Hortense gasped, crying in earnest now, more mortified than ever, but unable to stop the torrent of words and tears.
Oliver said nothing, but he shifted slightly on the bench and brought his arm around Hortense, pulling her head to his shoulder and pressing his handkerchief into her hand. They sat like that for some time, saying nothing, while the crickets chirped and the stars shone above them.
Finally, Hortense’s embarrassment overcame her need for comfort, and she pulled away, drying her tears and taking a deep breath. “Well, that’s done it. I cannot imagine how I could embarrass myself any more thoroughly, at any time, for the rest of my life. It’s a relief to know that I’ve survived the worst,” she said flatly.
Oliver met her eyes and smiled. Then he looked away, fixing his gaze on the shadows at the far corner of the lawn. “Miss Worthing,” he began. “I understand better than you think.” He was silent for several moments, as though collecting his thoughts, then continued. “Never, never deny who you are in order to please people like my aunt, because people like my aunt will never be pleased. If you were the personification of beauty, grace, and proper comportment, a veritable Aphrodite, Athena, and Hestia rolled into one," he said with a wink, "my aunt would declare she’d never seen a chit flaunt her accomplishments so boldly." He looked into her eyes and smiled ruefully.
In spite of everything, Hortense felt her lips quirk into an answering smile.
“You seem different from other girls, Miss Worthing," he continued. "Smarter, certainly. Wittier, too, from all I’ve seen. Don’t live your life by their rules, don’t measure yourself on their scale.”
Hortense's smile disappeared.“I don’t expect you to understand, Mr. Preston. Not really. It’s different for a man.”
Oliver barked a laugh. “Yes, indeed it is different for a man,” he said, laughing at some joke that Hortense couldn’t understand. “But the premise is the same. Do what you were made and meant to do, Hortense. It’s the only way to be happy,” he said softly, brushing her cheek with his hand.
Hortense felt her heart begin to beat faster, her entire body swaying toward Oliver. Suddenly she gasped and jumped up, backing away quickly. “Mr. Preston, I… I really must be going. My cousin… and Lady Peppercorn… they’ll be wondering… Oh, heavens! Amaryllis is going to kill me!” she moaned, as the enormity of the evening’s events suddenly became clear to her. “I’ve ruined any hope she might have had of Mr. Peppercorn!”
“Not to worry,” Oliver replied with a negligent smile. “Shortly after you left, Mrs. Dinwiddie felt herself become flushed and ill, as well. Fainted dead away on the sofa. Seems the ‘sherry’ that my estimable aunt had been serving was actually my uncle’s finest single-malt whiskey.”
“So, you mean to say that… that I was…” Hortense stammered, leaning against a nearby tree.
“Foxed, yes,” Oliver answered her unspoken question with dancing eyes.
“Good Lord!” Hortense replied, giggling. “Well, then I needn’t concern myself with explaining my emotional outburst just now, I suppose?”
“No. I wouldn’t have expected an explanation in any case. But having sampled my uncle’s whiskey on more than one occasion in my youth, I think you showed admirable restraint,” he teased, moving away from the bench and bracing his arm against the tree branch above her head.
Hortense smiled shyly up at him. For the first time all night she felt a sense of lightness, a sense of rightness, a sense of belonging. Unless she moved away again, he was going to kiss her. And at that moment, there was nothing in the world she wanted more.
His head moved slowly, slowly down toward hers, giving her plenty of time to move, to run, if she wanted to. She stayed exactly where she was. His other hand came up to rest against the side of her neck, his thumb brushing back and forth across her cheekbone, as if tracing the softness there. And then… and then… he kissed her. Just a soft brush of lips at first, a whisper of a touch, then pressing more firmly. He licked her lower lip gently, and she inhaled sharply at the sensation. As his tongue gently stroked inside her mouth, exploring, he angled her face upward, and speared his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck.
She was lost in the sensation of it. Every part of her body felt tight, and hot, and tingling with awareness. Her hands came up to clasp behind his neck, and she found her body pressed close to his. He groaned and broke the kiss, resting his forehead on her shoulder and gasping for breath. She pressed her hands to his shoulders and her head to his chest for support.
“I’m not sorry,” he said fiercely, leaning back so that he could look in her eyes. “But, I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.”
She laughed breathlessly. “I… I’m not sorry, either,” she replied, realizing that it was true. Whatever came after this, whatever the repercussions of her behavior at the dinner party or her time in the garden with Oliver, it would be worth it. “And you needn’t worry that the whiskey has made me lose my inhibitions,” she joked. “As I’m constantly being reminded by my aunts and uncles, one can’t expect proper behavior from the daughter of a French libertine,” she said, imitating her Aunt Rose’s haughty tones.
“Pardon?” Oliver said, taking a step away from her, his eyes never leaving her face.
“My mother. She was French. A painter, from Calais. But she wasn’t a libertine, of course, that’s just something that my Aunt Rose…. What?” she asked, breaking off. His face in the moonlight was bleak, his eyes were suddenly cold. Hortense shivered. “Is it that my mother is French?” He didn’t reply, but his jaw tightened. “Dear God, it is! You… you’re just like them,” she cried, backing away.
“Come, Miss Worthing, I’ll return you to your cousin,” Oliver said stiffly.
“Please, don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Preston. I’ve found my own way this far, I’ll find my own way back.” Hortense wheeled on her heel and hurried away, unintentionally executing the best Brave Exit Speech and Flouncing Departure of her life. When she reflected on all of this later, she thought, at least she could console herself with that.
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