“I have. But there is no way I can afford it.”
The hopelessness in her sister’s voice squeezed at Tiffany’s chest. She stood and took the three steps to Bonnie’s side. “If I could help you find the money, I would. I will help you think of a way, I swear it.”
Bonnie’s smile was a bit watery, but it was nice to see, nonetheless. “Thank you. And now, I suppose I must go write Mr. Grimm a response.”
“Good. And tell him you hope to one day be able to afford a publishing house. Maybe he would save his for you!”
When Bonnie chuckled, it didn’t sound quite so helpless. “I should be so lucky.” She shook her head and headed for the kitchen door. “If I run into Mother, I shall swear I have no idea where you are.”
Which would allow Tiffany more moments of precious, unjudged freedom. “Iknewyou were the best sister in the world!”
Bonnie’s laughter drifted back.
With a sigh, Tiffany glanced around the garden. Without her sister to talk to, the place—beautiful and cozy as it was—seemed emptier. She strolled back to the well, dragging her fingers along the moss-covered stones as she circled it.
Knowing she was alone, and feeling suddenly nostalgic, she leaned over the edge. There, far at the bottom, the inky darkness of the water seemed to suck up all sounds.
“Hullo!” she called in a low voice, just to be certain. Sure enough, nothing echoed back.
Chuckling, she braced her palms on the stones, remembering the fun she used to have out here. When she’d been much younger, she’d even climbed to the top of the posts and teased Bonnie, who insisted her skirts made it impossible to climb.
When she’d been younger and had no worries.
You are beautiful, and that means people should worryforyou. People will do things—so many things—for you, as long as you are beautiful!
Her mother’s words echoed in a way Tiffany’s call into the well hadn’t. It had been a refrain of her life.
And now, that knowledge, that certainty, had resulted in this feeling of shame whenever she thought of how Lysander Oliphant had looked at her.
Ribbit.
Tiffany’s head jerked up.
Ribbit-ribbit.
There, across the well from her, sat the biggest, plumpest frog she could ever recall seeing. Had frogs grown so big when she’d been but a wee lass? If so, it would’ve taken two hands just to hold it, much less catch it.
Catch it.
The wicked, ridiculous thought repeated itself.
Well, why not?
She was alone out here, so there was no one to see her ruin her reputation as the most perfectly beautiful woman in all the Highlands, was there?
Slowly, she straightened. “Stay right there, my fat friend,” she murmured.
Holding the frog’s gaze—was it her imagination, or did it seem as transfixed by her as she was by it?—she softly, deliberately moved around the well, each step measured. The trick, as she remembered, was to move slowly enough the animal didn’t expect her attack.
Sure enough, she soon stood in front of the frog, and he was still sitting there, looking at her. She bent, her arms rising from her sides to drift, gradual as glaciers, to bracket him.
“That is right. That is it,” she murmured, and then she pounced.
Before the frog ever knew what was happening, she had it cupped in her palms and was drawing it up to eye level.
“Well, hullo there, little green friend.” The frog struggled for a moment, then froze. “I will not hurt you. I just wanted to see if I could still do it.”
She kept her voice down, though she knew no one was there to hear. Still, if a maiddidhappen to poke her head out one of the open windows, Tiffany didn’t want to become known as the most beautiful lady in the Highlandswho also spoke to frogs.
