Page 31 of The Work of Art

Clarice gave the shawl to Philly, who draped it gratefully around her partially exposed bosom.

“No, Miss Satterthwaite.” Mrs. Vale rose from her chair and snatched it away. “Gracefully, twined through your arms. Thus. And now draped behind your back. Yes, yes. Very elegant. Very Grecian. Clarice, the hairpins with the cut glass posies.” She snapped and pointed several times in quick succession as the lady’s maid ran to and fro like a confused chicken. “Stupid girl. Where’s your sense? They’re right in front of your eyes.”

Philly was made to sit down in front of her small wooden dressing table while Clarice arranged her hair, decorating it with a few floral hairpins as directed by Mrs. Vale.

No sooner had Clarice secured the final pin than Mrs. Vale urged Philly back up. “Here. Turn round. Let me look at you. Yes, this will do nicely.”

“Why is the duke here?” Philly asked at the first opportunity. “Does he mean to take me for another drive? For I must tell you Mrs. Vale, I don’t think I care to—”

“Clarice, go straight to Miss Townsend, and then to Abigail. I require them back in the drawing room as soon as possible.” Mrs. Vale nudged Philly forward. “Miss Satterthwaite, we must hurry. Don’t let your shawl drag on the ground.”

There was a brisk knock at the door. Everyone froze where they stood.

“Come!” Mrs. Vale called out.

A housemaid ducked into the bedroom. Her eyes were round with excitement. “Mr. Townsend requests the presence of Miss Satterthwaite in the library, ma’am.”

Mrs. Vale covered her mouth with her hands, stifling a gasp. “I knew it. It’s just as we planned.”

Philly’s heart pounded. It had been only two days since the duke had taken her driving. Did a second visit so soon afterward mean that he was officially courting her? Was that why everyone was in such a state?

What an awful tangle. And to see her relations so excited at the prospect! It simply wouldn’t do. The sooner she set them straight on the subject, the better. “Mrs. Vale, there seems to be a misunderstanding—”

“There’s no misunderstanding, Miss Satterthwaite. Hurry now. As quickly as you can.” Mrs. Vale pushed her out the door. “But carefully. You mustn’t trip on your shawl. If you broke your neck at this stage, all would be lost.”

“Are you sure the duke is still here?” Philly descended the stairs, looking back over her shoulder at Mrs. Vale. “Perhaps he’s gone and it’s only Uncle Edgar who wants to see me? Indeed, I think that must be the case. His Grace and I did not get on at all. He can have no interest in me anymore.”

Mrs. Vale was deaf to Philly questions. “Slowly now. Take each step with care. You mustn’t appear out of breath when you enter the room.”

Evans was waiting in the entry hall. He’d managed to compose himself, his face once again set into lines of distinguished indifference. “Miss Satterthwaite. His Grace and Mr. Townsend are expecting you.”

“Thank you, Evans. Did they happen to say why—”

“Miss Satterthwaite, there’s no time for this!” Mrs. Vale cried. “Now, listen to me. What is this? Are you trembling? Never mind. His Grace will appreciate it. It shows you have the proper fear of him, and that you know the inferiority of your own position. But you mustn’t cower. Your posture, Miss Satterthwaite. Be ever mindful. And don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

Before Philly could utter another word in protest, one of the footmen opened the door to the library and Mrs. Vale pushed her into the room.

As soon as Philly entered the library, her uncle, the duke, and a short, rather fussy-looking man in spectacles all rose from their seats. The duke’s eyes were as black and glossy as she remembered. They settled on her immediately. She was reminded of a hawk fixing its predatory gaze on a field mouse.

The Collector.

The name alone was enough to send a cold trickle of fear through her. She knew now why he stared so intently at her face, but the knowledge did nothing to make it more bearable.

“Miss Satterthwaite.” Moreland gave her a rigid bow.

Philly curtsied. “Your Grace.”

Uncle Edgar nodded in the direction of the short man in spectacles. “His Grace’s solicitor, Mr. Pritchard.”

His solicitor?

Philly’s mouth went dry at the implication. “Mr. Pritchard.”

The little man came forward to greet her. She could smell at once that he was of the school of gentlemen who eschewed regular bathing in favor of copious amounts of cologne. His hair was powdered, and he was sweating profusely, causing his wire-rimmed spectacles to slide partway down his nose.

“Miss Satterthwaite.” He cleared his throat. “It is indeed an honor and a privilege to make your acquaintance.”

“Sit down, Phyllida,” Uncle Edgar commanded, his hands clasped behind his back.