Page 26 of The Lady’s Deception

“But we don’t even know it’s a girl,” Rosamund observed.

Bell frowned, unconvinced, and scooped the kitten from her sister’s hands. “What else would she be?”

Soon Molly entered with a can of hot water, shooting a frown at the kitten as she filled the washbasin and muttering under her breath as she stacked clean linens and laid out the girls’ nightclothes. Nevertheless, Rosamund could have sworn she saw her give the tiny creature a tickle under the chin and a wink before she left.

While the girls washed and dressed, Rosamund wandered into the schoolroom. Curious, she examined the stack of books on Daphne’s desk. Surprisingly standard fare, primers from a generation ago, perhaps acquired when Paris and the elder siblings were young, before their parents had embarked on what Rosamund had begun to think of as their “educational experiment.”

The exception was a small, illustrated book called The Botanic Garden: A Poem in Two Parts, Containing “The Economy of Vegetation” and “The Loves of the Plants.”

Of course.

With a small sigh, she picked it up and returned to the bedroom. Daphne had already slid between the sheets, the kitten held close. Bell stood beside Daphne’s bed, a jealous frown notched into her brow. “Shall I read to you?” Rosamund asked, holding up the little book. In a corner of her heart she kept the fragment of a memory, one of the few memories Charles had never managed to make her doubt: the sound of Papa’s voice as he read to her.

“What is it?” Daphne sounded suspicious. Rosamund read the title aloud. “Oh. Erica left that behind. It’s bound to be deadly dull stuff.”

With a parting glance of longing at Eileen, Bell at last clambered into her own bed, leaving room for Rosamund to sit at the foot. “The second part sounds promising.”

“Let’s give it a go, shall we?”

Rosamund opened to a page that had been marked by a sloppily embroidered slip of silk ribbon, and found the lives of plants fancifully rendered as fair damsels and gallant nights and—oh. Oh, dear. Some of the flowers seemed not always to behave with ladylike deportment. How else to read lines such as this?

Each wanton beauty, trick’d in all her grace,

Shakes the bright dew-drops from her blushing face;

In gay undress displays her rival charms,

And calls her wondering lovers to her arms.

With a smile Rosamund closed the book and rose. “That’s enough for tonight, I think.” The girls protested, thankfully oblivious to most of the poem’s suggestive symbolism. “No, no. We’ve a busy day tomorrow. Geography. And French.” She thrust the book under one arm before bending down to tuck the covers under Bell’s chin. She then turned to Daphne. “For the time being, Eileen will stay downstairs with me.”

“Oh, but Miss Gorse, that’s not fair.”

“Fair or not, it’s what’s best for all of you. Otherwise I predict that none of you would get a wink of sleep. Kittens especially need their rest.”

Though it would be an exaggeration to claim that her words had persuaded them, the girls at last relented. “Good night,” she said, picking up the kitten in one hand and the candle in the other.

Once in her room, she placed the candlestick on the desk and laid both the kitten and the book on her bed. Eileen soon began to creep over the mountains and valleys of the rumpled coverlet, an eager explorer. Rosamund watched for a moment before turning to the washstand and studying her face in the small square of glass that hung above it. In the uncertain light of the candle, the bruise on her temple nearly disappeared into the shadow of her hairline. With practiced fingers, she unpinned the heavy coil, then wove the locks into a neat braid, looser than usual so as not to make her head ache again. Finally, she went to the wardrobe, slipped out of her dress and into her nightgown.

When she turned around again, Eileen was nowhere to be seen. Quickly, her eyes darted to the doorway. But the door was closed. She shrugged. The kitten couldn’t go far.

Ready for bed, but unready for sleep, she sat on the edge of the mattress and with one fingertip, traced the corners of the book of poetry. Scandalous poetry. Surely, she had imagined it… But ladies didn’t imagine such things, did they? Ladies did not spend any time at all thinking about…

She lifted the cover.

How the young Rose in beauty’s damask pride

Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride;

Without conscious thought, she drew the slender volume closer, into the circle of candlelight. Onto her lap.

With honey’d lips enamour’d Woodbines meet,

Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet—

“Oh!”

The book leaped out of her hands and onto the floor. From nowhere, Eileen had launched herself onto Rosamund’s back and was now hanging, one set of fragile claws hooked in her braid, another in her nightdress. First with one hand, then with the other, Rosamund flailed behind her back, reaching for the kitten. Her long sleeves hampered her efforts. Neither from above nor below could she touch anything more than a wisp of fluff—either the tops of Eileen’s ears or the tip of her tail. How on earth was she going to—?