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“They are my friends.” Miss Finch spoke as if they were a set of china that mustn’t on any account be broken up.
“May I present my aunt, Miss Vainsmede,” said Cecelia.
Aunt Valeria pointed to one ear and spoke in a loud toneless voice. “Very deaf. Sorry.” She returned to her box and notepad, putting her back to their visitors.
Cecelia hid a sigh. Her aunt could hear as well as anyone, but she insisted on telling society that she could not. It must have been an open secret, because the servants were well aware of her true state. But the ruse allowed Aunt Valeria to play her part as chaperone without making any effort to participate in society. Cecelia had once taxed her with feigning what others found a sad affliction. Her aunt had informed her that she actually did not hear people who nattered on about nothing. “My mind rejects their silly yapping,” she’d declared. “It turns to a sort of humming in my brain, and then I begin to think of something interesting instead.” Cecelia gestured toward a sofa. “Do sit down,” she said to her guests.
The girls sat in a row facing her. They didn’t fold their hands, but it felt as if they had. They looked hopeful and slightly apprehensive. Cecelia examined them, trying to remember which was which.
Miss Ada Grandison had heavy, authoritative eyebrows. They dominated smooth brown hair, brown eyes, a straight nose, and full lips.
Miss Sarah Moran, the shortest of the four, was a smiling round little person with sandy hair, a turned-up nose, and sparkling light blue eyes. It was too bad her pale brows and eyelashes washed her out.
The last, Miss Charlotte Deeping, was the tallest, with black hair, pale skin, and a sharp dark gaze. She looked spiky. “I thought you didn’t have a chaperone,” she said to Cecelia, confirming this impression.
“What made you think that?”
“We heard you went to a ball on your own.”
“I met my party there,” Cecelia replied, which was nearly true. She had attached herself to friends as soon as she arrived. That solitary venture had perhaps been a misjudgment. But it was a very minor scandal, more of an eccentricity, she told herself. She was impatient with the rules now that she was in her fourth season. “My aunt has lived with us since my mother died,” she told her visitors.
“I thought it must be a hum,” replied Miss Deeping. “It seems we are to be stifled to death here in London.”
Cecelia could sympathize. Because her father paid no attention and her aunt did not care, her situation was unusual. She’d been the mistress of the house for nine years, and manager of the Vainsmede properties for even longer. Her father left everything to her, too lazy to be bothered. Indeed Cecelia sometimes wondered how she ever came to be in the first place, as Papa cared for nothing but rich meals and reading. She supposed her maternal grandmother had simply informed him that he was being married and then sent someone to drag him from his library to the church on the day. But no, he had cared for Mama. She must believe that.
“Every circumstance is different,” said Miss Moran.
She was one who liked to smooth things over, Cecelia noted.
“And Miss Vainsmede is older than…” Miss Moran blushed and bit her lip as if afraid she’d given offense.
“Three years older than you,” Cecelia acknowledged. “Do you all want my advice?”
“We must have new clothes and haircuts,” said Miss Grandison.
The others nodded.
“We’re new to London and fashionable society, where you are well established,” said Miss Finch. “My mother says we would be wise to heed an expert.”
“Which doesn’t precisely answer my question,” said Cecelia. “Do you wish to hear my opinions?”
They looked at each other, engaged in a brief silent communication, and then all nodded. The exchange demonstrated a solid friendship, which Cecelia envied. Many of her friends had married and did not come to town for the season. She missed them. “Very well,” she began. “I think you, Miss Moran, would do well to darken your brows and lashes. It would draw attention to your lovely eyes.”
The girl looked shocked. “Wouldn’t that be dreadfullyfast?”
“A little daring perhaps,” said Cecelia. “But no one will know if you do it before your entry into society.”
“Don’t be missish, Sarah,” said Miss Deeping.
Cecelia wondered if she was a bully. “You should wear ruffles,” she said to her. She suspected that this suggestion would not be taken well, and it was not.
“Ruffles,” repeated the dark girl in a tone of deep revulsion.
“To soften the lines of your frame.”
“Disguise my lamentable lack of a figure you mean.”
Cecelia did not contradict her. Nor did she evade the glare that came with these words. They either wanted her advice or they didn’t. She didn’t know them well enough to care which it was to be.
