Chapter 28 #2
At this, Beatrice let out a short laugh. “That wretched creature has been attached to you since the hour you set foot in this house. She will only curl up in another chair the moment you leave. She will survive an afternoon’s neglect.”
Margaret frowned, stroking Miss Fortune with deliberate tenderness. “She will pine.”
“She will nap,” Beatrice retorted, striding over to shoo the cat from Margaret’s lap. Miss Fortune leaped down with a disgruntled mrrp, tail lashing, before stalking to the hearth rug where she sat and licked her paw in lofty disdain. “There. Problem solved.”
Margaret rose half a hand in protest. “Beatrice—”
“Is quite right,” Cecily cut in with bubbling cheer. “Besides, if you refuse, I will chatter about muslins and lace trimmings until you wish you had gone merely to escape me.”
Margaret groaned, exasperation breaking through her composure. “You make it sound as though I have no choice.”
“You do not,” Aunt Agnes said crisply, though her gaze softened just for an instant. “Now off with you, before the best of the bolts are snatched by Lady Haversham’s daughters.”
And that was that. By the time Cecily had reclaimed her arm and Beatrice had taken the other, Margaret found herself all but lifted from her seat, propelled toward the door on a tide of their excitement.
The carriage was near bursting with parcels by the time Cecily finally allowed them to pause. Boxes tied with bright ribbons were stacked precariously at their feet, hats perched on their knees, and a bundle of muslins sat wedged beside Margaret like a sulky companion.
“I declare,” Beatrice said, fanning herself with a folded bill of sale, “if we purchase another yard of lace, the coachman will refuse to drive us home.”
Cecily giggled, untangling the ribbons of a bonnet box. “Nonsense. He will only boast of driving the most fashionable ladies in Mayfair. Why, Lady Haversham herself will grow green when she sees us pass.”
Margaret, who had endured the morning with tight patience, murmured, “If Lady Haversham is so easily greened, perhaps we ought to invest in ribbons the shade of her complexion. That would settle the matter.”
Beatrice smirked. “Margaret, I believe you are growing wicked.”
“I am growing weary,” Margaret corrected, shifting the muslin bundle from her lap.
“Then it is settled,” Cecily declared with sudden inspiration. “We must stop at Gunter’s. A lemon ice will restore us all.”
Her aunt’s errand forgotten for the moment, the carriage soon pulled up before the confectioner’s. Inside, the air was sweet with sugar and the happy din of half of London at its most frivolous. They claimed a small table near the window, their parcels heaped in a tottering mountain beside them.
Cecily licked delicately at her spoon, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, this is bliss. Tell me truthfully, Margaret, does not the taste make the whole ordeal worthwhile?”
Margaret allowed the faintest curve of her lips. “I suppose it does not injure matters.”
“High praise,” Beatrice murmured dryly, but her eyes warmed.
It was then, just as Cecily launched into a spirited account of Lady Finch’s horrid turban, that a cluster of young wives, all recent brides of similar standing, swept past their table. Their voices dipped in whispered amusement, then rose again with the bright edge of curiosity.
“Positively troubling,” one was saying. “To faint dead away in her own gallery. The poor butler nearly dropped the tray in shock.”
“And the Duke himself called for salts, did you hear? It seems he is forever in pursuit of her, either catching her up in the ballroom or carrying her off in his townhouse.”
Her companion gave a scandalized gasp. “And yet some call it nerves. I say it is in the blood. Her poor mother… why, everyone remembers—”
“Indeed,” another interrupted, lowering her voice for effect. “The Everly line has always been… unstable. It would be charitable to call it a delicacy. What sort of Duchess swoons like a schoolgirl and drags her husband down with her?”
“Imagine, a duke’s bride vanishing from the ballroom in such a state! And he after her, no less. Half the company noticed their absence.” One of them murmured, fanning herself with a painted hand. “Some say she swooned, others…”
Her companion gave a delighted gasp. “Or perhaps she was caught in some… compromising predicament?”
The laughter that followed pricked at Margaret’s skin like nettles. She kept her chin high, but her spoon trembled in her hand.
Cecily’s fan snapped shut. “I believe the difficulty lies in too many tongues wagging.”
The nearest lady blinked, affronted. “Well! I should think a family with such… history might prefer gratitude to correction.”
Beatrice leaned forward, her smile dangerously sweet. “Better gratitude than spite dressed as charity. Tell me, madam, does your husband find your tongue so sharp at home, or is it reserved for company?”
The silence that followed was instant, stunned. Then Beatrice rose with a rustle of silk and looped her arm firmly through Margaret’s. “Come, sisters. We’ve indulged enough feminine virtue for one afternoon.”