Chapter 3 #2
“This one is the worst because I really thought Grimm her sister was so grumpy, she had to laugh. But when Bonnie scowled at her, Tiffany held up her hands. “Peace, sister, peace. I understand your argument, but now I shall not be able to look at a beard the same way again.”
Bonnie harrumphed, but then blew out a breath and turned to glance around the garden. “I love this place, I do. But I cannot stop thinking about all the good I could do if I had my own publishing house. Not just printing my books, but others too.”
“You have been thinking about this for a while, have you?” Possibly since even before receiving that letter from Mr. Grimm.
“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. “I knew you 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 worry for you. 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 maid did happen to poke her head out one of the open windows, Tiffany didn’t want to become known as the most beautiful lady in the Highlands who also spoke to frogs.
But on the other hand…
Thinking about the way she’d joked with Bonnie earlier, Tiffany’s lips curled upward.
“Would you be a better husband than a man, my little friend? You did not fight me too hard. You would not bother me if I decided to go into town to spend some money. You would not complain overmuch about the dinner menu I chose, as long as you had your bug cocktail.” Chuckling, she lifted the animal until it was level with her nose.
“Perhaps I should kiss you, just to see what would happen.”
No one was looking, and she was feeling nostalgic.
Tiffany puckered her lips softly, brought the frog closer—he only struggled once more—and brushed her lips across the top of his bumpy head.
Chuckling softly to herself, she held the frog out to peer at him. “See? That was not so bad, was it?”
She didn’t expect an answer, so when a voice came—deep and full of laughter—Tiffany jumped.
“Nay, milady. No’ at all.”
She screamed…and dropped the frog into the well.