Chapter Three #3
forward to the poetry reading on Tuesday, nicely indoors. Will you be attending?”
She knows Miss Pine won’t be. Henrietta’s mother arranged the whole event, and the guest list is exclusive.
“Oh, we haven’t been invited,” Miss Pine says softly, looking rather unperturbed.
“Yes we have, dearest,” Mrs. Pine cuts in. Mother glares at her and Rosalie looks over, surprised. “Mrs. Raught was kind enough
to invite us at last week’s ball. However, we already have dinner plans with Lord and Lady Smith, and therefore will have
to miss it.”
Mother’s eye is twitching. The baron and baroness are only in town for two weeks, and Mother hasn’t managed an invitation
yet for tea, let alone a dinner.
“Will you be at the Teppling tea next Wednesday?” Rosalie asks.
“I don’t believe so,” Miss Pine says, narrowing her eyes.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Mother says, stepping closer with a smirk that’s far too transparent. “We’ve got the poetry reading, the tea, dinner with the Howleys—such a busy week after Rosalie’s concert this Friday.”
Miss Pine and Mrs. Pine exchange a look. The whole exchange makes Rosalie’s skin crawl. The four of them, fighting over a
man who can’t even be bothered to show up on time.
Thankfully, Mr. Dean and Mr. Sholle appear around the corner together not a moment later.
“So sorry we’re late, ladies,” Mr. Dean says, smiling down at all of them. It makes her height difference with him seem even
more glaring, setting her teeth on edge.
She doesn’t usually mind being so short, but with the past five minutes of guarded competition, even her height seems a disadvantage.
“That’s perfectly fine, dearest,” she says, ignoring the way Mr. Dean’s head tilts at the endearment. “Shall we?”
She takes his arm and gestures toward the park, forcing Miss Pine and Mr. Sholle to fall in behind them, order restored.
Mr. Dean pats her hand in the crook of his arm as they walk down the path past Sydney House toward the interior of the park.
This early in the season, the trees are only just beginning to bud, the bushes devoid of flowers. The grass is at its dullest,
and the gray overcast sky doesn’t help. But what the gardens lack in splendor, they make up for in silence, at least for the
moment.
For all his faults, Rosalie does appreciate Mr. Dean’s ability to simply be. She loves her mother, but her constant stream
of conversation can grate on a person, and after the tense exchange just now with the Pines, she appreciates some peace.
Of course, it doesn’t last very long.
“What is your favorite flower?” Mr. Sholle asks behind them.
“I’m rather fond of violets,” Miss Pine replies. “Though I know they’re not the most ostentatious of flowers.”
Rosalie chances a glance back over her shoulder and watches the way Mr. Sholle is staring at Miss Pine. He certainly looks
a little smitten by her beauty.
“They are a remarkable color,” Mr. Sholle agrees. “What is your favorite meal?”
“I don’t get to know your favorite flower?” Miss Pine asks.
Rosalie listens to their back-and-forth, silently cataloguing Miss Pine’s favorite food (roast duck), favorite color (violet,
again), favorite sonnet (William Shakespeare’s 130), and favorite piece of music (Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, Prelude).
Mr. Sholle’s answers don’t interest her in the least.
Her plan is working, but it’s left her with a simmering feeling in her belly, like she’s won a battle but might be slowly
losing a greater war. Mr. Sholle has taken more interest in Miss Pine in the last ten minutes than Mr. Dean has taken in her
in over a year.
Miss Pine must be convinced that Mr. Dean is out of reach and utterly devoted to Rosalie. That’s why Rosalie’s bothered that Mr. Dean isn’t talking all of a sudden, and that he hasn’t ever asked her such questions. It’s
because it looks bad.
Not at all because Miss Pine’s genuine curiosity in Mr. Sholle’s answers is making Rosalie feel squirrelly inside for reasons
she’s can’t quite name.
“Are you looking forward to your hunt next weekend?” Rosalie asks Mr. Dean, desperate for a way to shut her mind up and prove
his interest all at once.
“Mr. Laghtley’s lake is exceedingly well stocked and his land is full of grouse. I expect it to be an excellent weekend,”
Mr. Dean says, smiling off at the foliage.
She waits, but he doesn’t offer anything else. “Is grouse particularly hard to hunt?”
“No, but we do spend a good portion of the day tiptoeing through the woods.” He’s still not looking at her, but he looks pleased
to be talking about it, at any rate.
“It sounds as if you might enjoy coming home to a well-planned meal,” she says, wondering if she could entice an invitation
for herself, Henrietta, and Amalie. They could . . . wait at home for their men to come back from the hunt. Ugh.
“Mr. Laghtley’s cook is excellent. Always puts together an impressive feast.”
“Well, perhaps some sparkling conversation after the meal could—”
“We’ll want to get a very early start. I’ve heard there might even be wild boar, which would be exciting.”
Rosalie curls her free hand into a fist. Sometimes she just wants to punch his stupidly handsome face. Would it be so heinous
to have her along? She wouldn’t interfere.
“Oh, I’ve a question about the Laghtley hunt,” Rosalie hears Mr. Sholle say.
And suddenly he’s on Mr. Dean’s other side. Mr. Dean squeezes Rosalie’s hand, and then lets her go, falling into step instead
beside Mr. Sholle. Which leaves Rosalie and Miss Pine watching the two men bend their heads together and amble ahead, without
them.
Rosalie stands still, seething. The fact that Mr. Sholle abandoned Miss Pine equally quickly is no balm at all. Rosalie is
not supposed to get left behind for talk of hunting, or anything, for that matter.
“Have you ever killed anything?”
Rosalie blinks, turning to find Miss Pine now standing next to her and looking down at her with honest curiosity.
“What kind of question is that?” Rosalie asks, laughing a little, the anger in her chest lessening just a hair.
“Would you rather discuss needlepoint patterns?”
Rosalie glances behind them, where their mothers are walking as far apart as possible, glaring at the backs of the boys’ heads.
At least they’re united in that.
“I’ve done some gruesome needlepoints, actually, but no, I’ve not killed anything,” Rosalie says, looking to Miss Pine.
She giggles, the most utterly charming sound. Goodness. Rosalie breaks eye contact and starts walking again, Miss Pine falling
into step with her.
“Have you ever killed anything, then?” Rosalie asks.
“Father and I used to trap rabbits. I didn’t . . . directly kill anything, I guess. But I was still responsible,” Miss Pine
says, rather contemplatively.
“Did you like it?” Rosalie asks, allowing her guard to come down a bit.
The men seem to adore killing animals—the thrill of the hunt clearly more important than conversation with a potential life
partner.
“I liked spending time with my father,” Miss Pine says softly. “And he would . . . check that the rabbits weren’t suffering
before I saw them. I don’t relish the idea of causing pain.”
Rosalie glances over at Miss Pine, whose eyes are far away. She has the absurd urge to make her giggle again—to wipe the melancholy
from her face. But that’s not why they’re here.
“Outside of trapping game, what kind of more . . . appropriate pastimes do you enjoy?”
Miss Pine huffs a laugh. It’s no giggle, but charming all the same. “The usual, I suppose. I paint, I draw, I read, I play the pianoforte, as I mentioned at the ball. And you? You must be prim and proper all the time.”
Rosalie rolls her eyes at the little smirk on Miss Pine’s face. She wonders what Miss Pine would say if she told her about
her dirty limerick competitions with Amalie, or that she used to climb trees until she was fourteen and ruined her mother’s
favorite dress. Would she giggle again? Raise an eyebrow? Ask more questions?
“I also enjoy the pianoforte,” Rosalie begins. She’s made up some rather scandalous lyrics to an old madrigal. Maybe Miss Pine
would—
“Lady Rosalie is most accomplished on the pianoforte. She’ll be performing a piece at the concert on Friday,” Mother says.
Rosalie and Miss Pine jump. Their mothers have snuck up on them. Mr. Dean and Mr. Sholle have gotten at least fifty feet away
from them, already up the hill and over the bridge that crosses the small stream at the back of the park. She’d hardly noticed.
Rosalie withholds a glare. She’s not at all excited about playing for their guests, especially after a professional performance.
But Mother is insistent that it will endear her to Mr. Dean. She’s been getting increasingly desperate to cement Rosalie’s
courtship, even before the Pines arrived in Bath. A year without a proposal, something must be afoot.
Rosalie’s rather sure it’s just that Mr. Dean isn’t that interested in anything.
“Miss Pine used to serenade our tenants weekly; she’s utterly gifted on the instrument,” Mrs. Pine says quickly.
Rosalie glances at Miss Pine, who’s blushing, but not entirely out of embarrassment. “More than just a hobby?” Rosalie asks.
Miss Pine meets her eyes, straightening up. “I’m good,” she admits. There’s a spark of confidence in her that makes Rosalie’s fingers tingle.
Mother opens her mouth—
“Perhaps you should play as well,” Rosalie says impulsively. All three women stare at her. “Perhaps we should all play. Mother,
you play so beautifully and rarely show off your talents. Didn’t you used to perform with a friend in your season?”
“Oh, Mother, you should join us too,” Miss Pine says before Rosalie’s mother can manage words. “You played in your season
as well. Duets. Could we find your duet partner?”
Mother’s surprise turns to discomfort. Rosalie glances at Mrs. Pine, who’s also gone slightly white, and realizes with a flash:
Mrs. Pine was the friend Mother used to play with. And now they haven’t spoken in over two decades.
Oh, dear.
They stand for a moment in uncomfortable silence as their mothers refuse to look at each other. Rosalie glances at Miss Pine,
who looks as discomfited as her mother, and won’t meet Rosalie’s eyes all of a sudden. All that challenge gone in the face
of whatever happened twenty-five years ago.
“Or each of you could play separately,” Rosalie says quickly. “I know you’ve been practicing the Haydn, Mother. It would be
a shame to waste that effort.”
That seems to bring her mother back. “It would hardly be a waste, as it wasn’t so much effort. But as I don’t believe my former
duet partner would be . . . amenable, I agree. But only if Mrs. Pine will play as well.”
They all look to Mrs. Pine, who hesitates.
“It would be a wonderful opportunity to reintroduce yourself to the ton,” Mother continues. “As long as you’ve kept up with the pianoforte since our season.”
The color returns to Mrs. Pine’s face quickly. It seems she’s as reactive as her daughter. “I would be delighted to play.
Miss Pine and I both enjoy performing, don’t we, dearest?”
“Yes, we do,” Miss Pine says confidently, smiling at her mother before looking at Rosalie, challenge back in her eyes.
Mother hates performing as much as Rosalie does. What has she gotten them into?
But she can’t show weakness, not now. “Looking forward to it.”
“Yes,” Mother adds, and gestures for them all to keep walking.
They turn to head up the path, Mr. Dean and Mr. Sholle nearly specks in the distance.
Rosalie glances again at Miss Pine, who’s staring straight ahead. But there’s a quirk to her lips, like she’s won something.
It’s infuriating, and alluring.
Nope. No. Just infuriating.
Rosalie needs to practice. Her performance must be the best of the bunch. To impress Mr. Dean, of course.
And to wipe that smug smile off Miss Pine’s face.