Chapter Nine #2
ten-minute diatribe about how much she hates the Louvre. Mr. Dean clearly has no idea she’s taking the piss, which is fabulous.
Because while Christopher and Miss Pine have been all chat, as usual Mr. Dean has said nothing but “Hello” to Rosalie since
they met up with the group at the Southgate Bridge to cross the river.
Aunt Genevieve finally finishes her rant about museum acoustics and winks at Rosalie, who stifles a laugh. Aunt Genevieve
then speeds up to join Miss Pine and Christopher, leaving Rosalie and Mr. Dean to walk together, only the crunching of lightly
frosty grass and leaves beneath them, and the chatter from their group ahead and behind.
Rosalie thinks about engaging Mr. Dean in conversation, but decides she needs some quiet to get herself under control. To convince herself that Christopher won’t fall for Miss Pine. She’s catastrophizing. She must be.
“Are you looking forward to attending the theatre tomorrow?” Mr. Dean asks.
“I am,” she says, looking up at him.
“I am as well,” he says, and then turns his head back to their path, saying nothing else.
A wonderful opportunity to discuss the play. To ask questions about what she’s seen recently. To bring up even something he
saw on his engrossing world tour. And nothing.
He is beautiful, and stable, and such a smart, pragmatic choice for a future husband. But she has to admit to herself, he
isn’t fun. And everyone around them sounds like they’re having fun.
Christopher glances over his shoulder again and it’s like he can instantly tell she’s upset, even though Rosalie’s fairly
sure she hasn’t moved a single facial muscle. Christopher still slows down all the same, which brings Miss Pine and Aunt Genevieve
with him.
“Miss Pine tells me you have stories about Barcelona,” Christopher says to Mr. Dean.
“Oh, it is such a beautiful city. Have you been?” Mr. Dean asks, releasing Rosalie’s arm immediately to fall into step with
Christopher. Any chance to bring out his favorite hits. He hasn’t had fresh ears since he started courting Rosalie.
Christopher leads Mr. Dean ahead of them, which leaves Rosalie and Miss Pine walking alongside each other, Aunt Genevieve
on Miss Pine’s other side.
“I should fall back, make sure those boys are being gentlemen,” Aunt Genevieve says, her face serious but eyes alight, as if she knows this is putting Rosalie in an uncomfortable position.
Which she probably does. Though there’s no good reason Rosalie should be uncomfortable with Miss Pine.
But as Aunt Genevieve slows down to join Amalie, Henrietta, Mr. Rile, and Mr. Sholle, Rosalie feels her shoulders going up.
She doesn’t know how to talk to Miss Pine, not after the garden party. Not after Aunt Genevieve’s painting. Not after the
dreams she’s been having. Inappropriate, scandalous, delicious dreams.
She wants to distract herself—ask Miss Pine a safe question.
“You and my brother certainly found things to discuss” is what pops out of her mouth. Not a question, and frankly accusatory
in tone.
Miss Pine only laughs. “He’s a delightful young man. I see a lot of you in him, actually.”
“Do you?”
“I imagine he says everything you wish you could in polite company.”
“Goodness, what was he telling you?” Rosalie asks, breaking her own rule and looking over at Miss Pine, who grins back at
her.
“Oh, just thoughts on a few acquaintances I’ve noticed you don’t particularly like.”
That could be any number of people. “Which ones?” Rosalie asks, shooting a glare at the back of her oblivious brother’s head.
“Mr. and Mrs. Plory,” Miss Pine whispers.
Oh, Rosalie does hate them. Their son, Thomas Plory, is a lovely young man. But his parents are the most vituperative, snide,
judgmental people she’s ever met.
“He was telling me about the time Mrs. Plory tried to say you were too short to rear healthy children and you managed to make a server fall into her with a tray of champagne glasses?”
Rosalie’s mouth drops open. She has half a mind to box her brother about the ears, until she realizes Miss Pine is giggling.
It’s such a ridiculously pretty sound.
She looks back at Miss Pine, who has her lace-gloved hand over her mouth. “It’s true?”
Rosalie just blinks. She—oh—Christ.
Miss Pine’s giggles turn to full-out laughter. Mr. Dean and Christopher look back at them and Rosalie can’t help but start
to laugh herself. Ahead of them, Mr. Dean rolls his eyes and keeps walking, while Christopher smiles at her and then hurries
to catch up.
Miss Pine reaches out to clutch at her arm so they don’t fall down. “How wonderfully wicked of you,” she says.
Rosalie shrugs, her cheeks aching from smiling and laughing, her arm warm beneath Miss Pine’s palm. “What, like you’ve never
done something similar?”
Miss Pine’s eyes go wide. “I could never.”
“After your performance at the garden party, I highly doubt that. It was very Emma of you.”
“It was not. If anyone is like Emma Woodhouse, it’s you,” Miss Pine insists, letting go of Rosalie’s arm to brush at her curls
while they amble behind Christopher and Mr. Dean, who are now almost at the pond through the thinning trees.
Rosalie feels the absence of Miss Pine’s fingers keenly. “I surmise you found Emma’s conduct questionable, then?”
Miss Pine gives her a look. “You didn’t?”
“I thought her motivations admirable. Her execution was . . . unfortunate,” Rosalie decides.
“Or perhaps her staunch belief in her own self-assurance and ability were merely hubris, hiding her inner desire for the same companionship, and proving her as fallible in love and relationships as anyone else,” Miss Pine counters.
Rosalie blinks. “That is an astute reading of the themes.”
Miss Pine snorts and rolls her eyes. “It is the basic reading.”
“Ask a man, he’ll give you a different one entirely,” Rosalie replies.
“Oh? Did your brother think differently?”
“A few of my brother’s friends determined it an excellent example of women needing to listen to their betters and allowing
cooler male heads to prevail.”
“Bollocks,” Miss Pine says.
Rosalie laughs, surprised, and Miss Pine grins. “What did your brother think?”
“Richard?” Miss Pine asks. “I doubt he’s read it. It would be too . . . frivolous for him. Though he’d probably side with
Mr. Knightley.”
“Typical,” Rosalie says with a sigh.
Miss Pine nods. “But he’s a good brother. Not quite as fun as yours seems.”
“Do you miss him?” Rosalie finds herself asking. “I take it he doesn’t live nearby.”
“He’s north of London now, with his own home and wife and I suppose children soon,” Miss Pine says, her voice softer, more
contemplative. “It must be nice to have Mr. Tisend home for the season.”
Rosalie glances ahead at Christopher. “It is.”
Miss Pine smiles and they walk toward the end of the tree line that will open onto the pond. Shadows dance across her face.
Rosalie has to look away.
“Now, tell me, did you really used to put on a pair of his breeches and run through the woods every day until you were fifteen?”
Rosalie splutters, catching herself on a narrow yew tree before she falls over in surprise. “What?” she nearly shrieks.
“So it’s true,” Miss Pine says, grinning at her.
“I will kill that boy,” Rosalie says, her voice rough. How dare he? She glares at Christopher where he and Mr. Dean are now standing at the edge of the pond.
“Oh, I used to do the same with Richard. You’re hardly special,” Miss Pine says.
Rosalie looks up at Miss Pine, who’s smiling a bit mischievously. “And what excessively unladylike activities did your brother
wheedle you into?”
“Sorry, Mr. Tisend already told me that you were nearly always the instigator.”
Rosalie shakes her head. “What did you get your brother into, then?”
“There may or may not have been days where we nearly got lost in the claypit mines when we went to work with Father and subsequent
nights we didn’t get dinner,” Miss Pine says with a shrug.
“And were you dressed as a good little girl the whole time?” Rosalie pushes.
“Oh, no, I looked like a common mine boy. It was delightful.”
Rosalie can’t help but smile, imagining a smaller Miss Pine dressed in dirty pants and a shirt, mucking about in the mine
with her brother, causing all kinds of trouble. She wants to ask Miss Pine about her childhood. Wants to talk more about Emma. Wants her opinion on Pride and Prejudice. Wants to know what she thinks of the assertion that the author is a woman.
But the rest of their group are quickly catching up, stomping through the underbrush to emerge on the shore of the pond in a rowdy, lightly sweaty crowd. Henrietta and Mr. Rile look rather cozy, while Mr. Sholle is leaning around Amalie to get a glimpse at Miss Pine.
Aunt Genevieve finally steps out of the woods behind all of them, giving Rosalie a look. She really ought to be commanding
her suitor’s attention. It’s why they’re here.
Rosalie’s just going to ignore how every single part of her body screams in protest as she steps away from Miss Pine. She
beckons everyone forward until they’re all standing in a semicircle by the edge of the pond. Mr. Dean is still talking about his world tour.
“I thought perhaps the gentlemen could teach us to skip rocks. We’re the only ones here and we won’t be bothering anyone,”
Rosalie suggests.
“A marvelous idea,” Aunt Genevieve says, a little overloud, causing everyone to giggle.
“Mr. Rile, you’ll show Miss Raught. Mr. Sholle, Miss Pine. Mr. Dean with me, of course,” Rosalie says, ignoring the pleasure
she gets in the narrowing of Miss Pine’s eyes. “And Christopher, perhaps you could show Miss Linet, as Mr. Fortes was busy
this morning.”
Christopher grins at her and leaves Mr. Dean to sidle up to Amalie. Mr. Rile and Henrietta head right for the edge of the
water, bending down to find the perfect smooth rocks. Mr. Sholle bounds over to Miss Pine, who gives him what seems like a
genuine smile and takes his arm to walk down a ways to find their own rocks.