Chapter Thirteen
Rosalie
Miss Pine stands on Madame Florent’s pedestal, being fitted into a burgundy spencer jacket Madame Florent “just had lying
around,” and it’s possibly the most fetching thing Lady Rosalie’s ever seen. The way it hugs Miss Pine’s shoulders, the way
it accentuates her bust, the way it highlights her dark eyes—
Rosalie’s mouth feels thick, her fingers fumbling. There are so many things she might like to say, but none she can push beyond
her lips. At least, not with Madame Florent right there.
And even if she could say what she’s thinking, she’s not sure Miss Pine would like to hear it. She hopes she would. She thinks she would. But she
can’t be sure. The not-knowing is frankly killing her.
“What do you think?” Miss Pine asks, fingers twisting together.
Madame Florent steps back. “As if it was made just for you,” she says, smiling brightly.
“Lady Rosalie?” Miss Pine asks, her face so hopeful.
It unties Rosalie’s tongue. “It’s incredibly fetching,” she says, a little breathless.
“Agreed,” Madame Florent says. “Now, give it back to me, I’ll make these few stitches and send you on your way.”
“Thank you,” Miss Pine says, her cheeks a little pink.
She helps Madame Florent slip her out of the jacket, leaving her in just her cream day dress, which is distractingly flattering enough on its own.
“I appreciate you modifying the display for me. I needed more fashionable outerwear; everything I have from our estate up north is a little too . . . pastoral for Bath’s sensibilities. ”
Madame Florent grins. “You just come back to me, and we’ll keep making you as fashionable as Lady Rosalie here. Maybe more,”
she says before swanning into the back of the shop.
“Do you miss the country?” Rosalie finds herself asking.
Miss Pine looks over at her, surprised, and comes to sit with her on the small settee across from the pedestal by the mirrors.
She’s close enough that Rosalie can smell her lilac perfume and see the little baby hairs peeking out from the bottom of her
bonnet rim.
“Sometimes,” Miss Pine says. “Everything was simpler in the country.”
“Like what?” Rosalie wonders.
“Everything here is both more formal and somehow laxer. It gets hard to keep track,” Miss Pine says, looking down at her hands
and pulling her dainty white gloves back on.
It must be strange, coming from somewhere so different. Miss Pine’s vulnerability tugs at Rosalie’s heart. She’s been making
it worse, she’s sure.
Miss Pine looks up and turns her neck toward the curtains to the back room. But Madame Florent doesn’t emerge.
“Like this trip with your brother and Mr. Dean,” Miss Pine continues, slowly turning back to Rosalie. Rosalie’s chest tightens.
“What kind of trip is it? Is it a courting outing, or just friends visiting a castle?”
She’s braver than Rosalie’s been all day, which should make it easier to push the words out of her tight throat, but Rosalie still struggles. “Ah, Christopher just thought it would be a good opportunity for all of us to talk.”
“All of us,” Miss Pine repeats.
They’re seated even closer together than they were in the cloakroom. She wants to say it plainly—wants to admit that Christopher
decided to engineer an opportunity for Rosalie and Miss Pine to be alone together. But with Madame Florent hovering just out
of sight, she doesn’t know how to say it.
She’s not sure how she should phrase it, anyway. I’d really like to push you up against a wall and kiss you silly? Would you like that too?
“All of us,” she says instead, her stomach twisting. “We can get to know each other better. And Christopher wants to get to
know you more, and make sure Mr. Dean is really good enough for . . . me,” Rosalie says haltingly. Miss Pine’s eyebrow goes
up. Is it obvious Rosalie’s only telling half-truths? “You’re less pressure than Amalie or Henrietta with Mr. Dean and Christopher,
really.”
Miss Pine snorts, the sound loud in the small back room. “Miss Linet and Miss Raught aren’t competing for his affections,
so wouldn’t they be better choices?”
“Are we, really, still competing?” Rosalie asks, unable to keep the words from spilling out.
Miss Pine’s eyes widen. “Do you want a détente?”
More than anything in life.
Rosalie opens her mouth—
And Madame Florent walks back into the room.
They spring apart, standing up awkwardly and smoothing down their dresses.
Madame Florent doesn’t seem to notice, bringing them into the front of the shop to package up Miss Pine’s jacket and Rosalie’s cloak. Rosalie hovers next to her, desperate to continue their conversation and unwilling to let the afternoon end.
Miss Pine was brave enough to ask. She can be brave enough to give them the time they need, can’t she?
Madame Florent bids them good day, and Rosalie haltingly follows Miss Pine out onto the street. They stand for a moment beneath
the awning in the light afternoon drizzle.
“Would you like to come back to mine for tea?” Rosalie spits out, fast and too loud. Miss Pine looks over at her, surprised.
“My mother and father went to a function, and Christopher is at the club. We could . . . talk more?”
“Yes,” Miss Pine says, her answer just as fast and overloud.
“Good, good,” Rosalie replies, gesturing for them to head back toward her house.
After a moment of walking, Miss Pine slips her arm through Rosalie’s. Their elbows lock tightly together. Rosalie can’t tell
if she’s the one shaking, or if it’s Miss Pine.
Maybe they are on the same page, after all.
They don’t look at each other, but Rosalie can feel every minute movement of Miss Pine’s body. It’s thrilling and terrifying,
and by the time they get back to her house, Rosalie’s nearly sweating with nerves.
Her housekeeper, Mrs. Lowry, meets them as they come into the foyer.
“Mrs. Lowry, this is my friend, Miss Pine. We’ll take tea in the sitting room, please,” she says, her voice high.
But Mrs. Lowry doesn’t seem to notice, smiling politely at them both and hurrying off to the kitchens. Which leaves Rosalie
to bring Miss Pine up and back to the sitting room.
She could have said, “I have something to show you in my room.” She could have said, “I need to show you the library” or “Would you like to see the study?” She could have proposed a million ideas other than forcing them into the sitting room, waiting to be interrupted.
Miss Pine looks around in fascination, while Rosalie paces into the sitting area. Miss Pine can peruse the bookshelves, stare
at the paintings, consider the fabric Mother’s always saying she wants to change on the settees. But Rosalie just looks at
Miss Pine, quietly panicking.
It wasn’t so complicated with Jane all those years ago. But then again, with Jane, Rosalie didn’t really realize what was
happening until they were kissing. Didn’t understand herself so well. Didn’t know what or who she really wanted, so kissing
Jane—admitting she wanted to kiss Jane—wasn’t so fraught.
Now, there’s this beautiful, lithe, clever, funny woman sitting down across from her, smiling like she hasn’t a care in the
world, and Rosalie knows. She knows how dangerous a relationship like this could be, to her reputation, to her heart. She knows what it would feel
like to be rejected.
Well, she knows how it felt when Jane got engaged and moved away. When Jane dismissed what they’d shared as a folly, a lark,
when it had meant the world to Rosalie. She doesn’t know how much it would hurt for Miss Pine to rebuff her now. To tell her
it’s all been in Rosalie’s head this whole time, again. It might destroy her.
“Does your father read as much as you do, or is he more of a collector?” Miss Pine asks.
Rosalie blinks over at her. “He does. Not so much novels, but he reads all the time. And brings me books every time he goes
to London. Hopefully he brings a bunch back this time.”
Miss Pine has such a beautiful smile. “My father does the same.”
“That’s nice,” Rosalie says.
They stare at each other for a moment. To Rosalie, it feels like the air is crackling between them. Anticipation and hesitation
and desire flitting around the room. But then Miss Pine gets up and Rosalie slumps into the couch. She watches Miss Pine wander
the bookshelves, looking at the titles.
“Have you read The Italian?” she asks.
“No, I haven’t,” Rosalie says, close to groaning. She didn’t ask her back here to look at books, or take tea, or—
Thankfully, Mrs. Lowry barges in with the tea service, and Rosalie gets a brief reprieve from her nerves, helping her set
everything out on the low table between the settees.
“Do you ladies need anything else? I’ve got to get to market for a few things. We weren’t expecting visitors,” she adds, smiling
over at Miss Pine before shooting a look at Rosalie.
Rosalie just shrugs guiltily. “I think we’re fine, Mrs. Lowry, thank you.”
“Ring for Mr. Lowry if you do,” Mrs. Lowry says. “You might need to ring a few times. He’s organizing wine in the cellar.
Your father’s got a new categorization scheme.”
Father and Mr. Lowry’s never-ending quest for the most properly organized wine cellar is a topic of much debate among the
staff. Usually, it’s a nuisance. But today it means Rosalie and Miss Pine are likely not to be disturbed, at all.
Rosalie listens as Mrs. Lowry’s footsteps fade away. She stares at the tea and biscuits, her heart racing. They’re alone.
She can ask whatever she wants. Do whatever she wants.
Anxiety tugs at her throat, so she pours them both tea, the pot and cups rattling in her hands.
It sounds so loud against the silence. When she’s done, she looks up and finds Miss Pine watching her, still standing half a room away by the bookcases, that tension hovering between them again.
She’s wanted this opportunity for weeks.
Since before the moment they had in the theatre, if she’s honest.
Eloquence and formality are failing her. She can’t talk her way into or out of this one. And she can’t stay sitting here in
this silence for a minute longer, she just can’t.