Chapter 1 - Dahlia #2
The other ladies assembled in this room for the prestige of the company, and for gossip, but Dahlia was here for two different things.
One, a bit of social interaction, as all her sisters were currently residing elsewhere and Aunt Janie was hardly at home herself, even though she was supposed to be chaperoning Dahlia.
And two, as silly as it was, Lady Barnes's cook made the very best scones.
Dahlia nibbled one now, trying to remind herself why she had come in the first place.
This one was candied orange peel with a sweet citrus glaze on top.
Delicious. She wondered idly if her brother-by-law’s cook could bribe the recipe out of Lady Barnes’s cook so Dahlia wouldn’t need to visit here at all.
The other ladies sniffed their disapproval at Dahlia's compliment.
"It hardly matters what they look like," Nora scoffed. "They all must be at least thirty."
"I don't think so." Samantha canted her head. She was sweet enough, but unfortunately her friends often led her astray. "Margaret is only my age, twenty-three. We knew each other as children."
Samantha smiled around at the group as if she expected praise for her information. But since it ran contrary to the popular opinion, she received only frowns instead. She studied her teacup as if slightly puzzled by the reception of her news.
“It’s still shocking,” Nora grumbled.
Even Dahlia had to admit it was an oddity, as the two eldest of the Preston sisters—although not thirty at all—were perhaps a bit too old to plunge to the center of the social whirlpool. Their age obliged them to stay at the shallow edges instead.
The place I'll soon be relegated to, Dahlia thought.
That idea didn't cause terror to thrill down her spine the way it would some young ladies. Dahlia had once stayed up all night to prevent a large rat from gnawing off some of little Hannah's hair for its nest—the social scrutiny she faced now was nothing compared to that terror.
"But certainly if they're back in town, so is their brother. And that wouldn't be an unwelcome addition. I have it on excellent authority that Lord Cavendish is very handsome indeed."
“Oh, he is,” Nora gushed.
"Is he the one with the receding hairline and the large bump in the center of his nose?" Samantha asked.
Dahlia sighed silently. Baked goods could only offer so much pleasure when the company was this tiresome.
"Where have you been?" Arlina crowed. "That was the old Lord Cavendish. He passed last year, probably of gout or something. He was old."
Dahlia consoled herself with another bite of the delicious orange scone. The late Lord Cavendish had been thirty-two at maximum, perhaps even younger. Age was difficult to assess based on hairline alone.
"The new Lord Cavendish is said to be scandalously wealthy. But Papa says I am not allowed to dance with him." Abigail frowned.
"Why ever not?" Samantha leaned forward, her eyes wide.
"Because of how he earned his money."
"How did he earn his money?"
Nora gave a feline smile. "Well, that's the problem. No one really knows. I heard that he—"
“He’s a pirate.” Carmine leaned forward with the force of her revelation.
Nora frowned at her interruption. Carmine either didn’t notice or care—the gasps of the other ladies were sufficient reward.
“It's like a gothic novel," Arlina tittered. "Could you imagine? On a ship and pirates attack, and it's someone who looks like him who comes through the door." She bit her lower lip, her eyes wide and expressive.
"Of course I can't imagine it," Samantha said. "I've never seen the fellow. Very hard to imagine if you've never seen him."
There was a collective rustle and sigh around the room.
Samantha wasn't the brightest, but she was included because she had two elder brothers of marriageable age, both with large properties.
The ladies assembled knew that the best way to ingratiate oneself with a brother was to befriend their sister.
Not that it had worked yet, but they were hopeful.
"The man is richer than Croesus, it's true." Nora rescued the conversation with a firm nod. "I have it on excellent authority that he spent a wagonful of gold on refurbishing the house. They're all staying at the Wellesley Arms until it's completed."
Samantha’s eyes were wide. "A wagon full of gold? Truly?"
"It's a metaphor." Nora rolled her eyes.
"But my brother Louis saw them delivering statues only the other day.
Apparently, the largest one wouldn't fit through the service entrance, so they had to bring it in the front doors.
Created a complete gridlock on the street.
His carriage couldn't move for half an hour. "
The other ladies chewed on the implications and washed them down with more tea.
"Well, we shall see soon enough," Lady Barnes said.
Dahlia said, "Regardless of how they came back, I cannot be anything but delighted they have."
"I didn't know you were close with the Cavendish family," Nora sniffed.
"I don't even think we've been introduced, but their clothing is phenomenal. You can't help but admit it, Nora; you have excellent taste yourself."
Nora blinked as if searching for the barb in Dahlia's words.
She appeared flummoxed when she found none.
But Dahlia wasn't jabbing at her when she said it—as a paragon of taste herself, she found it easy to compliment others around her who also enjoyed fashion.
It was perhaps the single thing she and Nora had in common.
"I did enjoy Beatrice’s walking ensemble yesterday in the park," Nora said haltingly, her eyes flicking from lady to lady as if frightened someone would take advantage of her for giving a genuine compliment.
"As did I." Dahlia nodded emphatically. "Such a stunning color with her lovely skin."
The room collectively ruminated on her words. Dahlia hid a smile. Perhaps the most shocking thing to ladies who fed on gossip was a genuine compliment said behind someone's back. After all, what was the point if the recipient couldn't even hear it?
"Although it might have been better if it had been pink," one of the ladies said, and Dahlia sighed into her teacup.
The momentary reprieve had been nice while it lasted.