Chapter 4 - Dahlia #2
Beatrice, the third sister, appeared as if an apprentice painter had attempted to copy Lily and landed only very close to the original.
Though they possessed the same light brown hair, Beatrice had slimmer features and smaller eyes, as well as a pert upturn to the end of her nose that gave her an inquisitive air.
Margaret was the youngest sister of the lot, and looked as if she might be from a different family altogether, except that she shared Lily’s large blue eyes and Beatrice’s overfull bottom lip.
Margaret had an abundance of light blonde hair and a curvaceous figure that was poorly served in the dress she was wearing.
Dahlia had seen such travesties before. It was as if some dressmakers had no idea how to accentuate a figure that was fuller than the so-called ideal, so they simply made a larger size of a dress designed for a slender lady and hoped that would suffice.
Dahlia wanted to shake her head even as her pencil flew over the page, righting the wrongs that had been done to Margaret’s comely—albeit buxom—figure.
The music from the lobby, the tinkling laughter of the ladies in the room, and the gentle sounds of clinking china and the soft scrape of silver forks against china plates provided a lovely background to Dahlia's sketching.
Her charcoal pencil was sharpened to a fine point, and it slid across the linen paper effortlessly, capturing every detail of trim, the feathers in the hair or the ribbons on the bonnet that should accompany the ensembles.
Dahlia jotted suggestions for gloves, accessories, and shoes in the margins. It was soothing to her, this practice, and she wondered idly if it was something that she could eventually share with Rachel.
She’d never told anyone about her secret pastime before, but the urge to do so grew stronger with every passing sketch.
If anyone would understand a unique hobby, it would be Rachel.
Her sister had never fit the norm. Even better, she didn't seem to care, which was a striking personality trait that Dahlia respected.
Although she was considered one of the most eligible young ladies of the ton, Dahlia still didn't feel as if she fit into society perfectly. She’d been raised on a farm.
She knew the hard work of daily chores. Perhaps that was why her fingers itched to do something useful, even if it was this silly avocation of designing gowns that no one would ever see.
She couldn’t abide sitting idly by, staring out of a window or some such nonsense.
As for the gossip surrounding the Preston sisters, Dahlia didn't like that, either.
She knew better than most how ruthless the gossip machine in nobility could be.
After all, she'd witnessed it levied at her sisters—not to the degree that was currently afflicting Claire and Lily, of course.
However, much like the hot pepper jelly that one of their stablemen preferred, a small taste was enough to impress upon Dahlia that she didn't care for it well enough to try a larger helping.
The afternoon wore on. Ladies drifted in and out like a beautifully attired tide.
Dahlia finished with the Preston Misses and moved on to Lady Newton, a lovely widow in her early thirties.
Lady Newton had a beautiful olive undertone to her skin that could work with almost any color.
Dahlia herself had to stick with cool tones, or she looked utterly bizarre.
Dahlia became so engrossed in her project that she lost track of time.
She glanced up and realized that the light had changed outside the windows—that instead of sun, it was now a dreary grey that hinted at a rainstorm.
Dahlia frowned and made eye contact with the waiter, which was enough to have him scurrying over.
She quickly paid her bill and headed toward the door.
By the time she stepped outside, a cool wind whipped through the mostly empty street. Dahlia cursed herself for her inattention. She’d intended to walk home, but the weather had turned, and even now, hints of moisture blew at her face.
Just her luck, there was not a hansom cab in sight; the street was deserted.
Dahlia whipped her head from left to right.
If she didn't find a carriage for hire before the rain started, there would be no chance of her finding one once it did.
Everything was painted grey in the light of the oncoming storm.
People hurried past, shoulders hunched, heads down.
As she peered down the street and then up the other direction, a single raindrop splattered to the ground near her skirts.
"Drat," she whispered.
Just as all hope was receding and she thought she’d have to retreat back into the lobby of the hotel to wait out the storm, a hansom cab turned the corner.
She narrowed her eyes at it. The back was empty.
She threw up a hand and the driver nodded in her direction.
She bent her head against the wind and hurried towards him. It would be faster just to meet him.
Halfway there, she collided with a stationary object. Her parasol and portfolio went flying; the air was knocked from her lungs. Papers erupted from her sketchbook and slid across the cobblestones.
"I say there, fellow, look where you're—" a deep voice began. "Pardon me, miss," the man said, correcting himself.
But his apology was done in the same gruff tone as his previous admonishment.
"You ran into me," Dahlia snapped.
She was embarrassed and a little irritated.
She didn’t bother making eye contact with the fellow, though she got the impression of a fine charcoal suit before she lunged for her parasol and her belongings.
Her portfolio pages were scattered across the street, and she scrabbled for them as the wind teased the edges.
"Certainly not." The man exhaled his derision through his nose even as he bent to assist her retrieving the pages. "I was headed to my hansom cab."
"Your cab?" Dahlia exclaimed, shoving pages of her portfolio back into place.
It appeared the binding had completely given way with the drop. It probably didn't help that she’d shoved a bunch of extra drawings in over time. Rain splattered, dotting the cobblestones and her pages alike as she hunched and gathered up the sketches.
"That one there." The man gestured.
"That’s my cab."
The man snorted. "I made eye contact with him and he nodded."
"He was nodding at me. I waved him down."
She came to her full height awkwardly, her parasol gripped in one hand, her portfolio in the other.
Noticing several pages in his large gloved hands, she snatched them free and looked up.
Wavy, sandy brown hair winged over slightly darker eyebrows that were currently drawn together in consternation.
A strong jaw clenched; his masculine mouth was pursed with irritation.
Perhaps if she hadn't been so irritated, she might have been able to appreciate the handsomeness of his face, but Dahlia had never been one to fall prey to a man’s looks.
She'd had too much experience for that. She had a book of grid lines full of crossed-out lists of handsome faces locked away in her desk at home.
The man stared at her, bemused. For a moment, she swore his expression hinted that they knew each other. But they didn't—Dahlia didn't know this man at all.
"Well?" she challenged when the man just looked down at her without speaking.
"Well, what?"
"Are you going to give me my cab or not?"
The hansom in question had drawn abreast of them and parked. The driver hunched his shoulders and frowned.
"That's likely the last cab in all of London," the stranger said. "I'm not going to hand it over to you just because you're pretty."
Dahlia's mouth dropped open; her head reared back in shock. Of all the nerve.
"Pretty has nothing to do with it," she snapped. "That’s my cab. I saw it first. I hailed it down." She turned toward the driver. "Tell him."
The driver's eyes went wide, as if suddenly finding himself between two stray dogs growling at each other.
"I don't want no trouble, miss. Whoever gets in, I'll take them wherever they want to go. That's my job."
"Wonderful." She smiled. "Please take me to Brook Street."
"Excuse me," the stranger said. "As previously mentioned, that’s not your cab. That’s my cab."
"You are a gentleman and I’m a lady.”
"What precisely is your point?"
"My point is that even if this were your cab—which it isn't, it's mine—you should give it up to me because I’m a lady."
"Perhaps I would have," he said, "except you ran into me on top of trying to steal my conveyance."
Though his words were terse, there was a crinkle around his eyes that made Dahlia suspect he wasn’t truly as irritated as she was. Either that, or perhaps he enjoyed being provoked.
Dahlia gritted her teeth and shot a silent prayer for patience to the heavens. This man, whoever he was, was insufferable. Never mind that his coat was of fine make, he was obviously not a gentleman at heart.
"But perhaps you are right." He slid a hand into his coat pocket. "Ladies first and all."
"Thank you," she said, her voice full of prim victory.
Dahlia reluctantly took the hand that the man offered to help her up into the small carriage, then seated herself, settled her skirts, and repeated her address to the driver.
A moment later, her eyes rounded in shock and her mouth dropped open when the cab lurched and the stranger clambered in beside her.
"Get out," she hissed. "This is—I thought you were giving the cab to me."
"I said ladies first, not ladies only. As stated, this is the last cab in London and I'm not going to give it up."
"Get out. People will see us."
"There's no one on the streets, and I'm not getting drenched because some high-in-the-step lady tried to knock me down and steal my cab." There was something like mirth about his features. "Besides, there's no one out to see us. Everyone with two brain cells to rub together is already inside."