Chapter 5 - Dahlia
CHAPTER FIVE- DAHLIA
By the time her booted heel hit the sidewalk, Bernard already had the door open and was frowning down at the hansom cab. Dahlia hurried up the wet steps.
She resisted the urge to glance back at the man she'd just left—she didn't want to draw Bernard’s attention there. Though extremely discreet and even more loyal, the butler didn’t approve of her venturing out without a chaperone.
If Bernard had his way, she’d be followed night and day by two extraordinarily large footmen and at least two lady’s maids.
It was only because she knew him so well that Dahlia could read the flicker of disapproval in his gaze. Once the door was shut between them and the wet street, Bernard said, "Your aunt is waiting for you in the parlor, Miss Warrington."
Dahlia nodded, plucking her damp ribbons to untie her bonnet.
"And one more thing, miss.”
She turned to him, fearing that he’d glimpsed the other occupant of the hansom cab, after all.
"Miss Rachel has requested a different bedroom."
Dahlia frowned. "Did she give a reason?"
"She states that the one she was provided is far too pink."
Dahlia pressed her lips together to hide her smile. "I see."
"Mrs. McNamara and I had thought to relocate her to the quail room, but we wanted to check with you first.”
“Is there any reason that wouldn't work?"
He shook his head. "Not that I can think of, miss. Only that the quail room has traditionally been saved for our male guests. But in this instance, we thought it might be more appropriate."
"I think that's an excellent decision. Please extend my gratitude and apologies for any extra bother to Mrs. McNamara and the rest of the household staff."
The butler nodded. "Very good, miss."
Dahlia took a moment to set herself to rights using the hallway mirror. Once she was convinced that the slight flush of her cheeks could be chalked up to exertion and nothing more, she smoothed her hair one final time and went in search of her aunt in the parlor.
The dowager marchioness was not technically Rachel and Dahlia's aunt at all. Rather, she was Percy's great-aunt. Dahlia wasn't quite sure what relation that made her to them, but they called her Aunt Janie all the same.
Society as a whole agreed that she was an excellent chaperone for young ladies, even though all she seemed to do was breeze in and out of the house at odd hours.
When they went to balls, she held court in the corner with a group of likewise titled and wealthy elderly widows who did little but drink from their not-so-secret flasks and gossip about the younger set.
Still, Dahlia was grateful not only for the freedom that this arrangement allowed her personally, but also for Aunt Janie’s sporadic companionship.
Though her inattention might have been problematic for some younger ladies, Dahlia had been out in society for four years now, and she certainly was not the type to find herself in a situation that might lead to a drafty garret.
Dahlia entered the parlor. Aunt Janie sat on the sofa, her head bent over a book.
She was tall and stout, with auburn hair that was shot through with grey at the temples.
She had lovely, expressive, warm brown eyes, and a ready smile with a slight gap between her front teeth.
When she smiled, which was often, it wasn’t hard for Dahlia to see past the layers of age to the mischievous little girl she once had been.
Aunt Janie had already undone her boots and dumped them in an ungainly pile next to the couch.
Her stockinged feet were propped upon a comfortable footstool, and her toes bobbed in time to music only she could hear.
Upon her lap was an open ledger with blank pages, much like the portfolio that Dahlia had tucked at her side.
As Dahlia watched, Aunt Janie made several notations with a pencil.
"Aunt Janie," Dahlia said, crossing to greet her with a brush of a kiss across her soft cheek.
"Hello, darling. How was your afternoon?" She frowned, as if noticing Dahlia's appearance for the first time. "Is it raining outside? Dear me, sit close to the fire, girl. You don't want to catch a sniffle. Wouldn’t do to be sneezing on gentlemen at the first ball."
Dahlia did as she was told, though the warmth of the house had quickly seeped into her very bones, and she was quite comfortable.
She was convinced that the elderly woman called her darling half the time because she couldn't be bothered to remember people's names.
Thankfully, she was at such an age where no one would question her on it.
"Aunt Janie," Dahlia said once she was settled, her skirts spread out to dry before the fire, "did you know that Rachel was coming to stay with us?"
"Of course." The woman blinked up from her book. "Did I not tell you?"
Dahlia shook her head.
"My mistake, darling. I must have forgotten. It's not an imposition, is it?"
A smile plucked at the edges of Dahlia's mouth. "Not at all. She's my sister. I'm happy she's here."
"Indeed. I thought as much."
A few moments of silence stretched between them. Dahlia used the comfortable gap to try to set her portfolio to rights. One of the things she loved most about Aunt Janie was that she wasn't nosy. The woman kept to her own business and expected the young ladies under her direction to do the same.
Dahlia hadn't dared so much as glance down at the portfolio clutched in her lap when she'd been sharing space with that enigmatic stranger.
Now, she opened the book, examined the broken spine, and reordered the pages as best as she could.
Luckily, the rain had only just started when the sketches had gone flying, so they were relatively well preserved, even if a few of them were dotted with moisture and scuffed with a little grime from the street.
The thrill of what she'd just done still echoed within her. She wondered whether it was the circumstance or the man himself that had affected her stomach in such a way. Dahlia was not the type to walk the razor's edge of danger. She wasn’t the type to go looking for trouble just to feel something. At least, not after the incident. In the grand scheme of life, what she’d just done was very minor, especially if no one ever found out.
As far as Dahlia could tell, only four people on earth knew what had just transpired—that she had been alone, unaccompanied, in the back of a hansom cab with a strange man. The cab driver didn't know her name well enough to gossip. He didn't seem interested, anyway.
The man himself would hardly want to admit to such a thing, as he might be leg-shackled to her. Bernard was loyal and would never say anything. As for herself, perhaps it was a memory that she would revisit from time to time, but she certainly wasn't going to repeat the story to anyone.
"Dahlia, darling," Aunt Janie said, "what’s on the calendar for the coming weeks?"
Dahlia’s lips trembled with suppressed amusement. Aunt Janie should know such things, as their chaperone. In fact, she should be in charge of the calendar for the household. But it was Dahlia who opened all of the correspondence and replied to the invitations for balls and dinners.
It was a pattern they’d dropped into—a happy arrangement for both sides.
Aunt Janie didn't have to pay attention to such things, and Dahlia never missed a prime social occasion.
At the beginning of each week, Dahlia outlined the week's engagements, and Aunt Janie attended each one without fail.
Dahlia could hardly complain—this system allowed her as much free time as possible, while still adhering to the social custom of having an experienced social dame oversee her activities to prevent any improprieties, real or invented.
"The Season has not yet begun, Aunt Janie. The next few weeks will be little more than shopping excursions, visiting friends' houses, and receiving visitors in turn."
Aunt Janie frowned, looking up from her book and met Dahlia's eyes. "And do you need my assistance with that, or will Mara suffice?"
"Mara will do just fine for now, though Rachel will need to be presented in a couple of weeks."
"And has she ordered her gown?" Aunt Janie scribbled in her book anew.
"We did that only this morning."
"If you’re involved, the gown is going to be spectacular. I don't know if anyone's ever told you, Dahlia, but you have quite the knack for dressing."
Dahlia's eyes crinkled. "Thank you, Aunt Janie."
The woman nodded and jotted down several additional notes.
"Are you working on anything interesting?"
Aunt Janie met her gaze a little sharply and more focused than she’d done previously. "Nothing of note." Her eyes flicked down to the portfolio in Dahlia's lap. "What about you?"
"Nothing of note," Dahlia repeated.
She suddenly wondered if it wasn't just cards and gossiping that occupied much of her aunt's time. Her thoughts flew to Mr. Pickwick, the pseudonymous author of a pamphlet that reviewed the moral character of members of nobility. As soon as the thought landed, she shook it away.
Until a couple of years ago, Aunt Janie had lived exclusively in the countryside with her son, the Marquess of Sutton.
Mr. Pickwick had been in circulation far longer than that, and there was no possible way such a thing could be accomplished by post. Still, a suspicion nagged at the edge of Dahlia's mind.
What, she wondered, was Aunt Janie working on?
The entire time she ruminated on the subject, Aunt Janie met her eyes. Then she swept Dahlia in a glance from head to toe. "Yes, my dear, a very keen eye for fashion. It's as if you've honed it somehow."
Dahlia stiffened and blinked, but Aunt Janie had already looked down to her own parchment. Was it possible that the woman knew her secret?
"Hello, Dahlia," Rachel said, sweeping into the room. "When did you get back?"
"Only just now.” Dahlia blinked at the huge black bird perched upon her sister’s shoulder. “Rachel, care to introduce me?"