Chapter Seven
“You need to do something about your face, Miss Wright.” Lady Wharton frowned as she took the shawl Eleanor offered.
“Pardon?” Eleanor swiped at her cheeks and then rubbed her forehead, hoping she’d fixed whatever was wrong. Only half of her attention was in the ballroom. The rest remained in the hall. The Duke of bloody Strafford. He was here.
“Your expression, Miss Wright. You look as though someone force-fed you a lemon. If attending to me is so distasteful, perhaps this arrangement is not going to work.”
Eleanor dropped her hand, interlacing her fingers in an attempt to appear demure and composed.
“My apologies, Your Ladyship. I had an unpleasant encounter in the hall.” She flicked her gaze to the nearby grande dames who had gathered to pass commentary on the event.
None of them had noticed her misstep. They were fixated on a particular couple who danced so close they nudged the line of propriety.
Lady Wharton sniffed. “If you scowl at every unpleasant encounter this season, the forehead lines that just showed themselves will become permanently etched. You can scowl when you’re my age. Until then, do as other pretty young things do—control your smile, girl.”
Eleanor stiffened, and a lump formed in her throat as her mother’s voice leapt from the past into the present. Oh, Eleanor. You are sensible in almost every way, so why can’t you moderate your feelings? They are simply too much.
She swallowed back the memory and gave a wan smile. “Of course, Your Ladyship. Apologies. It shan’t happen again. What do you need? My attention is all yours.” She was being paid to do a job and she would do it well. Damn the duke for distracting her.
The dowager countess blinked. “Settle, Miss Wright. It wasn’t censure, simply advice.”
“Agatha,” the Dowager Duchess of Worth called out. “What do you think of this?” She waved her fan at a couple who were practically touching as they danced.
Lady Wharton sighed. “It is scandalous, obviously. But it is the fourth time this season that they’ve waltzed, so one might presume a betrothal is in negotiation. In fact, I believe we discussed the same last night. And the night before. And last week, even.”
The dowager duchess pursed her lips. “But no betrothal has been announced. Until then, they should maintain the appropriate distance.” The rest of the coterie murmured their agreement.
Lady Wharton’s nostrils flared so briefly that Eleanor was not one hundred percent sure they had actually done so. “Of course you are correct, Constance. We should have a word with the girl’s mother. Though I doubt Genevieve will do anything. The Mawson boy is quite a catch.”
As her friend turned her attention back to the crowd, Lady Wharton rolled her eyes and held out a hand. “Walk with me, Miss Wright. I feel rather lightheaded. Blood is pooling in my feet and I must get it circulating again.”
Eleanor straightened. “Did you know that lightheadedness is often caused by a drop in blood pressure? The most effective response is to lean over with your head between your knees, or lie with your feet raised.”
Lady Wharton raised a single eyebrow.
“But given the circumstances, perhaps taking a turn about the room is a better option.”
“You don’t say.”
Dear Captain,
I had a rather robust discussion about Don Quixote this evening.
My conversation partner and I disagreed on every aspect of it.
She found it chaotic and crude but an excellent argument for pragmatism.
I think Cervantes was careful in his construction of the story, and its impact on narrative structures has been unmatched.
Furthermore, his point was to criticize society’s disdain of idealism, not endorse it.
What do you think? You have read it, I assume.
Dear Booklover,
I have no strong feelings for or against it.
I agree that its construction was clever but I found the story less so.
I couldn’t relate to Quixote. His irresponsible behavior grated my nerves.
But the way he was treated was out of proportion to his sins.
Perhaps my feelings fall somewhere between yours and your companion’s.
Still, that Quixote became mad because he overindulged in novels gave me pause.
Since reading that, I have increased the proportion of nonfiction in my library.
It is an odd kind of insurance, I suppose.
I probably should have warned my sisters of the danger…
Perhaps their reading habit is why they are as they are, and it is too late for them.
Their sanity is long gone. And, if it is too late for them, is it too late for me to escape their madness?
I’m joking, obviously. I love them dearly, and would move heaven and earth to keep them happy. But what they need seems to change with the wind, and the effort of keeping up with it weighs on me.
Don’t tell my sister I said that when you write her next. It’s not a thought I’ve ever shared and she doesn’t need to know the things that worry me. For their sakes, it’s best to keep my family at arm’s length from my concerns.