Chapter Ten
T EN
Being awake until nearly dawn means I’m asleep when Marjorie first comes in, and I stir only on her second check.
By then, it’s past one. She brings me a breakfast plate that’s more of a breakfast platter.
Even by smell alone, I can pick out tea plus coffee, fish, sausage, bacon, porridge, and toasted and plain bread. There’s also writing paper and a pen.
“The men have eaten,” she says as she sets it down. “Your father should be here soon. It’s a Meet, which means they’ll have an early dinner, conduct business, and then, at sundown, they’ll hunt.”
She says this so matter-of-factly that for a moment, I think she means they’ll hunt on horseback, with dogs. Then I realize she means a very werewolf-specific sport.
“What do they hunt?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Deer, usually. The grounds are home to several herds. Mr. Bishop can explain more, if you’d like. He’s asked that we leave questions for him, and when Mr. Bishop asks…” Her lips twitch in a smile. “It isn’t actually a request.”
“Ah.”
“He has very pretty manners, but even if it seems you have a choice in the matter, you don’t.
” She looks over from pouring my tea. “I won’t say much about the men here, Miss Cordelia.
I know you’re curious, but I think it best for you to form your own opinions.
If I think you’re heading in the wrong direction, I’ll steer you clear of trouble.
I suspect, though, that I won’t need to. ”
“Forming my own opinions is best, though I’d appreciate redirection if required.”
“You’ll be mostly with Mr. Bishop, Mr. Julius, and Mr. Oliver, which will make things easy. They wouldn’t touch you.”
Marjorie finishes serving my breakfast and then murmurs, “Just be careful. That’s all you need to do. Be careful, and you’ll be fine. Mr. Bishop will see to it.”
With that, she curtsies and leaves before I can say anything else. I pick up the writing paper and pen, and start to compose a letter for Audrey.
Shortly after that, Marjorie brings Tabitha and Ann. I’ve been looking forward to meeting them, but the reality is… awkward. Awkward and strange and disappointing.
Tabitha is a tiny flaxen-haired girl who never meets my gaze. Marjorie said she wanted to meet me, but I feel as if she’s been dragged against her will. After a quick introduction, she scampers off.
Ann is a tall woman of about thirty, with pale skin, red hair, and an aloofness that feels downright frosty.
I ask a few questions, only to feel like the lady of the manor feigning interest in her staff.
I am interested, but it’s clear that Ann isn’t, and so I end the stilted conversation and she takes her leave.
After they go, Marjorie takes the tray and my letter, assuring me it will be delivered. She’s gone so fast that I don’t get the chance to ask her what happened. Why was I introduced to two people who supposedly wanted to meet me and then couldn’t wait to leave?
Were they wrong to think Tabitha wanted to meet a witch when she can’t cast spells herself? My interaction with Ann was even odder. Tabitha seemed shy but sweet; Ann seemed downright hostile.
Did I do something wrong? Did I treat them poorly? Other young women my age learn how to work with domestic staff and be a good lady of the house, but that’s never been part of my lessons. Maybe my usual friendly way of speaking to staff seemed overly familiar?
I’m trying to act as if everything is fine here, to tell myself I’m a guest, not a captive, but I’m still finding my footing.
I fret about this for far too long, and then decide to—at least temporarily—steady myself with something that always calms my mind.
I head to the bookcase, which matches the wardrobe and bed, being of simple but sturdy wood construction.
The bookcase is small but packed. I bend to look at the selection, and I’m pleased to see a mix of scholarly works and fiction, the latter leaning toward exactly what I enjoy, with American adventure tales and gothic romances and—
With a grin, I pull out a brand-new leather-bound book I’d sighed over in a little shop last week.
I open the cover, and I pause. The receipt seems to have been accidentally left inside. It’s from the same shop, bought the day Audrey and I had been there.
How long did my father have someone following me?
Perhaps I should be shocked—even offended—but it only reinforces that he’d been keeping an eye on me as this threat arose, biding his time and hoping he wouldn’t need to intercede, while preparing in case it came to that.
Which included instructions for whoever was following me to find things like this, books that caught my interest.
Tears prickle as I realize the care and consideration that went into preparing this room for me, on the off chance it’d be needed.
I settle into the armchair, and I’m deep in the book when Marjorie comes in.
I set the book down. “How is Tabitha? She seemed… uneasy.”
Marjorie plasters on a smile. “She’s a shy little thing, that’s all. She was delighted to meet you.”
“And Ann? ‘Delighted’ isn’t the word I’d use.”
Dismay flashes behind her eyes, as if she’d hoped I hadn’t noticed. She turns away and flaps a hand. “Oh, that’s Ann. It’s nothing to worry about.”
I peer at Marjorie, but she’s busying herself filling my washbasin with warm water, and I don’t know her well enough to press the point.
“Time to get ready for dinner, miss. I know you only finished your breakfast, but it’s past three, and as I said, they’ll eat early. Now, have you picked out a dress?”
I stare in the looking glass. The glass itself is remarkable, full length, with none of the distortion I usually see on such a large surface. But that isn’t why I stare. The mirror might be one of the finest I’ve seen, but my gown is—beyond doubt—the finest I’ve worn.
My aunt is considered well-to-do. While she runs a successful business, she still pretends that most of her money comes from her long-deceased husband, and even then she hides her true wealth, for our own protection.
That means we can’t dress like duchesses.
We wouldn’t anyway. I still take great pleasure in what I wear, and I’ve been known to sigh over a gorgeous gown the way some women might sigh over a handsome man.
Now, I certainly notice handsome men. I’d just describe my appreciation as frank admiration rather than swooning sighs.
Dresses make me swoon. Fabrics make me sigh.
I once had a gown of such rich satin that I dreamed of rolling on bedsheets made of it… maybe with a handsome man.
But I digress.
Even if I could afford a gown like this one, I’d feel guilty spending so much on mere clothing. But someone else has paid, and the dress already exists, and so I’m free to enjoy it.
The gown is turquoise silk with cream and turquoise lace.
It has a tight bodice and a neckline that’s rather ridiculously—and unfashionably—high.
The design suggests that the neckline should have fallen lower, but an added layer of lace covers it to my throat.
The same lace forms half-length sleeves and a small bustle train. More lace trims the floor-length hem.
“Not half bad,” Marjorie says. “As gowns go.”
I give her a look that sets her laughing.
“It’s beautiful, miss,” she says. “I’m glad you’re pleased with it.”
“I am. Everyone must have a weakness. Pretty frocks are one of mine.”
“One?”
“I have many. Weaknesses, that is. Not frocks. One can never have too many frocks.”
I twist from side to side, admiring the gown. Then I touch my hair. My waist-length tresses have been braided and intricately wound up, with tendrils curled using a heated iron.
“Thank you for this,” I say. “I know my hair can be unruly, but you’ve tamed it well.”
“A little unruly is never a bad thing, but for tonight, you should look more maidenly.”
I eye my dress’s absurdly high collar. Yes, “maidenly” is the word. No one is glimpsing one inch more of me than necessary.
“Now, if you’d like—” Marjorie begins.
A rap at the door.
“Ah, that would be your escort.”
She opens it and says, “Mr. Bishop,” as he walks in. His gaze flits over me, his expression unreadable.
“It is time,” he says. “Your father is waiting.”
“You’re supposed to tell her she looks beautiful,” Marjorie chides.
“I’m sure she knows it.”
“But when a woman is dressed for dinner, it’s polite to tell her—”
“Then she’ll know I’m being polite, and so it’s hardly a compliment. Are you ready, Cordelia?”
Marjorie sighs loudly. Bishop ignores it, offers his arm, and steers me off without another glance my way.
I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. I glance over and try to tell myself I’m overreacting, but his face is granite, jaw clenched, gaze forward, each step coming down as if squashing a rebellion beneath it.
His head is bare, though a hat would be proper for dinner.
Otherwise, his attire is more formal than I’ve seen, from the starched wing-tip collar on his white shirt down to his polished leather button boots.
His bow tie is white linen—many men still wear black, but Bishop clearly follows the latest fashions.
“I’ve annoyed you,” I say, and I want to lightly add that this is nothing new, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t sound light at all.
“You haven’t done anything.”
“Is that the problem? Am I supposed to do something?”
“No. Nothing is best.”
I glare his way. He doesn’t look at me. I want to keep pressing, but I’m afraid of seeming desperate. Like when I was younger and my aunt would retreat into stony silence, and I couldn’t leave her alone. I had to resolve the matter.
Bishop is not my ally. Not my friend. Stop this nonsense.
“Is it the dress?” I say.
His shoulders tense, just the slightest bit. “No, why? You don’t like it?”
“I like it very much.”
He makes a noise that might be “good,” and I try again: “It’s very proper.”
“As it should be. Again, that is best while you’re here.” He glances over. “Is that a problem?”