No Conventional Miss

Chapter Four

‘I’m glad someone hung out a moon for our special night,’ Rilla whispered hours later as she stared from the window of her sister’s bedchamber. She traced the white disc with her fingernail, the pane cool against her skin.

They had returned from the Thorntons’ ball a half hour since and Imogene lay reclining amongst the lace cushions on her bed, stretched like a contented cat.

‘Rilla, how can you talk about the moon? Did you not notice Lady Alice’s dress and her mother’s tiara? The diamonds lit up the room. Can you imagine owning such jewels? Those are the things I dream about—not moons.’

‘And I will dream of them for you. But the moon will do for me.’

‘And the gentlemen! They were most kind and made such pretty speeches. I cannot believe I was nervous earlier. Indeed, I cannot decide which I enjoyed more, the dancing or the conversation. And all the gentlemen thought me witty.’

‘With good reason, but...’ Rilla paused, turning from the window and picking up a hairbrush from the dressing table. She pushed her palm against it so that the bristles prickled her skin. ‘Do be careful. Not everyone is as nice as you suppose.’

This got Imogene’s attention. Her eyes widened and she propped herself upright. ‘Are you referring to someone in particular?’

‘Not really. Most of your partners were delightful—’

‘But?’ Imogene interrupted impatiently. ‘What is it, what do you want to say?’ Her voice took on a childish tone.

‘Well...’ Rilla tugged the brush through her hair.

‘You have some big-sisterly criticism. You disliked someone with whom I danced?’

Rilla paused. ‘Jack St John, if you must know. He was obnoxious as a child and has not improved since. Julie says he gambles and drinks.’

‘Lud, every gentleman gambles and drinks. Even Father—’

‘I know. That’s why—’ Rilla stopped, gulping back her words. Imogene knew nothing of Father’s debts. Or Lockhart’s involvement. ‘I mean, I just think you should be wary. Be polite, but—keep him at arm’s length.’

‘Goodness, I only danced with him.’

‘And joined him for lemonade.’

‘Lud, how dreadful. What should be my punishment?’ Imogene had now abandoned all lassitude and sat bolt upright, her fingers working at the lace trim of the pillowcase.

‘Don’t be foolish. I am only worried for you.’

‘Foolish? May I remind you that I have been reading the Tatler for years? It is perhaps you who are foolish with your Greeks and...and butter churn.’

‘My churn? My churn has nothing to do with this. I just wanted to warn you.’

‘I don’t need your warnings.’

‘Obviously.’ Rilla pushed her hair back from her forehead and dropped the brush with a clatter on to the dressing table.

What a mess. She should have known not to mention the matter while Imogene was both tired and excited from the ball. Likely she was still raw from that moment of nerves earlier. Besides, who was she worried for—Imogene or herself?

Imogene had not been the subject of Lockhart’s insidious comment about ‘odd tales’.

Imogene had not heard voices in the middle of a dance.

Imogene had not talked about baths or felt that peculiar, prickly, apprehensive, excited attraction to Lord Wyburn.

The silence stretched, broken only by the clock ticking and a branch tapping intermittently against the window.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rilla said at last. She was always the first to make peace. Her anger both came and went swiftly. ‘I’m fussing, as Mrs Marriott would say. After all, you could hardly refuse to dance with a neighbour.’

‘Thank you,’ Imogene said, still stiff, her gaze focused on the wallpaper as though much fascinated by the painted roses. ‘I certainly did not wish to give the earl any special favours. Besides you danced with Lord Alfred Thompson twice.’

‘I did,’ Rilla acknowledged, although the foppish Lord Alfred was a vastly different man than Lockhart. ‘Anyway we shouldn’t quarrel. It would be a sad way to end such a special night.’

‘True,’ Imogene smiled, looking away from the wallpaper. ‘Besides, the earl will be too busy with his own set. We will not see him much.’

‘You’re right, of course.’ Rilla stood and, blowing her sister a kiss, left for her own chamber.

But once alone, Rilla felt her body wilt with exhaustion and her spirits drop to an oppressive low.

She would feel better after a night’s rest, she thought, as she kicked off her slippers. Yet, despite exhaustion, sleep did not come. Her thoughts jumped and flitted.

There was Lockhart with his silky tones and innuendos.

And the viscount.

And her reaction to the viscount.

Worse yet, there was that soft, desperate voice and her own growing conviction that Lord Wyburn was connected to that voice.

All of which meant, she should avoid him. She should not dance with him or chat about Romans, Greeks, butter churns or any other topic for that matter.

And yet she could not stop seeing him. He was Lady Wyburn’s stepson.

Even worse, she did not think she even wanted to...

* * *

Apparently a Wyburn soirée took as much preparation as Hannibal’s invasion, minus the elephants. Shortly after the ball, Lady Wyburn had decided to follow on this success with a dinner in the girls’ honour.

‘It would be just the thing. We will invite anyone who is anyone, which is an extremely confusing phrase because really everyone is someone, at least in their own mind. Besides, we don’t want people to forget you.’

‘Highly unlikely. We drink tea with the same people every afternoon,’ Rilla said.

‘I meant the gentlemen, my dears.’

On the day of the event, the girls watched the bustling of all manner of servants and trades people. Florists trooped in, housemaids swept and polished so that lemon wax perfumed the air and Lady Wyburn rushed about, her grey ringlets dishevelled and her forehead shining with perspiration.

‘I thought the house already immaculate,’ Rilla whispered to Imogene as they looked over the banisters into the front hall.

‘Indeed, and Lady Wyburn describes this as an intimate dinner,’ Imogene added.

Heloise, the diminutive French maid in charge of their appearance, hurried up the stairway, her feet tapping against the wood with businesslike efficiency. ‘There you are. I had been looking for you, oui. Miss Imogene, I need you to try on your gown. Miss Amaryllis, perhaps you should go to your chamber. You cannot be draping yourself over banisters all day.’

‘Yes,’ said Rilla, not unwilling to leave. With any luck she might even manage a few minutes with her churn. She had asked Heloise to save her bathwater and hoped to try out a modification in the design of her trough.

Despite her evident disapproval, Heloise had followed instructions and the bathwater remained. Although, Rilla noted, grinning, Heloise had relegated the churn to a far corner, half-hidden by the curtains.

The contraption consisted of a trough which channelled water on to a waterwheel which powered the churn. She had recently altered the design of the trough, hoping that if she carved a deeper channel, the force would increase, but less volume would be required.

Taking a small knife, Rilla scraped the wood with regular, methodical motions, enjoying the rasp of metal against wood, the roughness of the grain and even its smell. She liked this tangible link with home and the concrete practicality of the task.

Both the viscount and odious Jack St John were coming tonight. Of course, she’d seen the earl every day that week—that man was an all-too-frequent visitor, lingering like the smell of fish on Fridays. Moreover, Imogene apparently found him wildly humorous, although in Rilla’s opinion he had a stolid, humourless personality.

She dug energetically into the wood.

Still, there were other gentlemen who viewed Imogene with approbation. Lord Alfred Thompson visited most days and was more intelligent and less foppish on closer acquaintance.

Yes, he might do, although Imogene didn’t seem entirely smitten.

Wyburn hadn’t visited. Indeed, Rilla had not seen him since the ball.

This was a great relief, of course, Rilla decided, digging with sudden ferocity until her knife skidded, narrowly missing her hand.

Must the man even jinx her from afar? Not that she missed him. He made her too confused and her usually prosaic nature and logical mind became impaired by his presence.

There. She gave a final cut and put down the knife.

That should work. She would test it now. She always found concentrating on her inventions a calming occupation. Balancing the trough over the waterwheel, she used the jug from her dresser to scoop up the chilled bathwater.

She watched carefully as it splashed into the trough and on to the waterwheel, which then moved slowly, causing the two paddles in the churn to also shift.

‘Mademoiselle, whatever are you doing?’ Heloise hurried into the room.

Startled, Rilla almost toppled into the bath. ‘Bother,’ she said.

‘You’re getting yourself wet.’

‘I’ll dry.’

Rilla poured a second jug of water on to the trough, angling her body so that she could see the liquid’s progress and its speed of descent.

‘I meant you should rest or do something ladylike,’ Heloise said, making a clicking sound with her tongue.

‘I find this very calming. Besides, I think it is working better.’

‘Umff. Me, I will feel calm when we have done something with that hair. We should start now. Doing your hair is a time-consuming process and it will be evening soon enough, oui?’

‘But it is early still.’

‘We need all the hours God sends. Besides, her ladyship said that the viscount, you know, Lord Wyburn, remarked that you had cleaned up remarkably well.’

‘He did?’ Rilla dropped the trough.

‘Now look at the mess. I will clean it and then no more science.’

* * *

Rilla entered Lady Wyburn’s drawing room some hours later in a low-cut emerald gown, every aspect of her appearance primped and polished by Heloise.

A fire burned in the hearth, its marble mantel smaller than anything in the Gibson household, but vastly more sophisticated.

In fact, Lady Wyburn’s entire decor was one of understated elegance. Gilt trim glittered about the ceiling, reflected in the long mirrors which lined the walls. White-and-gold sofas and chairs furnished the room, and a red Indian carpet dominated the centre.

Imogene had come down already and sat on the sofa, resplendent in a pink dress and long white gloves.

‘You look beautiful,’ Rilla said.

It was true. Since arriving in London, Imogene had matured, transforming from a beautiful girl into the elegant woman she had always wanted to be.

‘You too.’

‘Thank you. Heloise worked hard and assured me I would not disgrace her which is high praise, but...’ Rilla paused, adding, ‘I am nervous.’

‘I am sure you need not be. You have been a success to date.’

‘But at other events, there has been dancing. Here we will do little but converse and I have no idea what to talk about. I’m doomed to stand mute like a pea-goose.’

‘You’ll be fine as long as you do not mention your inventions.’

‘They’d be more interesting than the weather.’

‘Ladies do not aspire to be interesting.’

Rilla giggled. ‘I aspire only to survive the Season without tripping.’

‘Rilla—’

‘I hear something.’

Careless of her dress and hair, Rilla knelt on the sofa, pushing her head through the curtains. ‘They’re already come!’

Indeed, the first carriages had stopped in front of the house. Rilla could see their dark outlines within the puddles of yellow light cast by the street lamps.

Rain fell heavily, bouncing off both the cobbled streets and the black-lacquered roofs of crested coaches. Several of Lady Wyburn’s liveried servants carried torches and black umbrellas as they escorted the guests towards the house.

Then, something happened. The scene warped, changing and transforming.

Her breath caught. Instinctively, she clutched at the thick velvet curtain. She swallowed. Before her eyes, the street disappeared into a black lake pitted with rain. Men waded into the water. They held flickering torches, their light reflecting on the water’s ink-like surface. She could see their cloaks. She could see the thick trunks of their legs and hear the splash of water as they trudged forward.

Fear, worry and, deep in her stomach, the coldness of despair.

And lavender.

She smelled lavender.

‘Rilla?’ Strain tightened Imogene’s distant voice.

The men stooped, lifting something from the lake and Rilla felt her gaze inexorably drawn to it. ‘Please...’ she whispered, half in prayer.

Then, as if it had never been, the lake diminished and Rilla was back, once more, within the pleasant room.

Her breath escaped in whistled relief.

‘Come, girls!’ Lady Wyburn swept into the room. ‘Gracious, Rilla, whatever are you doing poking your head through the curtains? You’ll wreck your hair. It is time to greet your guests.’

‘Yes.’ Rilla stood and forced a smile.

She cast one final look through the window, but the scene presented nothing more alarming than a cobbled street on a wet night. The horses stood, stamping their hooves, steam rising from their sleek backs. Coachmen opened carriage doors, muffled under greatcoats dark with wet.

‘Rilla?’ Imogene questioned, her voice low with worry.

‘It was nothing,’ Rilla said.

These moments could not—must not—happen here in London.

* * *

Paul noted Miss Gibson’s absence almost immediately upon rejoining the ladies following dinner and port.

It wasn’t that he looked for her. In fact, he’d been trying to ignore her for the better part of the evening. Rather he appreciated something lacking, like a room without a fire or a flowerbed out of bloom.

At first he surmised she’d gone to the ladies’ retiring room, but as her absence lengthened, he wondered whether she was ill. She’d looked pale earlier. Indeed, even through dinner she’d been lacklustre and distracted, very different from the girl with the flushed cheeks that he’d seen after that wild gallop.

Lord Alfred’s absence took Paul longer to appreciate. The man was not particularly noticeable, more cravat than person. However, after a while, Paul realised he’d not seen that gentleman either for a good hour. He also recalled that Lord Alfred had hovered about both the Misses Gibson at the Thorntons’ ball and had visited Lady Wyburn’s establishment on several occasions.

Paul’s jaw tightened. A headache spread across his temples. Easing himself from his chair, he strolled from the room with forced indolence. Once in the corridor, his spine straightened and his thoughts turned bleak.

The girl was under Lady Wyburn’s protection and he refused to let her act inappropriately with Lord Alfred, or anyone else for that matter. He looked in both the morning and music rooms.

He found no one.

‘Where is Miss Gibson?’ Paul asked Merryweather as the butler entered the hall, his tray heavy with refreshments.

The man started, causing the crystal to rattle. ‘Haven’t seen her, my lord. Perhaps check the library. She likes it there.’

‘The library?’ Paul frowned.

His father had liked the library rather well, although he’d spent more time consuming alcohol than literature.

The door creaked in opening. The light was dim, broken only by a small fire and two sconces. It was only as he neared the hearth that he saw the emerald figure curled within the depths of the leather armchair.

He stopped. She must be sleeping. He softened his tread so as not to startle her. Peculiarly, she clasped a miniature in her hand and her posture seemed unnaturally rigid for one in sleep.

‘Miss Gibson?’ He touched her shoulder.

She made no response.

‘Miss Gibson?’ he said again, more loudly. Still she seemed not to hear him although her eyes were open.

He shook her shoulders, almost roughly, conscious of an unfamiliar start of fear.

She stirred.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

She blinked, staring at him as though not comprehending his words.

‘You were asleep,’ he explained.

She shifted. The miniature dropped from her hand, clattering to the floor. Bending, he picked it up. His stomach tightened as he saw the painted face. His fingers clenched against the frame.

‘What are you doing with this?’ he asked.

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