Sarah Elliott - The Wayward Debutante

Louisa was still looking at her, waiting for an answer that she didn’t actually have. She certainly couldn’t admit that she’d left the invitation at the theater when she shouldn’t have been there in the first place. All she could do was be vague, but that would only send her aunt into a greater rage.

“It is possible I lost it, Auntie.”

“It is possible? Did you or did you not?” Her nostrils flared slightly.

Vagueness wasn’t working, so she tried bluntness instead. “Well, I don’t know where it is now. So I suppose that means I did lose it. Yes.”

Beatrice sighed deeply. “It no longer matters, Aunt Louisa. I never received it, and I’ve made other plans. Just this morning I told Lucy that I’d spend the day with her.”

Louisa shook her head. “You will have to change your plans. Your sister-in-law will understand.”

“I can’t just change my plans. I made a promise.”

“I’m so sorry,” Eleanor said, quietly but sincerely, hoping that her apology would placate her aunt enough so that they could change the subject.

“Your apology is noted, Eleanor, but not particularly helpful at this stage. I must have even numbers. Who ever heard of seating thirteen around the dinner table?”

“Well, I am sorry, Auntie.”

“ Thirteen! It’s preposterous.”

Eleanor bit her lip, not wanting to retort. But she hadn’t slept well the night before and didn’t have her usual patience for her aunt’s histrionics. “Don’t you think ‘preposterous’ might be a bit strong?”

“What?” Louisa spluttered.

“It is hardly a crisis. No one will even notice.”

Louisa’s mouth opened and closed a few times, fishlike, before she could speak. “I…I am not accustomed to this impudence from you, Eleanor. Where does this boldness come from?”

Eleanor refused to answer her. She was sick of being treated like a child. She crossed her arms and stared back stubbornly.

Louisa’s gray eyes narrowed. Still looking at Eleanor, she said, “Beatrice, I am going home. We will finish our discussion there. I do not approve of flippant girls.”

And with a curt nod, she turned and marched off.

Beatrice shook her head as she watched her walk away. “Why did you provoke her, Eleanor? She’s going to be in one of her sulks for the rest of the day, and I’m the one who’ll have to talk her out of it.”

“It’s not as if I meant to lose your invitation. I hate the way she talks to me, and I can’t let her do it forever.”

“You won’t think that when she decides you’re becoming undisciplined and need to stay with her instead of Charles and me. I know it was an accident, Eleanor, but you’ve been terribly absentminded. Louisa has apparently been planning this dinner for many weeks. You weren’t very sympathetic.”

Eleanor wished she could explain why she’d responded as she had, but she couldn’t tell Beatrice how she’d really lost the invitation. Hopefully, she said, “You’d rather spend the day with Lucy, anyway. Perhaps I did you a favor.”

“That is not for your carelessness to decide.”

She flinched. Beatrice had never spoken to her so sharply before.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly.

Beatrice flushed with guilty embarrassment. “You needn’t apologize. I shouldn’t have spoken like that. Forgive me.”

“If you forgive me. I haven’t been myself…I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Yes, well, one’s first season will have that effect.” Beatrice looked up the path, where Louisa’s rigid figure was gradually growing smaller. “I have to go now if I’m to catch up. Don’t worry about Aunt Louisa. I’ll calm her down. Come home soon.”

Eleanor watched her sister move hurriedly off. She walked over to the nearest bench and sat down, feeling wretched. She’d never stood up to Louisa before, and she’d hardly ever fought with Beatrice. What did it take to please everyone? Perfect obedience? Perhaps her taste of independence had made her bold. At any rate, her reinforced backbone didn’t seem to be going over at all well.

Who was she?

James was growing more confused by the minute, and to make matters worse he was beginning to feel rather absurd, as well. He’d been following her, after all, for half an hour now. He’d first seen her when she’d emerged from the stuccoed portico of number five Belgrave Square, preceded by the two stately creatures who’d just left her stranded. Finally alone, she was sitting forlornly on a bench. And he was standing behind a tree, looking, no doubt, like a complete fool. He’d ducked behind the tree when her companions had turned around to remonstrate with her. Now that they’d both left he supposed he could emerge, only he still didn’t know what to say to her.

His intention had been merely to return her reticule, and it was a matter of pure coincidence that he’d arrived at the house just as she was on her way out. He hadn’t even been certain that it did belong to her, as he could come up with no explanation for why she’d be carrying around someone else’s invitation, or for why a governess would own such an expensive item. As he’d mulled the possibilities over in his head it had even occurred to him, albeit briefly, that she might actually be the Right Honorable lady herself. She certainly talked like a marchioness. But he quickly discounted that thought: she was too obviously innocent to be married. Some rudimentary detective work, carried out the day before—well, he’d just asked William—had revealed that the Marchioness of Pelham was tall, blond and visibly pregnant. She could only be the woman he’d just seen Eleanor talking to.

If she was an Eleanor at all. Perhaps she was a Jane, or a Maria. He still didn’t know why she’d be carrying the marchioness’s invitation, nor could he explain why she looked so different today. It wasn’t just that the horrible blond wig had been replaced by her own rather nice, sleek brown hair. She wasn’t dressed as she had been before, either. She didn’t look like a governess.

But the way those women had been bossing her about, not to mention the way she’d been walking ten paces behind them, suggested they didn’t regard her as an equal. He hadn’t heard most of their words, but it was obvious they were taking her to task for something. Words like impudence, carelessness and useless had a way of carrying.

So, again, who was she?

He began walking in her direction, his hands in his pockets. He hoped he looked nonchalant, but he didn’t feel that way at all. Although he kept telling himself that he had the upper hand, with both age and experience on his side, it didn’t change the fact that he was starting to feel like an untried schoolboy. He didn’t exactly have a plan, and there was a very real risk that she’d bolt the moment she saw him.

Luckily, that didn’t happen. She noticed him just before he reached her, but although her eyes registered surprise she didn’t so much as start. Perhaps her mind was too busy with other matters for her to react quickly; he thought he detected a fleeting trace of sadness in her expression, although it vanished before he could be sure. As he halted in front of her, her expression became masked. She straightened warily in her seat, as if preparing herself to spring at the slightest sign of impropriety.

James hadn’t assumed she’d make things easy, and clearly she wasn’t going to dash his expectations. He suppressed a sigh of frustration. “Miss Smith. What a pleasant surprise.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just continued to stare levelly back at him, allowing no indication of her feelings to enter her face. But inwardly, she was reeling. How was this possible? Was she dreaming him up…every detail down to his disheveled hair and gold watch chain? Was he as much a figment as Jane Pilkington?