Eleanor Webster - No Conventional Miss

‘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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