Page 33 of The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady
Lady Barrington sat at her harp, playing softly as he entered. An older woman sat sewing in the corner. Her chaperone, he guessed and wondered where the indomitable Miss Barlowe was, for he had been expecting the woman to be the one keeping an eagle eye upon her niece.
He bowed as he entered and sat in the chair which apparently seemed set aside for this purpose, as she finished her piece. Her face seemed flushed, her movements a little unsteady upon the strings. He knew the piece she played well, and noted the small hesitations, the flaws. Not many, to be sure, but a wrong note here, a chord that felt somewhat discordant there.
My hostess seems nervous.
It was a startling thought. Her letter had intimated that she was a force to be reckoned with, a lady in control of her own destiny. This though, was the playing of a maiden uncertain, who avoided his eyes by playing with her own eyes shut, a feat that was in itself noticeable. What had happened to leave her so utterly lost?
The chaperone seemed unaware of the tension. Or if she were, she gave no sign as she sewed at whatever she had bundled in her lap. She tapped her foot in time to the music, a peaceful smile upon her face, that left him with the feeling that he had been judged and so approved, especially when he sat down without interrupting this impromptu concert.
When Helena’s hands finally stilled on the strings, he found disappointment in the cessation of the music. He sensed she could do better if she were not nervous and wondered what it would take to coax a smile from her, to enable her to play as she had when she’d been alone, and he’d overheard her playing from the hall only the day before.
“I am unsure how this is supposed to work,” she said softly into the silence, without looking at him. “I have never had a gentleman caller, and I am not sure of the proper etiquette. I have never been taught, Your Grace.”
The chaperone made a noise which might have been a protest of some kind. Helena shot her a glance, but stayed where she was, her hands still on the harp, holding it against her. An entire conversation seemed to take place without anyone making a sound at all. A lifted eyebrow from the chaperone, a swift shake of the head from the girl.
He might have laughed had he not been summoned so peremptorily. James rose and crossed the room, easing the harp from her hands, so that it stood in its place in the window. “You begin by not hiding behind the furniture.”
Helena’s swift intake of breath brought his attention to her mouth. She would have a pretty smile, he decided, should she ever quit scowling at him. “A harp is hardly a piece of furniture,” she said, fists bunching in her skirts.
“Some would call it such. Come, let me assist you to a more comfortable seat. That chair looks positively excruciating,” he said and offered her a hand.
She looked at it a long moment, as though trying to decide whether or not it was proper to take his offer. Finally, she acquiesced, rising gracefully, and shaking out her skirts before allowing him to walk her over to the settee which appeared far more comfortable.
“Is this right, then?” she asked, smoothing her skirts. He noticed the long gloves upon her hands and wondered if they were the fault for the ill-playing. She had been bare handed when she’d played alone.
“It is,” he said, with a short bow and returned to his seat which was directly across from her and in clear view of the chaperone.
“What happens next?” she asked, leaning forward, inquisitive as a child. So earnest was her expression that he found himself smiling.
“We talk politely about such topics as are easy to talk about, such as the weather or mutual acquaintances until the servants enter with the refreshments. Have you never made a social call?” James asked curiously, finding it harder and harder to remember that he was angry for having been summoned here.
She plucked restlessly at her skirt. “I have not,” she said quietly. “Sometimes the banker’s wife, Mrs. Prescott shows up for tea or the rector’s wife. I have not…” she gestured from her to him and back again. “This is new.”
The chaperone clucked and shook her head.
“It is all right,” James said, hoping to reassure them both. “I fail to see why we need to adhere to such rigid strictures of propriety as all that. We will look upon today as a lesson perhaps.”
“So, it does not count then, and I still have five remaining social calls?”
“Is does count and you have three,” he informed her haughtily.
“Four at the very least. You can hardly count dinner the other night,” she shot back, folding her arms in front of her in a most unladylike arrangement.
“I despair of you. Young ladies do not cross their arms at callers. And it does count. I fully expected to share the entire meal with you and music afterwards. You were the one who left, not I.”
For a moment he thought she’d keep her arms crossed just to defy him. She faltered though under his stern gaze, and shifted, letting her hands fall to her lap. “But I…”
“Left,” he finished for her a second time. “Regardless of the reason, I was there in good faith.”
“Four and a half calls then,” she decided firmly, her head coming up and meeting his gaze with a mischievous look in her eyes.
“And how do you propose a half call?” he asked, trying to decide if he were amused or exasperated.
“‘Tis simple. You begin a call, and then you have the right to leave early. If you so choose.”
“Why am I even considering this? Has anyone ever said that you were an absurd and rather irritating young lady?”
“Four and a half,” she said again, “and I do not have to chase you down to make you come again.”
