Page 90 of Miss Dashing
The sneaking whiff of an unpleasant notion had become the rank odor of betrayal. “Flavia Brompton, you cannot expect me to go to Canada all on my own. Canada lies across a whole, perilous ocean.”
“You will have the company of your husband on that journey. I might have a husband too.”
“Then bring him to Canada, for pity’s sake. Flave, you must come with me.” Surely the obvious did not bear repeating?
“No, I must not. You will have Emeril to sort out and marvelous summers to enjoy. While I… Mr. DeGrange has been importuning Mama for permission to court me, and I will tell her to allow it. He claims he noticed me last year, but expected I would look higher than mere gentry. He’s very sweet, and not that old, and I was never one for adventures.”
Oh, good Lord. Of all the… but then Portia recalled that Mr. DeGrange had always been punctiliously correct toward Mama, and Mama had not taken to smacking him with her fan, which was a sure sign she was in pursuit of a flirtation.
The punch abruptly sat disagreeably. “Flave, you cannot abandon me.”
“We are not abandoning each other. We are growing up and taking our places in Society. You must promise to write to me, Porry, at least once a month. You will be the making of Cousin Em, I know you will.”
God in heaven. Flavia and Mr. DeGrange. Hecate and Lord Phillip. Blind hogs on every hand.
“I cannot fathom that you’d betray me like this, Flavia. All I can tell you is, my door will always be open to you, and I hope you and Mr. DeGrange are very happy.”
Flavia touched her arm. “Thank you for those good wishes, Portia. You will write to me?”
Portia had the sense that Flavia had stolen something from her—a future, a dream, an inheritance—but that was ridiculous. Emeril was handsome, ambitious, and a prodigiously good kisser, and Portia would indeed be the making of him.
“I shall write to you,” Portia said. “Once a month might be a bit too much to ask when I’ll be establishing my household and entertaining and furthering my husband’s interests to the best of my ability, but I will write.”
“Thank you.” Flavia imposed a one-armed hug on her, and Portia nearly hugged her sister back. A whole ocean, vast forests, winters… Why must Canada be so deuced far away?
Portia sat up lest those thoughts lead to needless fretting.
Flavia hadn’t reciprocated that part aboutmy door will always be open to you, probably an oversight, but… maybe not. Her door would be Mr. DeGrange’s door, and Mr. DeGrange did not appear to hold Emeril in very high regard at present. But then, Mr. DeGrange was mere gentry.
Portia rose. “The supper waltz approaches, and my Emeril has promised me… Oh, Flavia,look at him.”
Flavia stood as well, her gaze on the grand staircase, where Lord Phillip escorted Hecate down into the ballroom.
“Look atthem. She’s radiant and he’s resplendent.”
“Mama would say he cleans up nicely.”
“Mama would bevastlyunderstating the situation.”
Lord Phillip paused on the third step up and, before the whole of the glittering assemblage, kissed Hecate’s gloved hand.
“Not done,” Portia murmured, her heart genuinely fluttering. “A gentleman doesn’t allow his lips… It’s the outside of too much, Flavie, and Hecate is simply beaming at him.”
“When Lord Phillip is courting his lady, it’s apparently done and done well. I am promised to Mr. DeGrange for the supper waltz.”
She swanned off as Lord Phillip gave the musicians leave to begin the introduction. The dance floor filled with couples bowing and curtseying, though Portia didn’t see Emeril anywhere. She finally spotted him by the men’s punchbowl and barely got him onto the dance floor before the introduction concluded.
“We must extract a promise from Nunn to always leave this meadow in hay or pasture,” Hecate said. “Can one do that with a patch of ground?” How little she knew of the details of farming and how eager she was to learn them.
“One can,” Phillip said, walking hand in hand with her beneath the full moon, “and because this ground rolls and has a slope to it, that might be the best use of these acres anyway. Ah, your minions have been busy.”
Hecate had slipped down to the kitchen to whisper a request to Cook at the supper break, and Cook had hugged her.Not done. So much was not done and should be done. Frequently.
“Dawn isn’t far off,” Hecate said, settling onto the blankets that had obligingly been spread for them. “We have two hours at most.”
“We have the rest of our lives.” Phillip sat beside her and began removing his boots and stockings. “Now that you’ve had some time to ponder the matter, are you still pleased to have Edward Ross underfoot?”
Hecate had pondered the reality of having a father and would be pondering it for some time. She had also pondered—with unseemly relish—the pleasure of casting Isaac unto dear Uncle Frank’s impecunious charity. Living frugally was so much easier on the Continent, after all.
