Manners & Mutiny
Page 21
“They’re in the middle of a new invention. Plus, they never know what to do when only one of us is home. When it’s me and Pillover, they insist we can entertain each other. Sometimes I think that’s why they had two of us. Poor Pillover—as a baby it meant a lot of dress-up. Thank goodness I was older. Can you imagine what he might have done to me, if I were the younger? Doesn’t bear contemplating.”
“Capital. I really am looking forward to it. And Petunia doesn’t realize we’ve been learning more than simply etiquette.” Sophronia gave her best evil smile.
Dimity giggled. “Which speaks well of either your talent or her willingness to be deceived.”
“Is that a compliment?”
Agatha shook her red curls. “You should take it as one, Sophronia. Remember what Lady Linette says about compliments?”
“They are better than jewelry when hung about a girl.”
Dimity was suspicious. “Which I’ve never quite believed, but if it’s what you’ve got, take it.”
Petunia’s house was lovely, if not as grand as Agatha’s. It boasted two mechanicals, buttlinger and clangermaid, as well as a man-of-all-work and a cook. Dimity and Sophronia had to share a room, because the other was being converted to a nursery, but they had done so before and enjoyed the return to form.
Petunia was inconvenienced most mornings and occasionally of an evening, which was enough separation for Sophronia to find her society bearable. The rest of the time Petunia was vested in paying calls and shopping as much as possible before her condition became apparent and she was forced into confinement.
Sophronia left Bumbersnoot behind on most jaunts because of her sister’s evident dislike of the unfashionable accessory. No doubt he spent his time hunting stray bits of string and the occasional dust bunny, depositing in his turn small piles of ash in one corner of the room. Luckily for Sophronia, who had to clean it up, he always chose the same corner.
Dimity was so enamored of the shops they visited that Petunia turned an increasingly fond eye to her. Sophronia would never have thought her friend and her sister could grow close, but already Dimity had a standing invitation to return for another visit, with or without Sophronia.
“Would you look at those gloves? Have you ever seen anything so pretty? And the leather, it’s like butter.” Dimity was in ecstasies.
“Oh my, yes, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, they are indeed divine. Do you think they could be made up to match Sophronia’s new walking dress? Oh, Mr. Pilldorff? Mr. Pilldorff, these exquisite little gloves, in mauve, do you think?”
Sophronia nipped in to throw a spanner in the works simply because she could. “Did you see the lace ones, sister dear? Did you ever imagine such a thing as lace gloves?”
Petunia’s head snapped up, not unlike that of an excited squirrel. “Lace? Did you say lace gloves? Surely, you jest, sister.”
Sophronia rarely jested without purpose. She pointed mutely.
Petunia and Dimity scuttled off to the other display, followed by the obsequious Mr. Pilldorff.
Agatha sidled up to Sophronia. “What are you up to?”
Sophronia wasn’t interested in gloves. In her line of work, their detrimental effect on dexterity left her mainly engaged in constant removal of said accessory. Although the reinforced leather tradesman style were invaluable for climbing ropes. “Causing a ruckus for my own amusement.”
“They hardly need your assistance.”
“True. My poor brother-in-law. Although he doesn’t seem to mind much.”
Sophronia, after a few days’ confined acquaintance, was growing to like Mr. Hisselpenny. He was a gentleman of middling years with an ungentlemanly interest in investment banking and an unreasonable urge to spend most of his capital on his silly wife. Petunia could not have designed herself a more amiable husband. One could easily overlook the bushy eyebrows. Theirs was a match made in consumerism and pecuniary advancement. He liked the pecuniary aspect, and Petunia liked to consume.
Sophronia and Agatha drifted to the back of the shop.
“You’re doing well out of it.” Agatha gestured to the stack of packages they’d acquired on this one trip alone.
“I do need new things.” Petunia had decent taste, and they had the same coloring, so Sophronia was tolerably confident in her selections. Occasionally, she voiced a preference for extra pockets or a stronger belt, practical choices that Petunia took into account, thank goodness, because the rest of the time Sophronia let her decide. As a result, their sisterly relationship had only improved. “I’m not complaining, even if it is all in pursuit of an advantageously blue-blooded match.”
Agatha smiled. “She married for money, so she thinks you should marry for rank?”
“She saw me with Lord Mersey. For herself she wanted a husband who dotes, but for me…? I think she believes her new money plus my training at a finishing school can advance us both socially. Which sets up her progeny for improvement by association. That is, if she does not spend all her husband’s funds on gloves first.”
Agatha was somewhat upset by this assessment. “I believe she actually enjoys spending time with you.”
Sophronia was startled. “You think that likely?”
Agatha looked almost pitying. “Must everyone have an ulterior motive, even your family? What has Mademoiselle Geraldine’s done to you?”
For the first time Sophronia worried that her training—the first thing she had ever really been good at—was turning her hard. Was it negatively coloring her view of the world? It was protecting her, of course, but at what cost? And here was Agatha—whose father pushed her and whose mother was absent in all ways but death—noticing.
“Capital. I really am looking forward to it. And Petunia doesn’t realize we’ve been learning more than simply etiquette.” Sophronia gave her best evil smile.
Dimity giggled. “Which speaks well of either your talent or her willingness to be deceived.”
“Is that a compliment?”
Agatha shook her red curls. “You should take it as one, Sophronia. Remember what Lady Linette says about compliments?”
“They are better than jewelry when hung about a girl.”
Dimity was suspicious. “Which I’ve never quite believed, but if it’s what you’ve got, take it.”
Petunia’s house was lovely, if not as grand as Agatha’s. It boasted two mechanicals, buttlinger and clangermaid, as well as a man-of-all-work and a cook. Dimity and Sophronia had to share a room, because the other was being converted to a nursery, but they had done so before and enjoyed the return to form.
Petunia was inconvenienced most mornings and occasionally of an evening, which was enough separation for Sophronia to find her society bearable. The rest of the time Petunia was vested in paying calls and shopping as much as possible before her condition became apparent and she was forced into confinement.
Sophronia left Bumbersnoot behind on most jaunts because of her sister’s evident dislike of the unfashionable accessory. No doubt he spent his time hunting stray bits of string and the occasional dust bunny, depositing in his turn small piles of ash in one corner of the room. Luckily for Sophronia, who had to clean it up, he always chose the same corner.
Dimity was so enamored of the shops they visited that Petunia turned an increasingly fond eye to her. Sophronia would never have thought her friend and her sister could grow close, but already Dimity had a standing invitation to return for another visit, with or without Sophronia.
“Would you look at those gloves? Have you ever seen anything so pretty? And the leather, it’s like butter.” Dimity was in ecstasies.
“Oh my, yes, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, they are indeed divine. Do you think they could be made up to match Sophronia’s new walking dress? Oh, Mr. Pilldorff? Mr. Pilldorff, these exquisite little gloves, in mauve, do you think?”
Sophronia nipped in to throw a spanner in the works simply because she could. “Did you see the lace ones, sister dear? Did you ever imagine such a thing as lace gloves?”
Petunia’s head snapped up, not unlike that of an excited squirrel. “Lace? Did you say lace gloves? Surely, you jest, sister.”
Sophronia rarely jested without purpose. She pointed mutely.
Petunia and Dimity scuttled off to the other display, followed by the obsequious Mr. Pilldorff.
Agatha sidled up to Sophronia. “What are you up to?”
Sophronia wasn’t interested in gloves. In her line of work, their detrimental effect on dexterity left her mainly engaged in constant removal of said accessory. Although the reinforced leather tradesman style were invaluable for climbing ropes. “Causing a ruckus for my own amusement.”
“They hardly need your assistance.”
“True. My poor brother-in-law. Although he doesn’t seem to mind much.”
Sophronia, after a few days’ confined acquaintance, was growing to like Mr. Hisselpenny. He was a gentleman of middling years with an ungentlemanly interest in investment banking and an unreasonable urge to spend most of his capital on his silly wife. Petunia could not have designed herself a more amiable husband. One could easily overlook the bushy eyebrows. Theirs was a match made in consumerism and pecuniary advancement. He liked the pecuniary aspect, and Petunia liked to consume.
Sophronia and Agatha drifted to the back of the shop.
“You’re doing well out of it.” Agatha gestured to the stack of packages they’d acquired on this one trip alone.
“I do need new things.” Petunia had decent taste, and they had the same coloring, so Sophronia was tolerably confident in her selections. Occasionally, she voiced a preference for extra pockets or a stronger belt, practical choices that Petunia took into account, thank goodness, because the rest of the time Sophronia let her decide. As a result, their sisterly relationship had only improved. “I’m not complaining, even if it is all in pursuit of an advantageously blue-blooded match.”
Agatha smiled. “She married for money, so she thinks you should marry for rank?”
“She saw me with Lord Mersey. For herself she wanted a husband who dotes, but for me…? I think she believes her new money plus my training at a finishing school can advance us both socially. Which sets up her progeny for improvement by association. That is, if she does not spend all her husband’s funds on gloves first.”
Agatha was somewhat upset by this assessment. “I believe she actually enjoys spending time with you.”
Sophronia was startled. “You think that likely?”
Agatha looked almost pitying. “Must everyone have an ulterior motive, even your family? What has Mademoiselle Geraldine’s done to you?”
For the first time Sophronia worried that her training—the first thing she had ever really been good at—was turning her hard. Was it negatively coloring her view of the world? It was protecting her, of course, but at what cost? And here was Agatha—whose father pushed her and whose mother was absent in all ways but death—noticing.
