The Strange Case of Finley Jayne
Page 11
Maybe she was naive in her thinking that love was more important than honor and family and all that nonsense, but any envy she might have felt toward Phoebe and other girls of her class was greatly diminished.
Wasn’t living your life based around what people thought and expected of you a little…well, stupid?
Hypocrite, a voice whispered inside her head. You always worry about what people think of you.
But that wasn’t quite the same thing, Finley told herself firmly, and that was the end of the conversation, because everyone knew only mad girls talked to themselves.
She danced another two times before the evening finally came to an end. She couldn’t remember the young men’s names, but they had been pleasant and polite enough. She was fairly certain they only danced with her because they thought she was Phoebe’s cousin and their mothers told them to.
“Did you have a good time tonight, Finley?” Lady Morton asked in the carriage on the way home. She had removed her spectacles and her ‘odd’ eye glowed a little in the dim light—like a cat’s.
Finley stifled a yawn. “Yes, my lady.” She could hardly admit that her feet hurt and that she’d spent the last hour of the party praying for it to end.
Lady Morton seemed pleased. “Excellent. The Duke of Greythorne was in attendance. Did either of you happen to notice him?”
Finley shook her head. Phoebe yawned delicately behind her gloved hand. “I did not. I’m sure it was because His Grace was surrounded by frenzied young ladies vying for his attention.”
One of Finley’s brows rose. “Is he that handsome?”
Phoebe grinned. “And that rich. He’s only a little older than us, so I doubt he’ll be eager to marry anytime soon. They’re wasting their energies trying to catch him.”
This was an odd concept to Finley, girls trying to “catch” a husband. Her mother always made it sound as though it was the man’s duty to woo the lady. Perhaps it was something introduced by the Suffrage movement.
She was about to ask how old Robert was, but caught her tongue just in time. That was not something to discuss in front of Lady Morton. Besides, Phoebe had laid her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes, almost instantly falling asleep.
Lady Morton shot Finley an amused glance. “She’s been able to do that since she was a baby. It seems you and I are left to amuse each other as we contend with the crush of traffic, Finley.”
And what traffic! The carriage would roll a few feet and then stop, caught up in the steady throng departing the party, clogging the narrow street.
“Lord Vincent has a very lovely home,” Finley offered awkwardly. At least it was safe conversation.
“Yes,” her ladyship agreed. “All the modern conveniences, as well. The earl is a very interested in progress. He’s always supported the scientific arts.”
“What happened to his leg?”
Lady Morton’s expression sobered. “A carriage accident. He and his wife were on their way back from holiday in Scotland. His leg was destroyed and she was killed.”
“That’s terrible.” Finley felt awful for asking.
“Yes. He made himself an automaton limb—one that moves and behaves just as a proper limb would. Is that not amazing?”
Finley murmured in agreement. “I saw a portrait of his wife earlier this evening.”
“You did?” A wrinkle appeared between Lady Morton’s brows. “How did you happen to see that?”
“I had a headache and needed quiet. I slipped into an empty room and saw it hanging on the wall.” She had said this much, she might as well press on, “She looks like Phoebe.”
“Yes.” The older woman clasped her hands in her lap—tightly, as though to keep from fidgeting. “Cassandra and I were cousins.”
So that meant that Lord Vincent intended to marry his wife’s cousin. There was something…icky about that.
One glance at her ladyship and Finley suspected she shared the feeling. She also looked like she dared Finley to cast judgment in a strangely fragile manner.
“It’s a good match,” Finley said instead.
“Yes.” There was an element of relief in the word. “It is.” Then she turned her attention to the window, and all conversation came to an end.
The carriage jerked into motion and picked up speed. They were home within a few minutes. Phoebe woke up so quickly and brightly that Finley wondered if the girl had been asleep at all.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next few days were filled with shopping as Lady Morton and Phoebe were determined to see Finley well dressed. She refused to allow them to buy her extravagant clothing, and instead set her mind to simple, well-made garments.
“I’m supposed to be from the country,” she argued. “Country fashion is much more practical than City dress.” She was right, of course, so they gave in. The result was a modest wardrobe of good, modern pieces—nothing too fine or fussy, but nothing so drab that they’d be ashamed to be seen with her in public.
If she needed something superfine, it was agreed that she could borrow something that Phoebe had already worn and alter it. Being raised by a seamstress had its advantages.
But all this shopping and stopping for tea, more shopping, stopping for luncheon and visiting, and then more tea, followed by dinner and an evening at the theater—in Lord Vincent’s box—meant that it was days before Finley had the chance to talk privately with Phoebe, and quite late at night at that.
Wasn’t living your life based around what people thought and expected of you a little…well, stupid?
Hypocrite, a voice whispered inside her head. You always worry about what people think of you.
But that wasn’t quite the same thing, Finley told herself firmly, and that was the end of the conversation, because everyone knew only mad girls talked to themselves.
She danced another two times before the evening finally came to an end. She couldn’t remember the young men’s names, but they had been pleasant and polite enough. She was fairly certain they only danced with her because they thought she was Phoebe’s cousin and their mothers told them to.
“Did you have a good time tonight, Finley?” Lady Morton asked in the carriage on the way home. She had removed her spectacles and her ‘odd’ eye glowed a little in the dim light—like a cat’s.
Finley stifled a yawn. “Yes, my lady.” She could hardly admit that her feet hurt and that she’d spent the last hour of the party praying for it to end.
Lady Morton seemed pleased. “Excellent. The Duke of Greythorne was in attendance. Did either of you happen to notice him?”
Finley shook her head. Phoebe yawned delicately behind her gloved hand. “I did not. I’m sure it was because His Grace was surrounded by frenzied young ladies vying for his attention.”
One of Finley’s brows rose. “Is he that handsome?”
Phoebe grinned. “And that rich. He’s only a little older than us, so I doubt he’ll be eager to marry anytime soon. They’re wasting their energies trying to catch him.”
This was an odd concept to Finley, girls trying to “catch” a husband. Her mother always made it sound as though it was the man’s duty to woo the lady. Perhaps it was something introduced by the Suffrage movement.
She was about to ask how old Robert was, but caught her tongue just in time. That was not something to discuss in front of Lady Morton. Besides, Phoebe had laid her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes, almost instantly falling asleep.
Lady Morton shot Finley an amused glance. “She’s been able to do that since she was a baby. It seems you and I are left to amuse each other as we contend with the crush of traffic, Finley.”
And what traffic! The carriage would roll a few feet and then stop, caught up in the steady throng departing the party, clogging the narrow street.
“Lord Vincent has a very lovely home,” Finley offered awkwardly. At least it was safe conversation.
“Yes,” her ladyship agreed. “All the modern conveniences, as well. The earl is a very interested in progress. He’s always supported the scientific arts.”
“What happened to his leg?”
Lady Morton’s expression sobered. “A carriage accident. He and his wife were on their way back from holiday in Scotland. His leg was destroyed and she was killed.”
“That’s terrible.” Finley felt awful for asking.
“Yes. He made himself an automaton limb—one that moves and behaves just as a proper limb would. Is that not amazing?”
Finley murmured in agreement. “I saw a portrait of his wife earlier this evening.”
“You did?” A wrinkle appeared between Lady Morton’s brows. “How did you happen to see that?”
“I had a headache and needed quiet. I slipped into an empty room and saw it hanging on the wall.” She had said this much, she might as well press on, “She looks like Phoebe.”
“Yes.” The older woman clasped her hands in her lap—tightly, as though to keep from fidgeting. “Cassandra and I were cousins.”
So that meant that Lord Vincent intended to marry his wife’s cousin. There was something…icky about that.
One glance at her ladyship and Finley suspected she shared the feeling. She also looked like she dared Finley to cast judgment in a strangely fragile manner.
“It’s a good match,” Finley said instead.
“Yes.” There was an element of relief in the word. “It is.” Then she turned her attention to the window, and all conversation came to an end.
The carriage jerked into motion and picked up speed. They were home within a few minutes. Phoebe woke up so quickly and brightly that Finley wondered if the girl had been asleep at all.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next few days were filled with shopping as Lady Morton and Phoebe were determined to see Finley well dressed. She refused to allow them to buy her extravagant clothing, and instead set her mind to simple, well-made garments.
“I’m supposed to be from the country,” she argued. “Country fashion is much more practical than City dress.” She was right, of course, so they gave in. The result was a modest wardrobe of good, modern pieces—nothing too fine or fussy, but nothing so drab that they’d be ashamed to be seen with her in public.
If she needed something superfine, it was agreed that she could borrow something that Phoebe had already worn and alter it. Being raised by a seamstress had its advantages.
But all this shopping and stopping for tea, more shopping, stopping for luncheon and visiting, and then more tea, followed by dinner and an evening at the theater—in Lord Vincent’s box—meant that it was days before Finley had the chance to talk privately with Phoebe, and quite late at night at that.
