Scales and Sensibility by Stephanie Burgis
Chapter 11
It took longer than she would have liked, but by the time Lady Hathergill’s abigail, Carter, finally arrived to prepare her for luncheon, Elinor had regained self-control...and formed a plan, too.
“It was kind of my cousin to send you,” she told Carter. “However, as you can see, I’ve managed to dress myself already, and I don’t need you to arrange my hair.”
As an upper servant—and one who worked regularly with Penelope, at that—Carter was, of course, far too well-trained to disagree with her employers. Her horror was clear to read on her face, though, as she looked at the plain, tight, high knot that Elinor had scraped her hair into—the only style Elinor had ever successfully managed on her own, and the one that had been deemed most appropriate for a despised poor relation during the last six months.
Carter was not merely a ladies’ maid; she was a true artist, an acknowledged genius with hair. “Yes, ma’am,” she murmured, dipping a polite curtsey...but she sounded as if she were gagging on the words.
Elinor felt a sudden stab of uncertainty. Benedict’s earlier words rang in her ears: “Eccentricity can be fashionable, and yet…”
Rapidly, she revised her plans. “Actually, what I should really like would be for you to show me how to arrange it better!” She smiled brightly. “I’ve never done without an abigail before, but I’m determined to prove that I can manage. I think it would be most amusing to learn how to dress my own hair. Don’t you?”
Carter blinked twice in a row. Her face twitched. “Yes...ma’am.”
Carter really was highly professional, Elinor reflected. Thus far, the woman somehow hadn’t uttered the words: You inane fool…even though they must have been positively choking her.
“It’s for a wager,” Elinor added. “My friend, Lady”—she paused, searching for a name from the gossip columns—“Lady Featherstone said that I could never manage it. So I must prove her wrong. You see?”
“Yes, ma’am. I do see.” Carter’s shoulders relaxed, and Elinor let out a silent sigh of relief.
Everyone knew that wealthy and idle people made nonsensical wagers all the time. There was a thin line between eccentricity and implausibility…but this time, Elinor had landed on the right side.
She seated herself at the elegant dressing table, watching Carter’s face in the mirror. “Please,” she said firmly, “do not touch my hair at all—even the slightest brush of your fingertips would count as cheating, by the terms of our wager. If you could simply explain what I should do with it?”
She walked into the front parlour half an hour later, carrying Sir Jessamyn proudly on her shoulder. Her dark grey gown was as cheap and unimpressive as ever, but her hair was arranged high on her head in a reasonably elegant updo that even sent dark ringlets down to frame her face.
“At least you needn’t take the time to curl those,” Carter had said with approval, as she’d directed Elinor in the arrangement. “Your hair has all the curl it needs already, doesn’t it, ma’am?”
Elinor could only smile and nod…even as she felt the straight brown hair against her fingers, hanging behind the illusion of thick black curls. The difference between what she’d seen in the mirror and the physical substance she’d touched with her fingers had made the entire procedure twice as difficult as it should have been. It wouldn’t have been easy even without the illusion…but she knew how astonishingly, miraculously lucky she was that it had worked at all under these circumstances. Apparently, Sir Jessamyn’s illusion was clinging tightly to the truth and following her own physical features and actions as closely as possible.
Elinor was grateful, too, that she’d taken the time to do that painstaking work under Carter’s patient direction. Every member of the Hathergill household was gathered now along the two long couches and the cluster of straight-backed chairs, along with Benedict Hawkins, Mr. Aubrey, and—the muscles in Elinor’s back tightened as she recognized them—two young ladies whom she knew only too well: Penelope’s closest friends and admirers, Lucinda Grace and Millie Staverton.
Lucinda’s and Millie’s avid gazes went straight to the gray gown that Elinor wore. “Isn’t that—?” Lucinda’s whisper pierced the room.
Millie’s eyes opened wide with delighted horror. “Why, Penelope was right. She really is wearing—”
“Mrs. De Lacey!” Sir John surged to his feet, followed by Mr. Hawkins.
Mr. Aubrey was the only gentleman in the room to remain seated. Elinor took no offense at his lack of attention; he was, of course, reading a book, and judging by his expression of furious disgust, this author was clearly as hopelessly deluded as every other dragon scholar…apart from himself. She doubted that he could be roused from such satisfying outrage without the use of physical force, but she did wonder just how much time and effort Penelope, Millie and Lucinda had wasted in the attempt.
That thought made her lips quirk and her spine relax enough to allow her to move somewhat gracefully forward and take her own seat—not in the spot that Sir John had indicated, on the couch between him and Penelope, but beside his wife, on the couch opposite. Of all of the people in this room, she most trusted her aunt not to make any sudden movements.
Sir Jessamyn had also tensed when they’d first walked into the room and he had seen Penelope, but now he climbed down Elinor’s arm and onto her lap, where he curled up in a warm, glittering pile of blue and green scales and buried his face beneath his tail.
“My dear friend.” Lady Hathergill roused herself to give Elinor a sweet, vague smile from the other side of the couch. “How glad I am to see you again after so long. I do hope the trip from London was not too difficult for you?”
“Mama!” Penelope let out a sharp titter. “How can you even ask such a thing? Only look at her. Do you imagine Mrs. De Lacey would ever wear one of my cousin Elinor’s dreary gowns if her trip had not been difficult?”
Lucinda and Millie giggled in perfectly enthralled unison…and Elinor’s chest tightened by instinct. She knew that sound.
For the past six months, whenever Penelope had been most dangerously bored, one of her favourite solutions had been to summon Elinor to do her assigned sewing—assorted plain mending for the household—in the sitting room on command. Then Penelope would enjoy making all of her keenest witticisms, while Lucinda and Millie giggled in delighted appreciation and whispered their own addendums into Penelope’s ears.
Elinor, of course, could never respond with anything but courtesy…and even when she was there in the room to hear them, Lady Hathergill had only ever closed her eyes and drifted safely away into her own world, far from the unpleasantness that surrounded her. So Elinor had taught herself to endure those moments by wearing an expression of solid stone, keeping her back stiff and her face firmly lowered over her work.
Mrs. De Lacey, though, didn’t have to endure any of it—so Elinor was finally free to fight back.
“Don’t you care for your cousin’s gowns, then?” She cocked her head in inquiry, her voice like honey. “I am all astonishment, Penelope. I had heard so much about your generosity to your poor cousin. You were the one who chose all of her clothes from the moment she arrived, were you not?”
“Well…” A pretty flush rose in Penelope’s cheeks. “I did allow her to use my own dressmaker, because I felt so sorry for her, but—”
“Andyou chose the patterns and quality of cloth that would be available to her, did you not?” Elinor smiled sweetly. “That iswhat I was told. So—as you were so motivated by generosity, and of course only desired to help her—this gown must be what you consider most attractive, must it not?”
Penelope stared at her, open-mouthed and silent. In the corner of her vision, Elinor saw Mr. Hawkins’s brows lower into a frown as he watched. Millie let out an uncertain giggle—but it cut off as Lucinda glared her into silence.
Sir John smiled fondly at his daughter. “You were only too generous to your cousin, weren’t you, pet? Aye, there’s the danger of innocence, Mrs. De Lacey. You never know when your own acts of kindness can betray you.”
“Yes!” Penelope’s chest rose and fell; tears sparkled in her blue eyes as she seized control of the new conversational direction. “My cousin stole everything from me,” she whispered. “When I think of how I trusted her and was so cruelly betrayed…”
This time, it was Elinor’s turn to be struck dumb. Millie and Lucinda, however, were more than ready to leap into the breach.
“She really was terrible, Mrs. De Lacey,” said Millie. “If you had only seen the way she used to sit there scowling at everything and everyone—”
“She looked exactly like a crow crouched in the corner of the room,” Lucinda said. “Penelope tried to make her choose gowns in brighter colours, but she actually refused. Refused! Can you believe that anyone would choose that shade of grey?”
Mourning, Elinor thought distantly. I was mourning. For my parents. But Mrs. De Lacey couldn’t know that. No, wait. Could she?
Her head was beginning to cloud with rage, making it difficult to think through what she could or couldn’t say. Sir Jessamyn had lifted his own head from his tail and was humming worriedly in the back of his long throat as he looked up at her. She stroked his neck gently, fighting for control.
Millie scooted her chair closer, brown eyes sparkling with excitement. “Do you know, Penelope said she never saw her cousin laugh. Not even once! She—how did you say it, Penelope? Oh yes—she said Elinor could never have been introduced to a sense of humour. It wouldn’t even know what to do with a stormcloud like her. Ha!” She beamed. “That’s what Penelope said. She’s so clever, you know! Everyone thinks so.”
“What a pity that Penelope’s cousin was so unappreciative of her wit.” Elinor knew she had to take better control of her tone, but it was becoming more and more difficult, especially as she caught Mr. Hawkins shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“The weather today…” he began.
“Oh, she waspoor company in every weather,” said Penelope. “No matter how I tried to like her…”
Elinor was trying with all of her might to focus on the warmth of Sir Jessamyn’s scales under her hand and the support of his glittering, golden gaze focused so very intently on her face. “Perhaps she didn’t hear anything that amused her.”
“Oh, no, that couldn’t have been it!” Lucinda sniffed. “She was just grim. Grim, grim, grim! And so very plain, you would never have even guessed that she was Penelope’s cousin from looking at her. Oh, and…”
Elinor couldn’t bear to see Mr. Hawkins. So she turned to look at her aunt, whose eyes were carefully averted from the scene while her expression—as always—looked gently pained.
She had sent gifts, from time to time, to Elinor and her sisters, when they were younger. Her letter of invitation had been signed with affection. And she looked, even now, so much like Elinor’s mother that it made her heart twist. “Is all of this true?” Elinor asked her.
“Well, of course it’s true!” Penelope snapped. “Haven’t you been listening? When you think of everything we did for her—!”
Elinor still couldn’t catch Lady Hathergill’s eyes, but she watched the grooves in her aunt’s cheeks deepen. “What would you say, though?” she asked tightly. “You are Elinor’s aunt. You must have some opinion.”
“Oh…” Wincing, Lady Hathergill slid a glance at her daughter. “You mustn’t ask me,” she said. “I’m sure that Penelope…well…”
“She was terrible,” said Penelope firmly. “Awful! Ungrateful and sneaking and untrustworthy and—”
Lady Hathergill’s eyes fell shut. Elinor knew the finality of that action. But it had never before burned quite so badly as it did now, listening to Penelope and her friends while Benedict Hawkins sat nearby, a silent, watchful audience.
She couldn’t let it go to make peace. Not anymore.
“She is your niece,” Elinor said. “Your younger sister’s daughter! You promised her a safe home. Would you describe her to me in the way Penelope has?”
Sir Jessamyn rose to lay his head against her chest. Lady Hathergill grimaced helplessly but kept her eyes firmly closed.
“There’s no use asking Mama about it,” said Penelope. “I am the one who knew my cousin best. And really—”
“No,” Elinor gritted through her teeth. “I wish to know. What does your mother really think?”
Millie’s high-pitched scream of terror broke the tension in the room....just as flaring warmth erupted directly against Elinor’s chest.
“Good God!” Mr. Hawkins leaped to his feet. “Mrs. De Lacey, are you badly injured?”
Millie was still screaming. She pointed at Sir Jessamyn as she scooted her chair away in frantic, farcical hops. “He breathed—he breathed—I saw flame!”
“I say.” Mr. Aubrey finally looked up from his book, blinking. “Are you speaking of a dragon, by any chance? Dragons do not breathe fire, I can assure you. That is a historical misapprehension which—”
“That,” said Benedict Hawkins grimly, “is one point of scholarship upon which we will have to disagree—because I just saw, with my own eyes, Mrs. De Lacey’s dragon breathe fire.” He started forward. “I don’t know how you escaped serious injury, ma’am, but you had better set that creature aside and—”
“No!” Elinor tightened her arms around Sir Jessamyn protectively. “He would never hurt me.”
Mr. Aubrey and Benedict began to argue in increasingly heated voices, but for once, she didn’t pay either of them any attention. All of her focus was on the dragon in her lap.
Sir Jessamyn nestled comfortably against her stomach. His eyelids drifted downwards as he curled himself into a perfect ball.
As she watched, a second set of golden markings crept slowly but inexorably down his long, blue and green throat, beginning just beneath his chin and looping in bold, sweeping curves towards his chest. Elinor’s skin prickled at the sight.
Sir Jessamyn, what have you done now?
The sound beside her was so unfamiliar, it took her a long moment to even realize what it was. It was the sound of Lady Hathergill pointedly clearing her throat and then—as everyone turned to stare—straightening in her seat to sit perfectly upright, with her eyes wide open.
Lady Hathergill shook her head sadly as she looked about the room. “I do wish you would finally learn some manners, Penelope, but I am afraid that it is probably too late for you. I admit I am partly to blame—I allowed your father to overrule me at every turn, which did you no favours. I was never brave like my own sister, though; that was why I quarreled with my dearest friend, all those years ago, when she tried so hard to rouse me into courage. I did hope, though, that you would learn better one day—or, at least, that you would learn tobe a bit more convincing whenever you pretended to be kind.”
Penelope’s gasp hit ear-piercing levels of horror and outrage…but Sir Jessamyn closed his eyes and went to sleep on Elinor’s lap with evident satisfaction.