Scales and Sensibility by Stephanie Burgis
Chapter 28
At six o’clock that evening, the first round of guests—a carefully selected half-dozen local families—arrived for a private supper with the Hathergills. As the butler announced the last few names to the small crowd milling around the salon, Elinor felt her pulse beating hard against her throat.
Lucinda’s and Millie’s mothers clustered on one side of her, begging for her predictions of next Season’s fashions and cooing together over a nervous Sir Jessamyn, who hunched closer to her neck with every sweeping gesture of their be-ringed hands. The vicar and his wife hovered on her other side, frowning uneasily at her dragon and wanting her opinion of the Regent’s latest scandalous escapade. Elinor could barely take in a single word, let alone make up any coherent answers. Her whole body was taut with panic.
Penelope had refused to descend from her room until all of the supper guests had gathered. Even Miss Armitage hadn’t been allowed into her dressing room beforehand. Only Elinor had been allowed to advise her on her appearance—because only the great Mrs. De Lacey’s opinion was trustworthy enough on the matter of fashion.
Sir John’s voice cut across the chatter that filled the room. He beamed at the assembled company. “Well, then. Is everybody ready? Shall I fetch the lady of the hour?”
It was the moment of truth. Elinor’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass until it threatened to snap.
She’d managed to persuade Penelope and her friends of the brilliance of her plan, but she knew perfectly well how absurd it truly was for them to trust her. No matter what she looked like, she was no leader of fashion. She’d never been to London in her life.
If Penelope’s grand entrance was a disaster—a disaster of Elinor’s making—then everything she had worked for all week would be lost. If anyone in the room looked at Penelope and recognized how ridiculous Elinor’s idea was…if one single person laughed in Penelope or Sir John’s presence…
“And here she is!” Sir John announced, from the doorway.
Gasps sounded throughout the room. There was a moment of dumbstruck silence.
Then Miss Armitage stepped forward, past all the staring local gentry. “Good heavens.” She shook her head in open wonder. “How in the world did you ever come up with it?”
She brushed one finger against the curling peacock feather that had been pinned against Penelope’s shoulder exactly where a dragon might have sat. Her lips curved into the first genuine smile Elinor had ever seen on her face.
“Simply and utterly brilliant,” she said. “I’ll wager anything you like that within two weeks of your London début, half the ladies in London will have tossed aside their dragons to follow your brilliant example.”
Oh, no.Horrified, Elinor set one hand on Sir Jessamyn’s warm back as if she could protect every dragon in London with her gesture. On Miss Armitage’s own shoulder, her dragon posed as still as a statue, as usual…but Elinor thought she’d glimpsed a flicker of discomfort cross even his normally impassive face at his mistress’s words.
Everyone else in the room was moving forward in a tidal wave of congratulation and envy. Despite herself, Elinor found her shoulders relaxing as she saw Penelope basking in the group’s admiration. This evening might yet bring disaster and ruin, but so far, her sisters were still safe.
Benedict moved up behind her, his fingers brushing—as if by accident—against her bare arm. “Bravo,” he murmured. “You’re a genius.”
“Shh.” Tingles swept across her skin in response to his touch, but Elinor kept her face serene, under the scrutiny of so many of Penelope’s guests. On her shoulder, Sir Jessamyn had perked up for the first time in half an hour and was stretching his neck as far as it would go, tilting his head and putting on all his best tricks to entice Benedict into a petting session. Elinor bit back a smile, maintaining her own dignity despite her dragon’s display. “I was just trying to stop her from tormenting any more dragons.”
Benedict leaned over to pet the sensitive area underneath Sir Jessamyn’s chin. As the little dragon’s eyes slitted half-shut with pleasure, Benedict dropped his voice to a whisper, his warm breath tickling her ear. “Perhaps the real Mrs. De Lacey can hire you as her fashion adviser and pay for our wedding in gratitude.”
She raised her fan to shield her face as she rolled her eyes at him. “Perhaps,” she agreed. “It does sound likely, doesn’t it?”
And yet it still sounded likelier than any of the other plans they’d come up with in the last two days.
Elinor bit her lip. Benedict was smiling down at her from less than half a foot away as he petted Sir Jessamyn, looking amused and affectionate and close enough to touch, if only so many other people hadn’t been watching. He was so certain they would succeed. It made her chest hurt.
She would have to be the one who made the hard decision, in the end. It would be so soon, now. All she had to do tonight was avoid discovery and imprisonment. They would leave Hathergill Hall tomorrow morning, And then…
Sir Jessamyn made a low, clicking sound of pleasure deep in his throat as he leaned into Benedict’s petting hand, his scaly body relaxed against Elinor’s shoulder for the first time since the guests had arrived and surrounded them. She wished she could toss aside convention and show her own inclinations just as openly.
She had to be strong, for Benedict’s sake. But she couldn’t bear for him ever to think she hadn’t wanted this—wanted them together, forever—as much as he had.
“Benedict,” she began, in an urgent whisper.
“Ah, there you are,” said Sir John. His voice was jovial, for the sake of their company; his eyes, though, were hard as obsidian with dislike. “Won’t you allow me to escort you into supper, ma’am?”
Even if it hadn’t been the law of social custom, she couldn’t have refused. Her bargain had been to do everything she could to help with Penelope’s début, no matter how much it burned.
She laid her gloved fingers as lightly as possible against his coat-sleeve, careful not to brush against any bare skin. She smiled brilliantly even as they passed Lady Hathergill, who fell into place behind them under the escort of Lucinda’s bewildered father.
Her aunt’s voice carried to her ears as they passed. “…But of course I didn’t have anything to do with that. For goodness’s sake, I’m a lady, not a cow—we hire wetnurses for such matters!”
Lucinda’s father uttered a choking sound—either muffled laughter or outrage—and Sir John’s arm stiffened under Elinor’s hand. Crimson swept across his face in a wave.
Elinor only wished she could take any pleasure in his humiliation. But she had seen the physician’s black carriage draw up outside the house that afternoon. It was waiting now behind the stables, where none of the guests would notice it or wonder.
Guests were smiling and nodding at her now, blatantly angling for her attention: leaders of the local gentry who had never had a kind word to spare for her a week ago, when she had been Penelope’s despised companion. She forced herself to return their nods as graciously as a visiting queen. If it hadn’t been for Sir Jessamyn’s claws digging into her shoulder through her aunt’s second-best lavender silk evening gown, she would have thought herself in a dream.
Even as she smiled for the sake of their observers, though, she spoke in a whisper only her uncle could hear.
“Please,” she whispered. “Wait a few more days before you send her away. Lady Hathergill may well return to her old self in a day or two. This may be only a passing change. If you can only put off your decision until next week—”
“Enough,” Sir John snarled, and yanked out her chair from the table. He glowered at her menacingly as she sat down in the place of honor on his right, and he leaned in to whisper: “From now on, you will hold your tongue on the subject of my wife, madam. Do you understand me?”
Shivers swept Sir Jessamyn from his nose all the way down his tail. Elinor lifted her chin and glared back at her uncle with all the haughty disdain of an empress.
“You,” she said, “are irritating my dragon. Good-bye.” And she turned away to smile graciously at Millie’s father, seated beside her.
Like Millie herself, Mr. Staverton was essentially harmless, a good-humoured man who was only too happy to be asked questions about his hunting dogs and then allowed to run free with anecdotes about them for hours. She shifted Sir Jessamyn to her right shoulder—“That’s a demmed fine little dragon you have there, Mrs. De Lacey, if you don’t mind me saying so! Have you ever tried him on a hunt?”—and let her neighbor ramble on for the rest of supper, grateful for the respite and the chance to think.
Benedict sat across from her, between Lucinda and Penelope. Penelope, as radiant in her pale blue ballgown as a fairy princess, leaned in close to him as they spoke, laughing encouragingly and sliding him meaningful looks beneath her lashes. He cheerfully ignored them, focusing on his meal, while Lucinda conversed with Sir John. Elinor couldn’t help the warm glow of relief in her chest…but she knew that look of gathering storm on her cousin’s face. The weather outside might have cleared since that morning, but the tightness pinching Penelope’s pretty face promised thunderstorms ahead, even as Mr. Armitage, on her other side, devoted all his attention to charming her.
Miss Armitage watched the byplay with narrowed eyes from the other end of the table.
Meanwhile, half a table away, Mr. Aubrey was seated next to Millie and listening to her with an attitude of bewildered despair. He had been bundled into proper evening attire and forced to leave behind all his books, and as Millie rattled on happily, his shoulders sagged lower and lower and his head drooped over his plate.
Poor man, Elinor thought, but really—he didn’t realize how fortunate he was. He could have been seated next to Millie’s mother instead. Her whole life was devoted to hunting down a husband for her daughter, and as an eligible bachelor with a vast fortune, he would have made the perfect prey. Like it or not, he would have found himself betrothed by the end of supper.
Speaking of which…
As Elinor glanced down the table, she met Miss Armitage’s steely gaze. The other girl looked pointedly to the tall clock in the corner of the room as it chimed the hour, a deep, resonant sound.
Seven o’clock. Only three hours until her deadline. Elinor swallowed down a suddenly-flavourless slice of smoked pheasant and fed the next two pieces to Sir Jessamyn. She had lost her appetite.
At half past seven, the ladies retired to the second-floor sitting room, which had been set up for the night as a private retiring room, complete with mirrors, maids, and discreetly screened chamber pots for their convenience. Elinor drew Penelope aside before Carter could even begin her ministrations.
“You look lovely,” she said, “but Penelope—”
“You really think so?” Penelope slid a glance back at the closest mirror, where Carter was smoothing Lucinda’s hair back into place with practiced hands. “I’m not sure. I—”
“Of course,” Elinor said, “but Penelope…” She drew a deep breath, searching for the right words. “Isn’t there anything you want to share with me?”
Penelope blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“About your plan?” Elinor prompted. “To be betrothed by the end of this evening?”
“Oh!” Penelope’s lips quivered. “Oh, Mrs. De Lacey, I don’t know what’s gone wrong! I could have sworn it would happen by tonight. Perhaps this gown wasn’t right, after all. Perhaps—”
“Surely Mr. Armitage has proposed by now.”
“Well, of course he has.” Penelope scowled. “But that’s the problem! I can’t accept him yet, can I? Mr. Hawkins hasn’t yet proposed. If he doesn’t hurry up and do it, I’ll end up an old maid!”
Elinor forced herself not to roll her eyes. “There is a simpler solution, you know.”
“There is?” Penelope narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I ought to trick him into a compromising situation? So that he has to propose, like it or not?”
“No!” Elinor stared at her. “For heaven’s sake, of course you shouldn’t. I meant, you can simply accept Mr. Armitage! He is the one you want to marry, isn’t he?”
“I’m not so certain anymore.” Penelope’s lips pouched out into a pout. “I did think so, at first…but I don’t see why Mr. Hawkins wouldn’t want to marry me. What does he have to be so picky about, after all? He may be very handsome, but he can’t expect to find anyone prettier than me! Can he?”
Elinor sighed. “You find Mr. Armitage handsome, too, don’t you? And you certainly want to share the life he leads. All those London soirees, fancy house parties...”
“I suppose so. But…” Penelope scowled. “Why shouldn’t Benedict Hawkins want me? He’s barely even looked at me for the past few days. From the way he’s been acting, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was in love with you!”
Heat crept up Elinor’s face. “Penelope…”
“Oh, don’t worry. I know he isn’t really,” Penelope said. “You’re far too old. But it’s the principle of the thing, don’t you see? He has to want me.”
Elinor gritted her teeth. “You are sending your mother away tonight, Penelope. The news is bound to spread, no matter how hard you and your father work to keep it quiet. In fact, the news has probably”—definitely, she amended silently, as she thought of Miss Armitage’s busy pen—“already spread to London, even if your neighbors haven’t yet found out. If you wish to find a fiancé before the gossip goes wild, you haven’t any time to lose.”
“You’re right.” Penelope nodded firmly. She straightened her shoulders and tossed her hair, making the golden curls bounce on either side of her determined face. “It has to be tonight. There isn’t any way around it.”
“Good,” Elinor said, and let out her breath with a whoosh of pure relief. “That’s good. As soon as we go downstairs, you can tell Mr. Armitage—”
“First,” said Penelope, “I’ll get my proposal from Mr. Hawkins…whether he wishes to make it or not.”
And, with a sweep of her skirts, she was off, pushing her way to the front of the closest mirror while Elinor stared after her with a sick feeling of mounting dread.