wouldn’t take the butler long to find Emmy. As rooms went … At home, the parlor whispered a very refined but decidedly cheerful welcome to visitors. The Townsends’ parlor, however, didn’t whisper and it didn’t say welcome. No, it practically shouted. And the message was very clearly, We have have money. Great wads of it.
It was probably all very impressive, Simone allowed, studying a pair of rather fragile-looking white chairs with gilded scrollwork and brightly upholstered seats. Unfortunately, the effort that had gone into the acquisition and display was largely wasted on someone like her. Now, if Emmy’s mother had thought to hang a Norman shield and a couple of Scottish claymores over the mantel … Different interests, different tastes, she supposed.
“Simone! What a wonderful surprise!”
She turned to the parlor door at Emmy’s welcome. Emmy was smiling and seemingly oblivious to the giant splashes of bright red that cascaded down the front of her white smock. Simone did a quick appraisal and then nodded toward her friend’s right hand, asking, “Have you cut yourself, Emmy?”
Emmaline held up her hand. “This? It’s paint. I’m in the conservatory doing my best to develop the essential skills of a true lady. Thank you for rescuing me.” Her smile broadened. “Again.”
Simone chuckled and lifted her arm bearing Tristan’s jacket and said, “Your brother lent me his coat last night and I thought perhaps you might see it returned to him with my thanks.”
“Or you can return it and thank him yourself,” his sister countered, beaming. “He promised to call this morning and I’m expecting him at any time.”
If she were going to be sensible and ever so safe, now was the time to conjure an excuse and run. “Oh yes, that would be even better. What are you painting?”
“Come along and I’ll show you.” And with that cheery command, Emmy spun about and headed off into the rest of the house, leaving Simone to tag along in her wake, to alternately note the incredible amount of fancy furniture lining the hallways and marvel at what a very different person Emmaline Townsend was at home. No hiding. No peeking tentatively. Here she strode, her head up and her shoulders squared without the slightest bit of coaching. Why she hadn’t been able to bring that sort of confidence and presence naturally into a ballroom …
“It’s supposed to be a still life with roses, but it’s not going very well,” Emmy said as they entered the greenhouse and she made her way toward the easel standing amid a collection of well-cushioned wicker furniture. “My roses look more like mud pies than flowers. Would you care for some coffee? It’s fairly fresh and still a bit warm.”
“Coffee would be lovely. Thank you,” Simone replied, eyeing the picture as Emmy puttered at the tea cart. Simone glanced over at the pedestal that was likely the model for the painting. God, “not going well” was a massive understatement.
“Do you paint, Simone?”
“Not if I can avoid it,” she admitted, laying Tristan’s coat over the back of a chair and accepting the cup and saucer from her friend. “My elder sister once hired an instructor who made a valiant attempt to bring out the artist in me. He finally had to admit that I don’t have one.”
“Mine has gone on a very long holiday and forgotten to return home.” Emmy picked up her own cup and then stared at her picture as she added, “Which I think is really selfish of him. James could paint pictures that looked eerily real. And Tristan can do the most spectacular things with a simple piece of charcoal and just a flick or two of his wrist. It’s hardly fair that they got all the talent and left none for me.”
“None” was right. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of wanting to badly enough,” Simone offered diplomatically. “And setting aside the time to practice.”
“Do you really think so?”
No, but saying so would be hurtful. “Perhaps
It was probably all very impressive, Simone allowed, studying a pair of rather fragile-looking white chairs with gilded scrollwork and brightly upholstered seats. Unfortunately, the effort that had gone into the acquisition and display was largely wasted on someone like her. Now, if Emmy’s mother had thought to hang a Norman shield and a couple of Scottish claymores over the mantel … Different interests, different tastes, she supposed.
“Simone! What a wonderful surprise!”
She turned to the parlor door at Emmy’s welcome. Emmy was smiling and seemingly oblivious to the giant splashes of bright red that cascaded down the front of her white smock. Simone did a quick appraisal and then nodded toward her friend’s right hand, asking, “Have you cut yourself, Emmy?”
Emmaline held up her hand. “This? It’s paint. I’m in the conservatory doing my best to develop the essential skills of a true lady. Thank you for rescuing me.” Her smile broadened. “Again.”
Simone chuckled and lifted her arm bearing Tristan’s jacket and said, “Your brother lent me his coat last night and I thought perhaps you might see it returned to him with my thanks.”
“Or you can return it and thank him yourself,” his sister countered, beaming. “He promised to call this morning and I’m expecting him at any time.”
If she were going to be sensible and ever so safe, now was the time to conjure an excuse and run. “Oh yes, that would be even better. What are you painting?”
“Come along and I’ll show you.” And with that cheery command, Emmy spun about and headed off into the rest of the house, leaving Simone to tag along in her wake, to alternately note the incredible amount of fancy furniture lining the hallways and marvel at what a very different person Emmaline Townsend was at home. No hiding. No peeking tentatively. Here she strode, her head up and her shoulders squared without the slightest bit of coaching. Why she hadn’t been able to bring that sort of confidence and presence naturally into a ballroom …
“It’s supposed to be a still life with roses, but it’s not going very well,” Emmy said as they entered the greenhouse and she made her way toward the easel standing amid a collection of well-cushioned wicker furniture. “My roses look more like mud pies than flowers. Would you care for some coffee? It’s fairly fresh and still a bit warm.”
“Coffee would be lovely. Thank you,” Simone replied, eyeing the picture as Emmy puttered at the tea cart. Simone glanced over at the pedestal that was likely the model for the painting. God, “not going well” was a massive understatement.
“Do you paint, Simone?”
“Not if I can avoid it,” she admitted, laying Tristan’s coat over the back of a chair and accepting the cup and saucer from her friend. “My elder sister once hired an instructor who made a valiant attempt to bring out the artist in me. He finally had to admit that I don’t have one.”
“Mine has gone on a very long holiday and forgotten to return home.” Emmy picked up her own cup and then stared at her picture as she added, “Which I think is really selfish of him. James could paint pictures that looked eerily real. And Tristan can do the most spectacular things with a simple piece of charcoal and just a flick or two of his wrist. It’s hardly fair that they got all the talent and left none for me.”
“None” was right. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of wanting to badly enough,” Simone offered diplomatically. “And setting aside the time to practice.”
“Do you really think so?”
No, but saying so would be hurtful. “Perhaps
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