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Authors: Candace Camp
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see.”
Althea apparently took this mild statement as an expression of interest, for she spent some time exploring the family tree of the Ashenhams, who had, apparently, ties to most of the major families of England.
Francesca, keeping her face fixed in the courteous expression of listening that had been ingrained in her as a child, mentally began to go through her slippers, trying to find a pair that would suit the sea-green evening gown of voile over silk that she had seen in Mlle. du Plessis’ store last week. The modiste had told her that it was waiting for a buyer, hostage to that woman’s final payment on a bill that had been too long outstanding. Mlle. du Plessis had admitted to grave doubts that the buyer would ever return, and she had agreed to sell it to Francesca at only a third of itsoriginal cost if the woman had not paid her bill within a week.
The dress was too long, but that was a trifling matter that Maisie could take care of easily enough, and Francesca knew that she was desperately in need of a new gown. There were only so many times that one could redo a gown to look fresh, and it would not do to appear in the same ball gown too often. Pride was a sin, Francesca knew, but she could not bear for people to know how close she skated to the edge of penury.
The problem, however, was the slippers to go with it. No matter how careful she tried to be with them, the thin soles of dancing slippers wore through incredibly quickly, and they were not the sort of thing on which one could normally work a bargain. Therefore, she did her best to stick to plain colors that would go with many different frocks. What would really look marvelous with the dress, of course, would be a pair of silver sandals, but that would be too extravagant a purchase. But perhaps…There were several other dresses they would suit, after all.
Maybe she could go into the attic and dig about in the trunks again. Some valuable trifle that she could sell might turn up.
“Lady Haughston?”
Francesca glanced up quickly, aware that she had become entirely too lost in her thoughts. “What? I’m sorry. I must have been woolgathering.”
“We are here,” Althea told her somewhat stiffly.
“Ah, yes, so we are.” Francesca glanced out the window to see the familiar form of the Royal Theater.
She suspected that she had put Althea’s nose out of joint a bit by drifting off like that. But, really, the girl should learn that analyzing one’s family tree was scarcely the way to capture anyone’s attention. She would have to think of some way to tutor the girl in the art of conversation if she was to have a chance of winning Rochford’s favor. Of course, that was if she decided Lady Althea was the woman she wanted to win his favor. Francesca was, quite frankly, beginning to have her doubts.
Rochford climbed out with alacrity and reached back up to hand the women down. Francesca managed to hang back a bit as they strolled into the theater so that Rochford was walking beside Althea alone. She must, after all, give him a chance to get to know the woman better. Perhaps Althea had been a trifle nervous about the situation; Rochford’s presence sometimes had that effect. Nerves frequently made people chatter on about the most inconsequential things.
Francesca cast a glance at them, walking slightly ahead of her. Rochford’s dark head was bent a little toward Althea as he listened to her. Perhaps he had not minded Althea’s conversation earlier. She had seen husbands who were quite content with the most ninny-hammered of wives. And Althea was attractive.
It occurred to her that perhaps she ought to drop by someone’s box during intermission; that would givethe couple a chance to be alone together without it being improper, given that there was an entire theater of people around them. She would have to look around the place before the play began to see if she could spot an acquaintance.
She turned to glance around at the other people
Althea apparently took this mild statement as an expression of interest, for she spent some time exploring the family tree of the Ashenhams, who had, apparently, ties to most of the major families of England.
Francesca, keeping her face fixed in the courteous expression of listening that had been ingrained in her as a child, mentally began to go through her slippers, trying to find a pair that would suit the sea-green evening gown of voile over silk that she had seen in Mlle. du Plessis’ store last week. The modiste had told her that it was waiting for a buyer, hostage to that woman’s final payment on a bill that had been too long outstanding. Mlle. du Plessis had admitted to grave doubts that the buyer would ever return, and she had agreed to sell it to Francesca at only a third of itsoriginal cost if the woman had not paid her bill within a week.
The dress was too long, but that was a trifling matter that Maisie could take care of easily enough, and Francesca knew that she was desperately in need of a new gown. There were only so many times that one could redo a gown to look fresh, and it would not do to appear in the same ball gown too often. Pride was a sin, Francesca knew, but she could not bear for people to know how close she skated to the edge of penury.
The problem, however, was the slippers to go with it. No matter how careful she tried to be with them, the thin soles of dancing slippers wore through incredibly quickly, and they were not the sort of thing on which one could normally work a bargain. Therefore, she did her best to stick to plain colors that would go with many different frocks. What would really look marvelous with the dress, of course, would be a pair of silver sandals, but that would be too extravagant a purchase. But perhaps…There were several other dresses they would suit, after all.
Maybe she could go into the attic and dig about in the trunks again. Some valuable trifle that she could sell might turn up.
“Lady Haughston?”
Francesca glanced up quickly, aware that she had become entirely too lost in her thoughts. “What? I’m sorry. I must have been woolgathering.”
“We are here,” Althea told her somewhat stiffly.
“Ah, yes, so we are.” Francesca glanced out the window to see the familiar form of the Royal Theater.
She suspected that she had put Althea’s nose out of joint a bit by drifting off like that. But, really, the girl should learn that analyzing one’s family tree was scarcely the way to capture anyone’s attention. She would have to think of some way to tutor the girl in the art of conversation if she was to have a chance of winning Rochford’s favor. Of course, that was if she decided Lady Althea was the woman she wanted to win his favor. Francesca was, quite frankly, beginning to have her doubts.
Rochford climbed out with alacrity and reached back up to hand the women down. Francesca managed to hang back a bit as they strolled into the theater so that Rochford was walking beside Althea alone. She must, after all, give him a chance to get to know the woman better. Perhaps Althea had been a trifle nervous about the situation; Rochford’s presence sometimes had that effect. Nerves frequently made people chatter on about the most inconsequential things.
Francesca cast a glance at them, walking slightly ahead of her. Rochford’s dark head was bent a little toward Althea as he listened to her. Perhaps he had not minded Althea’s conversation earlier. She had seen husbands who were quite content with the most ninny-hammered of wives. And Althea was attractive.
It occurred to her that perhaps she ought to drop by someone’s box during intermission; that would givethe couple a chance to be alone together without it being improper, given that there was an entire theater of people around them. She would have to look around the place before the play began to see if she could spot an acquaintance.
She turned to glance around at the other people
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