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Authors: Meg Brooke
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handed it to her. “Oh, goodness,” Lady Gillian said when she had read the title. “Do you ever read prose?”
“Occasionally,” Cynthia admitted, though she would have been afraid to do so had her father been in the house. It seemed that he was always in earshot when she said something of which he did not approve. But he was at his academic society, and she need not fear him now. Feeling reckless, she added, “And poetry, too.”
Lady Gillian gave a delighted squeak. “Which are your favorites?”
“Wordsworth, without a doubt,” Cynthia said. As they went out into the hall, she went on, “I have also just finished Poems, Chiefly Lyrical by Alfred Tennyson. Have you read it?”
Lady Gillian nodded enthusiastically. “Imogen and I read it aloud to each other last winter. His “Mariana” touched me deeply.”
Cynthia thought of the first time she had read that particular poem, which described a young woman’s despondent isolation from society. It had touched her, too, though she could not imagine admitting to such an emotion.
“If you enjoy Tennyson, Miss Endersby, I should lend you my copy of his Poems . There is one in particular, “The Lady of Shalott”, that I think you would enjoy immensely,” Lady Imogen said as they were handed into the ducal carriage. “It is quite romantic.”
“Oh, yes!” Gillian cried with mock enthusiasm. “To die for love—what could be more romantic?”
Cynthia grinned at her. Here was a girl after her own heart. On the way to the Strand they talked of poetry they had read and enjoyed, and no mention was made of Cynthia’s connection with their brother. But when they had reached Wright’s circulating library and Lady Gillian had stopped to converse with a friend, Cynthia found herself alone in a corner with Lady Imogen, who took the opportunity to praise her efforts. “I think you will be very good for my brother, Miss Endersby,” she said. “And you know I would be more than happy to recommend your services to the ninnies in my social circle.”
“That is very kind of you,” Cynthia replied, and deciding that it was perhaps best to be as honest as she could be with Lady Imogen, who did not seem to her to be an unintelligent woman, she added, “But I must ask you to be discreet. My father does not know about this little...business enterprise of mine, and he would be very angry if he did.”
“I understand,” Lady Imogen said gravely, though she looked a little surprised. She should not have said her father would be angry, Cynthia thought. It made him sound like an irrationally temperamental tyrant, and even if he was she had no wish for Lady Imogen to know about it. Much to her relief, Lady Imogen switched rather clumsily to another subject. “Speaking of our mutual friends, are you going to Lady Farrington’s ball on Friday?”
“I have accepted the invitation,” Cynthia said, though in truth she had not yet decided if she would actually attend. She had begun to consider distancing herself a little from Mariah for fear that those who knew what Cynthia had done for the young woman might begin to suspect her of trying to influence Lord Farrington’s politics. That was a secondary motive for her work, of course, but it would do her little good if people knew.
“Good! We will certainly see you there, then.”
“You are attending?” Cynthia was surprised.
Lady Imogen seemed to understand. “We are only in half-mourning now,” she said, sweeping her hand over her mauve skirts as if to emphasize the point. “Gilly won’t be attending, of course, though it’s clear she has no need of a curtsey to the queen to make friends in society,” she added, nodding towards her sister, who had gathered an even larger group of young ladies around her now. “She will do well, don’t you think? She should have had her come-out last year, you know—she will be nineteen in three weeks. But our father died six days before her eighteenth birthday. It was a
“Occasionally,” Cynthia admitted, though she would have been afraid to do so had her father been in the house. It seemed that he was always in earshot when she said something of which he did not approve. But he was at his academic society, and she need not fear him now. Feeling reckless, she added, “And poetry, too.”
Lady Gillian gave a delighted squeak. “Which are your favorites?”
“Wordsworth, without a doubt,” Cynthia said. As they went out into the hall, she went on, “I have also just finished Poems, Chiefly Lyrical by Alfred Tennyson. Have you read it?”
Lady Gillian nodded enthusiastically. “Imogen and I read it aloud to each other last winter. His “Mariana” touched me deeply.”
Cynthia thought of the first time she had read that particular poem, which described a young woman’s despondent isolation from society. It had touched her, too, though she could not imagine admitting to such an emotion.
“If you enjoy Tennyson, Miss Endersby, I should lend you my copy of his Poems . There is one in particular, “The Lady of Shalott”, that I think you would enjoy immensely,” Lady Imogen said as they were handed into the ducal carriage. “It is quite romantic.”
“Oh, yes!” Gillian cried with mock enthusiasm. “To die for love—what could be more romantic?”
Cynthia grinned at her. Here was a girl after her own heart. On the way to the Strand they talked of poetry they had read and enjoyed, and no mention was made of Cynthia’s connection with their brother. But when they had reached Wright’s circulating library and Lady Gillian had stopped to converse with a friend, Cynthia found herself alone in a corner with Lady Imogen, who took the opportunity to praise her efforts. “I think you will be very good for my brother, Miss Endersby,” she said. “And you know I would be more than happy to recommend your services to the ninnies in my social circle.”
“That is very kind of you,” Cynthia replied, and deciding that it was perhaps best to be as honest as she could be with Lady Imogen, who did not seem to her to be an unintelligent woman, she added, “But I must ask you to be discreet. My father does not know about this little...business enterprise of mine, and he would be very angry if he did.”
“I understand,” Lady Imogen said gravely, though she looked a little surprised. She should not have said her father would be angry, Cynthia thought. It made him sound like an irrationally temperamental tyrant, and even if he was she had no wish for Lady Imogen to know about it. Much to her relief, Lady Imogen switched rather clumsily to another subject. “Speaking of our mutual friends, are you going to Lady Farrington’s ball on Friday?”
“I have accepted the invitation,” Cynthia said, though in truth she had not yet decided if she would actually attend. She had begun to consider distancing herself a little from Mariah for fear that those who knew what Cynthia had done for the young woman might begin to suspect her of trying to influence Lord Farrington’s politics. That was a secondary motive for her work, of course, but it would do her little good if people knew.
“Good! We will certainly see you there, then.”
“You are attending?” Cynthia was surprised.
Lady Imogen seemed to understand. “We are only in half-mourning now,” she said, sweeping her hand over her mauve skirts as if to emphasize the point. “Gilly won’t be attending, of course, though it’s clear she has no need of a curtsey to the queen to make friends in society,” she added, nodding towards her sister, who had gathered an even larger group of young ladies around her now. “She will do well, don’t you think? She should have had her come-out last year, you know—she will be nineteen in three weeks. But our father died six days before her eighteenth birthday. It was a
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