as if she’d gone eccentric. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s nothing.” Olivia gave a little wave. It would be far too difficult to explain. She stretched her neck a bit, trying to make it look as if she weren’t perusing the crowd. “I don’t see him.”
“Who?” Mary asked.
Olivia fought off the urge to bat her. “Sir Harry.”
“Oh, he’s here,” Mary said confidently. “I saw him.”
“He’s not here now.”
Mary—who had just moments earlier admonished Olivia for her lack of discretion—displayed astonishing flexibility as she twisted herself nearly backward. “Hmmm.”
Olivia waited for more.
“I don’t see him,” Mary finally said.
“Is it possible you were wrong?” Olivia asked hopefully.
Mary gave her an irritated look. “Of course not. Perhaps he’s in the garden.”
Olivia turned, even though one couldn’t see the garden from the ballroom, where the musicale was being held. It was a reflex, she supposed. If you knew someone was somewhere, you couldn’t not turn in that direction, even if you couldn’t possibly see them.
Of course she didn’t know that Sir Harry was in the garden. She didn’t even know for certain that he was at the musicale. She had only Mary’s claim, and while Mary was quite dependable on matters of party attendance, she had, by her own admission, only seen the man a few times. She could easily have been mistaken.
Olivia decided to cling to that thought.
“Look what I brought,” Mary said, digging into her sovereign purse.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” Olivia said, peering down at the beadwork.
“Isn’t it? Mama got it in Bath. Oh, here we are.” Mary pulled out two little tufts of cotton. “For my ears,” she explained.
Olivia’s lips parted with admiration. And envy. “You don’t have two more, do you?”
“Sorry,” Mary said with a shrug. “It’s a very small purse.” She turned forward. “I think they’re ready to begin.”
One of the Smythe-Smith mothers called out for everyone to sit down. Olivia’s mother looked over at her,saw that Mary had taken her seat, and gave a little wave before finding a spot next to Mary’s mother.
Olivia took a deep breath, mentally preparing for her third encounter with the Smythe-Smith string quartet. She’d perfected her technique the year before; it involved breathing deeply, finding a spot on the wall behind the girls from which she must not avert her eyes, and pondering various traveling opportunities, no matter how plebian or routine:
Places I Would Rather Be, Edition 1821 By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke
France With Miranda With Miranda in France In bed with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with either a cup of chocolate or a newspaper
She looked over at Mary, who appeared on the verge of nodding off. The cotton was sticking partway out of her ears, and Olivia very nearly had to sit on her hands just to keep from yanking it out.
If it had been Winston or Miranda, she would definitely have done so.
The strains of Bach, recognizable only by its Baroque…well, she wouldn’t call it melody, precisely, but it did have something to do with notes moving up and down a scale. Whatever it was, it slapped her ears, and Olivia snapped her head back toward the front.
Eyes on the spot, eyes on the spot.
She’d rather be:
Swimming
On horseback
Not swimming on horseback
Asleep
Eating an ice
Did that qualify as a place? It was more of an experience, really, as was “asleep,” but then again, “asleep” implied being in bed, which was a place. Although, technically speaking, one could fall asleep sitting up. Olivia never did so, but her father frequently nodded off during her mother’s prescribed “family time” in the sitting room, and Mary, apparently, could even do so during this cacophony.
Traitor. Olivia would never have brought only one set of cotton.
Eyes on the spot, Olivia.
Olivia
“It’s nothing.” Olivia gave a little wave. It would be far too difficult to explain. She stretched her neck a bit, trying to make it look as if she weren’t perusing the crowd. “I don’t see him.”
“Who?” Mary asked.
Olivia fought off the urge to bat her. “Sir Harry.”
“Oh, he’s here,” Mary said confidently. “I saw him.”
“He’s not here now.”
Mary—who had just moments earlier admonished Olivia for her lack of discretion—displayed astonishing flexibility as she twisted herself nearly backward. “Hmmm.”
Olivia waited for more.
“I don’t see him,” Mary finally said.
“Is it possible you were wrong?” Olivia asked hopefully.
Mary gave her an irritated look. “Of course not. Perhaps he’s in the garden.”
Olivia turned, even though one couldn’t see the garden from the ballroom, where the musicale was being held. It was a reflex, she supposed. If you knew someone was somewhere, you couldn’t not turn in that direction, even if you couldn’t possibly see them.
Of course she didn’t know that Sir Harry was in the garden. She didn’t even know for certain that he was at the musicale. She had only Mary’s claim, and while Mary was quite dependable on matters of party attendance, she had, by her own admission, only seen the man a few times. She could easily have been mistaken.
Olivia decided to cling to that thought.
“Look what I brought,” Mary said, digging into her sovereign purse.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” Olivia said, peering down at the beadwork.
“Isn’t it? Mama got it in Bath. Oh, here we are.” Mary pulled out two little tufts of cotton. “For my ears,” she explained.
Olivia’s lips parted with admiration. And envy. “You don’t have two more, do you?”
“Sorry,” Mary said with a shrug. “It’s a very small purse.” She turned forward. “I think they’re ready to begin.”
One of the Smythe-Smith mothers called out for everyone to sit down. Olivia’s mother looked over at her,saw that Mary had taken her seat, and gave a little wave before finding a spot next to Mary’s mother.
Olivia took a deep breath, mentally preparing for her third encounter with the Smythe-Smith string quartet. She’d perfected her technique the year before; it involved breathing deeply, finding a spot on the wall behind the girls from which she must not avert her eyes, and pondering various traveling opportunities, no matter how plebian or routine:
Places I Would Rather Be, Edition 1821 By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke
France With Miranda With Miranda in France In bed with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with either a cup of chocolate or a newspaper
She looked over at Mary, who appeared on the verge of nodding off. The cotton was sticking partway out of her ears, and Olivia very nearly had to sit on her hands just to keep from yanking it out.
If it had been Winston or Miranda, she would definitely have done so.
The strains of Bach, recognizable only by its Baroque…well, she wouldn’t call it melody, precisely, but it did have something to do with notes moving up and down a scale. Whatever it was, it slapped her ears, and Olivia snapped her head back toward the front.
Eyes on the spot, eyes on the spot.
She’d rather be:
Swimming
On horseback
Not swimming on horseback
Asleep
Eating an ice
Did that qualify as a place? It was more of an experience, really, as was “asleep,” but then again, “asleep” implied being in bed, which was a place. Although, technically speaking, one could fall asleep sitting up. Olivia never did so, but her father frequently nodded off during her mother’s prescribed “family time” in the sitting room, and Mary, apparently, could even do so during this cacophony.
Traitor. Olivia would never have brought only one set of cotton.
Eyes on the spot, Olivia.
Olivia
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