An Imperfect Proposal by Hayley Ann Solomon Page B

She’d always imagined herself with someone who was ravishingly handsome and had a smile that lit up his countenance and a humor that exactly matched her own. She had stupidly not even dreamed that she would have difficulty finding this paragon, or that filling up a dance card would become a daily trial of nerves, or that, worse, someone hideous would offer for her and she would have no choice but to accept.
    These thoughts oppressed her dreadfully. She reached into her beaded reticule, stitched handsomely with little rhinestones that glittered elegantly in the firelight, and hunted for a handkerchief. Of course, she had forgotten, in her agitation, to put one in, so she was forced to close the reticule with a sigh and brush her hands across her lashes as she did. She was just feeling more depressed than ever when a slight rustle from the brocade sofa on the left caught her attention.
    There was probably a mouse, and it was probably terrified, poor thing, what with the noise and the unexpectedness of her entry into this darkened room . . . she stood up and peered over the edge of the sofa. Not a mouse, by George, but two children, wedged behind the chair and regarding her with horrified eyes.
    â€œHello!”
    Amaryllis smiled in the friendliest way she could, her own troubles set aside for the moment. There was a silence as the girls—for such they were—stared at her for a moment.
    â€œI am Amaryllis. Are you also hiding from the ball?”
    Her tone was so sweet and confiding that the children, after a speaking glance at one another, decided it was safe to emerge.
    â€œAre you hiding?” they asked in surprise, for they had never encountered a grown-up who hid. Amaryllis, in her glittering gown of rose sarcanet embroidered with gold fichu trim looked very grown-up indeed.
    She laughed. “Yes, I am, but don’t tell anyone if you please. It is very bad of me.”
    The children promised solemnly, for there was nothing—as they told Amaryllis—that they liked less than a sneak.
    â€œSo what are you doing out of your nursery? Enjoying the music?”
    â€œNo, for we can’t hear much over the buzz of conversation.”
    â€œPeeking at the dancers?”
    â€œYes, for they are all very elegant, only we have seen heaps of balls before so it was not so much that as . . .”
    â€œYes?” Amaryllis prompted.
    The girls looked at each other. They must have decided Amaryllis was perfectly acceptable, for they both started simultaneously speaking. Amaryllis was forced to laugh and stop up her ears and tell them to talk one at a time.
    â€œWell, you see, we are hungry!”
    â€œWhat, is no supper sent up to your nursery?”
    â€œOnly bread and butter and jam and two glasses of cold tea.”
    â€œBut that is outrageous!”
    â€œNo, it isn’t, really, for it is a punishment. Usually we have all the tidbits Cook is preparing for the ball, and some of the sweetmeats, and the little pink sugar fairies . . .”
    â€œBut how inconvenient to be punished on such a day!”
    â€œYes, if we had thought about the matter we would have tipped ink into Mr. Petersham’s hat tomorrow, after the ball, but we were so angry we really couldn’t think properly.”
    Amaryllis’s eyes danced. “No, indeed,” she agreed gravely. “And who, if I might inquire, is Mr. Petersham? I feel certain he must be positively odious!”
    â€œOh, he is! He teaches us deportment, which is a trial enough without him having to report poor Evans, our governess, for improper conduct. Simply because she happened to doze off in one of his classes!”
    â€œSounds like he deserved ink in his hat.”
    â€œOh, indeed, and it was splendid sport to see his face as it trickled down his ears! Unfortunately we giggled at the wrong moment which caused him to march us off to our uncle.”
    â€œYour uncle?”
    â€œYes, the Earl of Devonport—he