in between the two women.
And she was the hostess. That meant she was in charge of at least beginning the conversation. Or so she thought.
"My lady, are you comfortable?" Miranda Phelps asked nervously. "Perhaps you're cool? Or warm?Yes, it is warm, isn't it? I believe you left your fan in the coach, but I could go and—"
"Miranda, please stifle yourself," the countess said in a lazy voice. "If I should require my fan, my woman will fetch it." Then she turned to Eleanor. "We have two other engagements this evening, Mrs. Eastwood. You will be serving soon?"
Eleanor might have been flustered at first, but she did not much care for the way the countess treated her sister-in-law, and cared less for the crushed look on the latter woman's homely face. "Perhaps, my lady, if you felt yourself overencumbered with social engagements you should have cried off from our small party? I'll call my husband over here and explain your difficulty."
"Oh, no," Miranda Phelps said, looking panicked. "You can't do that, Helen. Harris distinctly told me that we had to come because his lordship wanted to see— that is..." She looked around rather wildly before her sympathetic gaze landed on Eleanor. "I believe they're going to pass an hour playing at cards after dinner, at Mr. Eastwood's invitation."
"Really," the countess replied, her voice dripping venom. "Is your husband an idiot then, Mrs. Eastwood? Or just so deep in the pocket he doesn't mind losing to my husband, arguably the best player in London?"
"Is he, indeed?" Eleanor responded, her chin lifted slightly. "I assure you, I wouldn't know, having always considered my husband to be quite proficient at... games."
"Do you play, Mrs. Eastwood?"
"No, Mrs. Phelps, I do not," Eleanor answered, smiling at the woman who had begun to perspire visibly. "My accomplishments, I'm afraid, run more to the ordinary. Embroidery, watercolors. Singing. Do you sing, Mrs. Phelps? I would think you have a lovely singing voice."
Thankfully, Mrs. Phelps hadn't needed more than that one question to set her off into a long, rambling, stultifyingly boring recitation of some of her favorite songs, songs she and her sister used to sing for their papa on cold dark nights in Lincolnshire.
From there she went on—with the countess yawning into her hand—to say that she, too, dabbled in water-colors, although not well. "But now that we reside for months of the year at Chelfham Hall, I'm encouraged to better myself, as the prospects and vistas there are lovely and I long to do them credit."
"A fruitless yearning, alas, as I've been forced to view your renderings," her ladyship slid in, then snapped her fingers twice above her head, an action that—remarkably—had his lordship scurrying to her side like an obedient puppy. "I've yet to be holding a glass, Rawley."
The earl took hold of her upraised hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her fingertips one by one. "A thousand pardons, my darling. I'm afraid we were talking."
"Miranda was also talking, Rawley. You know how her inane prattling fatigues me."
And so it went. Throughout the uncomfortably lengthy minutes before Treacle called them to supper, throughout the five courses of the meal, and without a moment's break once the ladies left the men to their cigars and cards.
Helen Maddox, Countess of Chelfham was, in a word, nasty. She bullied her sister-in-law, badgered her husband, and after one particularly uncomfortable interlude where she positively stared at her, totally ignored Eleanor.
Which, when she thought about it, pleased Eleanor straight down to the ground, especially after the one time the countess did speak to her, and that was only to say, "Oh, you're a cripple. Rawley didn't tell me or I should certainly have begged off. I loathe infirmities, they make me queasy. I'll lie down, now. Miranda, fetch my woman."
And so, while the mantel clock seemed to have stuck on the quarter hour, the countess reclined on one of the couches, her
And she was the hostess. That meant she was in charge of at least beginning the conversation. Or so she thought.
"My lady, are you comfortable?" Miranda Phelps asked nervously. "Perhaps you're cool? Or warm?Yes, it is warm, isn't it? I believe you left your fan in the coach, but I could go and—"
"Miranda, please stifle yourself," the countess said in a lazy voice. "If I should require my fan, my woman will fetch it." Then she turned to Eleanor. "We have two other engagements this evening, Mrs. Eastwood. You will be serving soon?"
Eleanor might have been flustered at first, but she did not much care for the way the countess treated her sister-in-law, and cared less for the crushed look on the latter woman's homely face. "Perhaps, my lady, if you felt yourself overencumbered with social engagements you should have cried off from our small party? I'll call my husband over here and explain your difficulty."
"Oh, no," Miranda Phelps said, looking panicked. "You can't do that, Helen. Harris distinctly told me that we had to come because his lordship wanted to see— that is..." She looked around rather wildly before her sympathetic gaze landed on Eleanor. "I believe they're going to pass an hour playing at cards after dinner, at Mr. Eastwood's invitation."
"Really," the countess replied, her voice dripping venom. "Is your husband an idiot then, Mrs. Eastwood? Or just so deep in the pocket he doesn't mind losing to my husband, arguably the best player in London?"
"Is he, indeed?" Eleanor responded, her chin lifted slightly. "I assure you, I wouldn't know, having always considered my husband to be quite proficient at... games."
"Do you play, Mrs. Eastwood?"
"No, Mrs. Phelps, I do not," Eleanor answered, smiling at the woman who had begun to perspire visibly. "My accomplishments, I'm afraid, run more to the ordinary. Embroidery, watercolors. Singing. Do you sing, Mrs. Phelps? I would think you have a lovely singing voice."
Thankfully, Mrs. Phelps hadn't needed more than that one question to set her off into a long, rambling, stultifyingly boring recitation of some of her favorite songs, songs she and her sister used to sing for their papa on cold dark nights in Lincolnshire.
From there she went on—with the countess yawning into her hand—to say that she, too, dabbled in water-colors, although not well. "But now that we reside for months of the year at Chelfham Hall, I'm encouraged to better myself, as the prospects and vistas there are lovely and I long to do them credit."
"A fruitless yearning, alas, as I've been forced to view your renderings," her ladyship slid in, then snapped her fingers twice above her head, an action that—remarkably—had his lordship scurrying to her side like an obedient puppy. "I've yet to be holding a glass, Rawley."
The earl took hold of her upraised hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her fingertips one by one. "A thousand pardons, my darling. I'm afraid we were talking."
"Miranda was also talking, Rawley. You know how her inane prattling fatigues me."
And so it went. Throughout the uncomfortably lengthy minutes before Treacle called them to supper, throughout the five courses of the meal, and without a moment's break once the ladies left the men to their cigars and cards.
Helen Maddox, Countess of Chelfham was, in a word, nasty. She bullied her sister-in-law, badgered her husband, and after one particularly uncomfortable interlude where she positively stared at her, totally ignored Eleanor.
Which, when she thought about it, pleased Eleanor straight down to the ground, especially after the one time the countess did speak to her, and that was only to say, "Oh, you're a cripple. Rawley didn't tell me or I should certainly have begged off. I loathe infirmities, they make me queasy. I'll lie down, now. Miranda, fetch my woman."
And so, while the mantel clock seemed to have stuck on the quarter hour, the countess reclined on one of the couches, her
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