summoned maid standing behind the couch wielding an ivory-sticked fan and looking daggers at Miranda each time she opened her mouth to speak.
Eleanor and Miranda retired to the music room to look through the song sheets shelved there.
"She isn't really mean, you know," Miranda told Eleanor as she sat with a stack of song sheets in her lap. "I mean, she is, usually, but I think that's because she's not happy. I mean, not that she's not thrilled to be a countess. Lord knows anyone would be delighted, I know I would, but she can't quite care for his lordship, you understand."
"She seems to have no trouble ruling his lordship," Eleanor said, hoping to keep the conversation alive and on point even as Mrs. Phelps's candor surprised her.
"Oh, yes, definitely. Harris says that's because she's going to give him an heir."
"The countess is pregnant?" Eleanor felt suddenly ill herself, knowing she and Jack, one way or the other, were probably going to make this unborn child fatherless.
Miranda leaned closer to Eleanor, who sat beside her on the small couch. "Harris says he wonders whose baby it is, because his sister was rather...rather wild when she first made her debut last season. Oh, I know I shouldn't say such things, but I cannot like her, and as we're residing with them, I'm always in her company. I've begged Harris to leave London, take us home to Surrey, but he refuses. Too busy, he says. I don't see how he could be busy. All he does is to go off without me to gamble all night and then sleep until two in the afternoon. Oh, I'm doing it again! Mrs. Eastwood, forgive me. I shouldn't have had that second glass of wine. Harris says my tongue runs on wheels when I imbibe."
"Shall I ring for the tea tray? It's rather early, but you might feel better with some nice hot tea and cakes." Eleanor figuratively patted herself on the back for her offer, as she'd much rather press another glass of wine into that pudgy little hand.
"Oh, no, no thank you. No more cakes for me for a while. Helen gives me her castoffs, you understand, and I simply must be able to wedge myself into the green velvet by Christmastime. I've already planned to use the extra material for a lovely shawl—she's so much taller than me, you understand. But I am thirsty, so perhaps just one teeny, tiny bit more wine?"
Eleanor rang for a servant and within moments, it seemed, Miranda Phelps was swallowing down a full glass of wine as if it were water, fresh and cold from the pump.
With a look toward the hallway, Eleanor decided to dare more questions. "Your husband and the countess are brother and sister. Were he and the earl acquainted before the marriage?"
Miranda frowned, thinking back, or just trying to think clearly. "Harris and his lordship? No." She leaned closer, as she'd done earlier, with the air of one imparting something important. "We were poor as church mice before his lordship clapped eyes on Helen. I'm not saying we're swimming all that deep in the gravy boat now, but things have most definitely been better for us since their marriage." She rolled her eyes. "Except for Helen being even more toplofty now than she was, thinking herself better than anyone else."
"Well, she is a countess," Eleanor pointed out, then dug in a little deeper. "But I must say she doesn't treat you very nicely, does she?"
"Ha! If you knew the half of it, dear, kind Mrs. Eastwood! I know why Harris married me, for my father's money, certainly not because he...well, the miller's daughter can't be choosey, can she? Especially one who looks like me."
"I sure he cares for you. Deeply." Eleanor hoped she sounded sincere.
"No, he used my small dowry for Helen's Come-out last Season, figuring she was the way to our fortune. We'd still be hiding from creditors if it weren't for Helen and her advantageous marriage, as she constantly reminds us. Her sacrifice, she says it was, as if she hasn't benefited mightily from the marriage. And the title. Lording over us, over me." She lifted
Eleanor and Miranda retired to the music room to look through the song sheets shelved there.
"She isn't really mean, you know," Miranda told Eleanor as she sat with a stack of song sheets in her lap. "I mean, she is, usually, but I think that's because she's not happy. I mean, not that she's not thrilled to be a countess. Lord knows anyone would be delighted, I know I would, but she can't quite care for his lordship, you understand."
"She seems to have no trouble ruling his lordship," Eleanor said, hoping to keep the conversation alive and on point even as Mrs. Phelps's candor surprised her.
"Oh, yes, definitely. Harris says that's because she's going to give him an heir."
"The countess is pregnant?" Eleanor felt suddenly ill herself, knowing she and Jack, one way or the other, were probably going to make this unborn child fatherless.
Miranda leaned closer to Eleanor, who sat beside her on the small couch. "Harris says he wonders whose baby it is, because his sister was rather...rather wild when she first made her debut last season. Oh, I know I shouldn't say such things, but I cannot like her, and as we're residing with them, I'm always in her company. I've begged Harris to leave London, take us home to Surrey, but he refuses. Too busy, he says. I don't see how he could be busy. All he does is to go off without me to gamble all night and then sleep until two in the afternoon. Oh, I'm doing it again! Mrs. Eastwood, forgive me. I shouldn't have had that second glass of wine. Harris says my tongue runs on wheels when I imbibe."
"Shall I ring for the tea tray? It's rather early, but you might feel better with some nice hot tea and cakes." Eleanor figuratively patted herself on the back for her offer, as she'd much rather press another glass of wine into that pudgy little hand.
"Oh, no, no thank you. No more cakes for me for a while. Helen gives me her castoffs, you understand, and I simply must be able to wedge myself into the green velvet by Christmastime. I've already planned to use the extra material for a lovely shawl—she's so much taller than me, you understand. But I am thirsty, so perhaps just one teeny, tiny bit more wine?"
Eleanor rang for a servant and within moments, it seemed, Miranda Phelps was swallowing down a full glass of wine as if it were water, fresh and cold from the pump.
With a look toward the hallway, Eleanor decided to dare more questions. "Your husband and the countess are brother and sister. Were he and the earl acquainted before the marriage?"
Miranda frowned, thinking back, or just trying to think clearly. "Harris and his lordship? No." She leaned closer, as she'd done earlier, with the air of one imparting something important. "We were poor as church mice before his lordship clapped eyes on Helen. I'm not saying we're swimming all that deep in the gravy boat now, but things have most definitely been better for us since their marriage." She rolled her eyes. "Except for Helen being even more toplofty now than she was, thinking herself better than anyone else."
"Well, she is a countess," Eleanor pointed out, then dug in a little deeper. "But I must say she doesn't treat you very nicely, does she?"
"Ha! If you knew the half of it, dear, kind Mrs. Eastwood! I know why Harris married me, for my father's money, certainly not because he...well, the miller's daughter can't be choosey, can she? Especially one who looks like me."
"I sure he cares for you. Deeply." Eleanor hoped she sounded sincere.
"No, he used my small dowry for Helen's Come-out last Season, figuring she was the way to our fortune. We'd still be hiding from creditors if it weren't for Helen and her advantageous marriage, as she constantly reminds us. Her sacrifice, she says it was, as if she hasn't benefited mightily from the marriage. And the title. Lording over us, over me." She lifted
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