sparkled like little stars, making up constellations never dreamed of by any astronomer. She stood there, slowly stroking Binky’s back, looking out over the gardens.
Addie joined her there, resting her elbows on the sill. It had been a miserably cold and rainy summer, but it was clear tonight, the breeze bringing with it the smell of flowers from the garden. “Do you think it’s true they’ve got the Prince of Wales to come?” she asked idly.
“Why don’t we go find out?” Bea’s face was alight with mischief. “They just said we couldn’t come to the dance. They didn’t say we couldn’t watch it.”
Addie had a bad feeling about this. “Bea, but what—”
“They’ll never see us.” She was already moving towards the door. “If we hide behind the balustrade, they’ll have no idea.”
“Aren’t we a little old for that?”
Bea waggled her eyebrows. “If we’re too young for the ball, we can’t be too old for looking through the railings, can we?”
Addie sensed that there was something to be desired in her logic. “If we’re caught…”
“We won’t be,” Bea said with assurance.
Addie let out her breath in a long sigh. “At least leave Binky, then.”
“Nonsense,” said Bea. “Binky wants to see, too, don’t you, Binkers?” She lifted her up to Addie. “See, she’s even worn white for the occasion, poor thing.”
Binky blinked pathetically, her little red eyes darting first one way, then the other.
“If you keep doing that, she will make a mess in your hand,” Addie warned, holding out a hand for her. “You know she doesn’t like to be waved about.”
Bea slipped Binky into her pinafore pocket. “Here. Now she has a tidy little balcony view, like a dowager at the opera. All she needs are the opera glasses.”
Binky’s face just poked out over the pocket flap. Bea was right; she did look rather like one of the dowagers of Aunt Vera’s acquaintance.
Addie giggled. “I’ve never noticed it before, but Binky is the spit of Lady Rushworth. She has the same nervous, whiskery look.”
“Good blood,” said Bea solemnly. “It does show.”
They both convulsed with giggles. “Good blood” was one of Aunt Vera’s favorite topics.
“Onward?” said Bea.
Addie nodded. “Onward.”
Still giggling, they tiptoed out of the nursery. They had done this before, when they were smaller, during Aunt Vera’s house parties, hiding themselves behind a bust of the second earl that conveniently blocked them from view on the gallery that stretched above the Great Hall. The scent of flowers reached them even before they arrived at the gallery. Aunt Vera had denuded hothouses for miles around, ordering in blooms from as far away as London. On top of that were the perfumes of all the guests, some laid on with a heavy hand to disguise other, more natural scents.
The girls settled themselves behind their old friend the second earl, one to each side.
“Can you see?” Addie whispered.
“Yes. You?”
Aunt Vera and Uncle Charles presided from the landing in the center of the staircase as guests, announced by Badger, processed up one side and then back down the other, earning themselves a glass of champagne for their labors. They did look very grand up there, Aunt Vera in her diamonds, Uncle Charles in his medals, various orders of this and that. The signs of fatigue were there, in the new silver at his temples, the lines on either side of his mouth, but nothing could take away from the straightness of his spine, the air of authority he wore as naturally as his dinner jacket.
But the real surprise was Dodo.
Dodo had been transformed. Aunt Vera had wrestled her out of her tatty old riding habit and into a frock of white satin, overlaid with a silvery sort of tulle that gave her a deceptively ethereal air. She didn’t look like someone who was happiest mucking out a stall; she looked like she dined on ambrosia and slept on thistledown. Like all the Gillecotes, she was tall and
Addie joined her there, resting her elbows on the sill. It had been a miserably cold and rainy summer, but it was clear tonight, the breeze bringing with it the smell of flowers from the garden. “Do you think it’s true they’ve got the Prince of Wales to come?” she asked idly.
“Why don’t we go find out?” Bea’s face was alight with mischief. “They just said we couldn’t come to the dance. They didn’t say we couldn’t watch it.”
Addie had a bad feeling about this. “Bea, but what—”
“They’ll never see us.” She was already moving towards the door. “If we hide behind the balustrade, they’ll have no idea.”
“Aren’t we a little old for that?”
Bea waggled her eyebrows. “If we’re too young for the ball, we can’t be too old for looking through the railings, can we?”
Addie sensed that there was something to be desired in her logic. “If we’re caught…”
“We won’t be,” Bea said with assurance.
Addie let out her breath in a long sigh. “At least leave Binky, then.”
“Nonsense,” said Bea. “Binky wants to see, too, don’t you, Binkers?” She lifted her up to Addie. “See, she’s even worn white for the occasion, poor thing.”
Binky blinked pathetically, her little red eyes darting first one way, then the other.
“If you keep doing that, she will make a mess in your hand,” Addie warned, holding out a hand for her. “You know she doesn’t like to be waved about.”
Bea slipped Binky into her pinafore pocket. “Here. Now she has a tidy little balcony view, like a dowager at the opera. All she needs are the opera glasses.”
Binky’s face just poked out over the pocket flap. Bea was right; she did look rather like one of the dowagers of Aunt Vera’s acquaintance.
Addie giggled. “I’ve never noticed it before, but Binky is the spit of Lady Rushworth. She has the same nervous, whiskery look.”
“Good blood,” said Bea solemnly. “It does show.”
They both convulsed with giggles. “Good blood” was one of Aunt Vera’s favorite topics.
“Onward?” said Bea.
Addie nodded. “Onward.”
Still giggling, they tiptoed out of the nursery. They had done this before, when they were smaller, during Aunt Vera’s house parties, hiding themselves behind a bust of the second earl that conveniently blocked them from view on the gallery that stretched above the Great Hall. The scent of flowers reached them even before they arrived at the gallery. Aunt Vera had denuded hothouses for miles around, ordering in blooms from as far away as London. On top of that were the perfumes of all the guests, some laid on with a heavy hand to disguise other, more natural scents.
The girls settled themselves behind their old friend the second earl, one to each side.
“Can you see?” Addie whispered.
“Yes. You?”
Aunt Vera and Uncle Charles presided from the landing in the center of the staircase as guests, announced by Badger, processed up one side and then back down the other, earning themselves a glass of champagne for their labors. They did look very grand up there, Aunt Vera in her diamonds, Uncle Charles in his medals, various orders of this and that. The signs of fatigue were there, in the new silver at his temples, the lines on either side of his mouth, but nothing could take away from the straightness of his spine, the air of authority he wore as naturally as his dinner jacket.
But the real surprise was Dodo.
Dodo had been transformed. Aunt Vera had wrestled her out of her tatty old riding habit and into a frock of white satin, overlaid with a silvery sort of tulle that gave her a deceptively ethereal air. She didn’t look like someone who was happiest mucking out a stall; she looked like she dined on ambrosia and slept on thistledown. Like all the Gillecotes, she was tall and
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