after the dissipations of Town?”
“Indeed yes, Miss Barton,” Charles Wilton assured her. “I am finding the company in Hartwich even more charming than I remember from my boyhood visits.” He looked significantly at Elizabeth as he spoke, and she kept herself from rolling her eyes by an extreme force of will. Two floors above nestled a mysterious pocket watch in a plush velvet bag. For that matter, outside the window birds chirped and a soft breeze blew. And here she was trapped in a drawing room without even the consolation of interesting conversation.
“That is very kind of you to say, sir,” she said. Her mother looked at her sharply.
“But—if I may ask, Miss Elizabeth—why do I have the good fortune to meet you here? Why is a lovely young lady such as yourself not making her curtsy to Society?”
“I am not yet of an age to do so, Mr. Wilton,” Elizabeth replied, keeping her eyes cast down. Let him strike her off his list as too young, and then he could go about interviewing other eligible young ladies and she could go back to the pocket watch.
“My daughter is only just seventeen, sir,” her mother explained. “We did think of this year’s Season, but next year, her cousin Lily will be of an age to join us, and it will be merry indeed for the girls to have each other’s companionship. Unless, of course...” Mrs. Barton trailed off innocently, and Elizabeth gritted her teeth.
The conversation chirped along around her, and she returned her thoughts to the pocket watch, trying to construct from memory what the picture on the fourth face had been. A dark street, overlaid with fog...and within the fog, a shape moving...what sort of shape? Something quite large, she thought, and—
“Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth jerked herself back to the drawing room and lifted her eyes to Charles Wilton’s. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I said, it must be very quiet here for a jolly young girl such as yourself. Town will make your head spin next year.”
“Indeed, sir, I am certain it will,” Elizabeth said. Her mother cleared her throat.
“Only, I suppose, if you are fond of diversions,” Mr. Wilton went on, a little uncertainly. “Perhaps you are one of those studious young ladies who do not care for dancing...?” He glanced toward Elizabeth’s aunt, obviously a studious old lady who did not care for dancing.
“Elizabeth? Studious?” Her mother laughed. “Oh, but that is a very good joke, sir. She is a most lively girl indeed, and likes nothing better than to dance. Do you not, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth said, “Indeed, sir, I do enjoy a dance.”
“Perhaps I can prevail upon my aunt and uncle to give a ball,” Charles Wilton said, leaning toward her, “and perhaps you will consent to dance with me upon that occasion?”
“I would be most happy to, sir.” Elizabeth shifted to avoid the tickle of his breath on her neck. “It is very kind of you.” During her campaign to convince her mother to delay her entrance into Society one final year—and she was still rather surprised Mrs. Barton had fallen for the argument that Elizabeth wished to wait for Lily; Elizabeth and Lily were not so great friends as all that—she had thought of the reprieve as representing twelve additional months of freedom. It had not occurred to her that her mother would not wait for a triviality such as her presentation in London to commence a search for an eligible young man. But Mrs. Barton was not one to deny herself any of the fun accorded to a mamma with a marriageable daughter, and Elizabeth had therefore spent many tedious mornings since her seventeenth birthday trapped in a drawing room with some coxcomb or another. Now, nodding her head without listening to the anecdote Mr. Wilton was telling, she had to repress a shudder at the idea of an entire Season surrounded by men like him. And then what? Decades upon decades of drawing rooms and
“Indeed yes, Miss Barton,” Charles Wilton assured her. “I am finding the company in Hartwich even more charming than I remember from my boyhood visits.” He looked significantly at Elizabeth as he spoke, and she kept herself from rolling her eyes by an extreme force of will. Two floors above nestled a mysterious pocket watch in a plush velvet bag. For that matter, outside the window birds chirped and a soft breeze blew. And here she was trapped in a drawing room without even the consolation of interesting conversation.
“That is very kind of you to say, sir,” she said. Her mother looked at her sharply.
“But—if I may ask, Miss Elizabeth—why do I have the good fortune to meet you here? Why is a lovely young lady such as yourself not making her curtsy to Society?”
“I am not yet of an age to do so, Mr. Wilton,” Elizabeth replied, keeping her eyes cast down. Let him strike her off his list as too young, and then he could go about interviewing other eligible young ladies and she could go back to the pocket watch.
“My daughter is only just seventeen, sir,” her mother explained. “We did think of this year’s Season, but next year, her cousin Lily will be of an age to join us, and it will be merry indeed for the girls to have each other’s companionship. Unless, of course...” Mrs. Barton trailed off innocently, and Elizabeth gritted her teeth.
The conversation chirped along around her, and she returned her thoughts to the pocket watch, trying to construct from memory what the picture on the fourth face had been. A dark street, overlaid with fog...and within the fog, a shape moving...what sort of shape? Something quite large, she thought, and—
“Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth jerked herself back to the drawing room and lifted her eyes to Charles Wilton’s. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I said, it must be very quiet here for a jolly young girl such as yourself. Town will make your head spin next year.”
“Indeed, sir, I am certain it will,” Elizabeth said. Her mother cleared her throat.
“Only, I suppose, if you are fond of diversions,” Mr. Wilton went on, a little uncertainly. “Perhaps you are one of those studious young ladies who do not care for dancing...?” He glanced toward Elizabeth’s aunt, obviously a studious old lady who did not care for dancing.
“Elizabeth? Studious?” Her mother laughed. “Oh, but that is a very good joke, sir. She is a most lively girl indeed, and likes nothing better than to dance. Do you not, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth said, “Indeed, sir, I do enjoy a dance.”
“Perhaps I can prevail upon my aunt and uncle to give a ball,” Charles Wilton said, leaning toward her, “and perhaps you will consent to dance with me upon that occasion?”
“I would be most happy to, sir.” Elizabeth shifted to avoid the tickle of his breath on her neck. “It is very kind of you.” During her campaign to convince her mother to delay her entrance into Society one final year—and she was still rather surprised Mrs. Barton had fallen for the argument that Elizabeth wished to wait for Lily; Elizabeth and Lily were not so great friends as all that—she had thought of the reprieve as representing twelve additional months of freedom. It had not occurred to her that her mother would not wait for a triviality such as her presentation in London to commence a search for an eligible young man. But Mrs. Barton was not one to deny herself any of the fun accorded to a mamma with a marriageable daughter, and Elizabeth had therefore spent many tedious mornings since her seventeenth birthday trapped in a drawing room with some coxcomb or another. Now, nodding her head without listening to the anecdote Mr. Wilton was telling, she had to repress a shudder at the idea of an entire Season surrounded by men like him. And then what? Decades upon decades of drawing rooms and
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