Mama’s frown increased. “Elspeth, darling. Please listen. We are not leaving for me. I do this for you.”
“Then wait for me.” Ellie relaxed her stance and softened her voice. “Let me call on my friend for the weekend. I will only be gone a few days.”
“But why would you wish to? You’ve never spent a single night from home.”
“You’ve never allowed it.”
“Why should I do so now?”
“Mother, you haven’t a choice. I’m old enough to mind my manners and not embarrass myself. I’m also old enough to have a little fun. If you allow me one small freedom, this will be our last word on the subject. When I return, I will pack peaceably and immediately, and we can set off as soon as you’d like.”
Her mother’s lips pursed. “And if I cannot agree?”
Ellie lifted a shoulder. “Then it will be a battle every step of the way.”
Mama was silent for a long moment. Perhaps she could not fathom why her daughter had lost her habitual obedience.
Now that it was Ellie’s last opportunity to see Mr. Macane, Miss Breckenridge’s invitation had become a brass ring dangling just out of reach. Ellie was determined to make one last leap.
And earn the promised fee. Running away cost more than staying still, and they had enough trouble making it through each day.
Mama shook her head. “Elspeth darling...”
Ellie longed to collapse her shoulders in defeat. She forced her spine even straighter rather than give the impression of submissiveness.
“Ladies?” The deep voice came from beyond the pantry, where their sole manservant stood in the shadows bearing a single white card upon a small silver tray. “It appears Miss Ramsay has a visitor.”
“Who?” Mama demanded, wild-eyed.
“The card says Miss Lydia Breckenridge.” The manservant proffered the tray.
If Ellie thought her mother had been blindsided by her daughter’s recent demonstration of will, Mama was downright apoplectic over the shock of impending company.
“Show her to the sitting room, if you please,” Ellie commanded before her mother could catch her breath. “I’ll be there posthaste.”
With that, she edged past her mother and raced to her bedchamber for a fresh gown.
Although she changed as rapidly as she was able, she fully expected to discover Miss Breckenridge gone half-mad from one of Mama’s brutal interrogations. Instead, Ellie found her benefactress to be unattended, drifting about the sitting room with an air of befuddlement.
“Good afternoon.” Ellie glanced about the simple room in search of whatever might have discomfited Miss Breckenridge so. “Is something amiss?”
“Amiss?” the young woman echoed, her brow clearing. “That’s precisely it. Nothing is amiss!”
“I’m afraid I do not follow.” Ellie motioned her guest onto a sofa and took the seat opposite.
“The Breckenridge estates are a positive museum, every inch filled with antiquities fighting for space with the latest Parisian baubles. Your domicile—whilst quite serviceable, Miss Ramsay, I mean no insult—hasn’t a single gewgaw on display. It gives your home a refreshing, timeless appeal.” Miss Breckenridge shook her head and laughed. “I daresay your staff is the more content, not having to spend every minute dusting the same tired gimcracks.”
Ellie forced a smile, unsure whether her home had just been complimented or slighted. She tried to see her plain surroundings through a stranger’s eyes.
While everything was tasteful and tidy, the “everything” in question did in fact consist of no more than the bare necessities. Aside from a few pieces of furniture and a handful of candelabra, the sitting room contained nothing else.
Ellie could scarce imagine living in the chaotic opulence Miss Breckenridge described. Not only were antiquities and Parisian baubles above the Ramsays’ means, their inevitable midnight flights from one corner of England to another inherently prohibited attachment to any given item.
It was therefore a happy accident indeed if their inability to own any belongings had produced an ambiance of—what had Miss Breckenridge called it?—timeless appeal.
Ellie frowned slightly upon the realization that her benefactress might have been using the term in a more literal sense than originally interpreted. The Ramsay home contained no clocks, no newspapers, no correspondence, no diaries, no family portraits... It looked exactly as it always did, with nothing in vogue and nothing to mark the passage of time. Viewing her home from such a perspective, Ellie began to suspect she had been quite cleverly insulted, and could not help but take affront on behalf of her family’s simplicity.
“Miss Breckenridge, I hardly think?—”
