“But here’s the thing, dear sister,” said Delilah. “Youwant to be a lady.”
“Iama lady.” Amelia pointed her paintbrush at Delilah. “And so areyou.” Her brush shifted toward Juliet. “Andyou, too.”
“I didn’t choose to be a lady,” said Delilah. Oh, how she loved to say that. “In fact, it’s a great hindrance to what and who I want to be.”
Amelia released a long-held, long-suffering sigh. “What you want to be, Delilah, is what landed you and all of us out here on the fringes of polite society in the first place.”
Delilah directed her unflinching gaze at Amelia. “All you need is a paintbrush and paper to create your art.”
Here came Delilah’s grievance, which Amelia had heard a good seventy-three times, if once. While she had sympathy for it, she’d long lost patience with it.
“All Archie needs,” said Delilah, “is a pianoforte. And, Juliet, all you need—”
Juliet held up a staying hand. As ever, she preferred to stay clear of Windermere sibling arguments. “I have no artistic talent to speak of.”
“—is paper, pencil, and a chair placed at the periphery of a room for your art,” finished Delilah.
Juliet’s smooth brow lifted. “And what art is that?”
“Listening.”
Juliet scoffed. “Listening isn’t an art.”
Delilah snorted. “The way you do it is, and don’t think I haven’t noticed.” She stopped long enough to draw breath. “AndIneed a stage and an audience.”
Amelia let her brush fall to the table. Now it was her turn to voicehergrievance for the seventy-third time. “But did you need as public a one as Eton College?”
Delilah shrugged her shoulder.
Amelia wasn’t finished, for her grievance was never satisfied until it had a full airing. “And did you need to pretend to be a boy pretending to be a girl pretending to be a boy to do it?”
Delilah looked at Amelia as if she’d suddenly become the most stupid woman in all the world. “Thatisthe role of Viola inTwelfth Night.”
Amelia’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling and remained there until she’d achieved a measure of calm. “But it’s the bit where you pretended to be a boy to get the part in the first place that society has taken issue with.”
How many times had Amelia pointed out the distinction this last year?
“Eton is an all-boys school,” returned Delilah. “How else would I have been able to secure the role?”
And how many times had Delilah refused to acknowledge the point?
“And to think Archie helped you,” said Amelia. She still couldn’t believe it.
“The bet was Archie’s idea in the first place.”
“You didn’t have to accept.”
“Sometimes, it’s like you don’t know me at all,” said Delilah, exasperated. “Besides, Archie’s been wanting to get one over on Eton since he left however many years ago.”
“But you, Delilah, are a lady of two and twenty years.” How many times had Amelia pointed this out? Oh, yes, seventy-three. “How did you ever expect to succeed?”
Delilah snorted. “The haircut helped.” She ran her fingers through short blond curls.
“We shan’t discuss your hair,” said Amelia. She still hadn’t recovered from The Haircut. Delilah had once possessed the most beautiful head of hair ever beheld, rivaled only by Amelia’s own long blond curls. Only Botticelli’s Venus standing on her half-shell held a candle to a Windermere head of hair.
Juliet lifted her head. “I rather like Delilah’s haircut.”
Oh, dear cousin Juliet… So honest… So annoying.
