“A fascinating notion,” said another man. “But I know every eligible young lady in London. It won’t be hard to guess who she really is.”
Emma didn’t recognize this man’s voice, but then Mrs. Harding nudged her. Oh. Right. She was expected to speak to them.
“Good evening.” Her voice came out softer than she’d intended. The headmistress did not look pleased, and Emma spoke louder to the guests. “I look forward to conversing with you.”
Which was an utter lie, of course. She didn’t know the first thing about having a conversation with an unmarried gentleman. What on earth should she say? Perhaps she could talk about the food.
Emma took her seat at the head of the table, and the footman stepped forward with the first soup course. A moment later, someone placed a blindfold over her eyes. At first, Emma had to resist the urge to take it off. The fabric felt like wool and itched. And in the darkness, she could no longer see her food or drink.
It almost made her laugh at the absurdity of this dinner.
She heard the sound of a liquid being poured into her cup. But when she reached for her glass, it was no longer in the same spot. Or had the drink been given to one of the other gentlemen? She wasn’t certain.
Emma took a moment to take her bearings. First, she placed her napkin in her lap. Then she arranged her silver until she knew where her fork and spoon were. Her glass was located at the top of her soup bowl instead of to the right, so she moved it.
“Miss Smith,” one of the gentlemen dared, “tell me something about yourself. Something no one else in London knows about you.”
In a way, she was grateful for the suggestion of conversation. “I’ll have to think,” she answered. But the truth was, she couldn’t think of anything interesting. Her life was a tightly knit pattern of meals with her family, insufferable balls, and walking outside with her father’s dog. She didn’t read, didn’t do needlepoint, nor did she paint.
“I do play the pianoforte,” she offered.
“Nearly every young lady does,” another responded. “Do you sing?”
Though she supposed the gentleman was trying to learn more about her, she felt as if he’d given a slight criticism. “Very badly,” she admitted. “Our dog would howl if I tried to sing.”
“What sort of dog is he?” she heard Lord Dunmeath ask.
“He’s a spaniel.” Though truthfully, he was her father’s dog. Bertie was a sweet animal, but he mostly lay beside the fireplace and snored. He tolerated the walks, but because of his age, she suspected he didn’t enjoy them.
Emma reached for her spoon and found the edge of her bowl before dipping it into her soup. The warm vegetable soup was comforting and provided a distraction while she searched for another conversation topic. For a moment, she fell silent, slipping back into the familiarity of not speaking. Although she knew she was supposed to be engaging and vivacious, she had no idea where to begin. She didn’t talk to gentlemen. She knew nothing of how to converse.
But then, Lord Dunmeath offered her a respite. “Miss Smith, I suggest that each of us should be telling you something about ourselves. One at a time, around the table.”
She was grateful for the suggestion and answered, “That sounds like a good idea.” The other gentlemen murmured their agreement, and Emma turned to her left. “Might I suggest that the gentleman on my left begin?”
“Ah yes.” She heard him set down his spoon and he said, “I enjoy reading books. Do you have a favorite novel or author?”
“No,” Emma answered. “I can’t say that I enjoy reading.” There were too many memories when she’d had her knuckles rapped as a young girl. Her governess had given up eventually, but she’d made it clear that she thought Emma was the most ignorant girl she’d ever attempted to teach.
“Oh,” he said. “I must admit I’m surprised. I rather thought that since you had come to this school, you were most likely a bluestocking.”
“Far from it,” Emma admitted. She’d never been very good at school. It had taken years to hide her ignorance from others.
Then the next gentleman spoke, “I enjoy hunting. Do you shoot at all?”
“No,” she answered. “My aim is terrible.”
The third gentleman was Lord Dunmeath. He began by saying, “I like new experiences. Taking walks early in the morning or buying food from a street vendor. Sometimes I’ll go about my day with no plans at all, except the ones I make at the last minute.”
The very idea horrified her, for Emma found familiarity and comfort in routines. Each day, she ate the same breakfast, nearly the same luncheon, and at night, she fell asleep at the same time. “That sounds... interesting,” she responded, though it was a blatant lie.
Then he continued and asked, “Tell me, Miss Smith... do you wear spectacles?”
The blood rushed to her face, and her skin went icy. For a moment, she had a sense that he had guessed her darkest secret. It startled her, but she managed to blurt out, “No, I do not.”
At least, not anymore. Not since her stepmother had thrown them out, claiming that attractive women didn’t wear spectacles.
His silence felt like an unspoken judgment. But really, her stepmother had been right. The spectacles hadn’t helped anyway. She could barely see anything at all—only colors and vague shapes. And reading was impossible. She’d given up at the age of nine. Her governess had despaired of her lack of education and had eventually quit.
