Although Emma rather hoped Mrs. Harding wouldn’t discover the truth of her poor vision and illiteracy for a few more days, she knew the headmistress would be horrified when she found out.
Mrs. Harding had already been angry with her for refusing to write a list. But Emma’s penmanship was terrible, for she couldn’t see the letters she’d printed. And likely the headmistress would be furious to learn that Emma had ignored her list of instructions. But how could she admit that she couldn’t read them?
“I believe it’s my turn,” the last gentleman said. “I enjoy playing cards. Do you enjoy whist, Miss Smith?”
“I’ve never played,” she admitted. “So, I really couldn’t say.”
The footmen brought in the next course. From the delicious roasted scent, she guessed it was chicken. She found her fork and knife, located the edges of the plate, and began to eat. While she understood that Mrs. Harding was trying to draw her out, to force her to converse, the dinner was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Eventually, the men began to talk amongst themselves, leaving her out of the conversation. Until she heard a voice near her ear.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
She jolted at the sound of Lord Dunmeath’s voice. It was rare that anyone could sneak up on her—she’d trained herself to listen closely to all sounds. But she’d been distracted trying to eavesdrop on the others.
“You didn’t offend me,” she said quietly.
“It’s just that... well, never mind.”
“Go on,” she said dully.
“Well, I took some time to be thinking about your answers. Someone who needs spectacles would not enjoy reading. I used to hate it as a child until my tutor gave me a more interesting book of fairytales.” He moved to the other side of her chair. “And then, too, I suppose you’d not enjoy shooting or anything that involves straining your eyes. It was simply a guess.”
It had been a very good guess indeed. And she realized that he’d also noticed how she’d grown silent, and he’d made an effort to speak with her.
The pine scent of his shaving soap fascinated her. A sudden rush of nerves made her blush. For if she had to decide on suitors, Lord Dunmeath was indeed a possibility.
She didn’t know what prompted her to say it, but she confessed, “I did wear spectacles as a child, though I don’t anymore. They didn’t help my vision at all.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I cannot see anything close up, and it’s mostly colors and shapes.”
She waited for him to express his horror, but instead, he remarked, “I must admit, I admire you for being able to navigate a ballroom or even a meal. I suspect half my food is on the floor after wearing this blindfold, to be sure. ’Tis a miracle I was able to find your chair.” She didn’t know how to respond to that, so he ended by saying, “It’s my hope that we might become better acquainted, Miss Smith. If you’re willing.” Then she heard him moving back to his seat.
None of the other men continued the conversation, so she finished her dessert course and waited for them to leave.
Mrs. Harding returned and asked the gentlemen. “Has anyone guessed the identity of Miss Smith after your conversation with her earlier?”
At first, there was a slight discussion amongst the men. One guessed that she was Lady Beatrice. Another guessed that she was Miss Edwards, only to be corrected that Miss Edwards was now the Countess of Scarsdale. She waited on Lord Dunmeath to reveal her identity, but he remained silent.
Mrs. Harding’s tone held a trace of annoyance. “None of you has guessed? After all this conversation?”
Then she heard Lord Dunmeath speak at last. “I know who it is, but I fear I’m dreadful with names.”
“And what do you believe her name might be?” the matron prompted.
He held his silence a little longer, and then sighed. “I know it’s wrong, but possibly Miss Cooper?”
The sting of embarrassment hung over Emma. But then, what had she expected? Clearly, she’d made no impression at all on these men—not in person, and not when they were blindfolded. Her shoulders slumped forward, and then she heard Mrs. Harding say, “Incorrect. I fear none of you has guessed the identity of our mystery lady. Thank you for joining us for supper this evening. I will show her out, and Mr. Gregor will let you know when you may remove your blindfolds.”
Emma felt a hand on her shoulder, and she stood from the chair. Mrs. Harding took her hand and guided her from the room. She counted sixteen steps until they reached another room. The matron brought her to a chair and bade her to sit down.
Several seconds ticked by until finally, Mrs. Harding said, “This isn’t going to work, Miss Bartholomew. Not if you aren’t willing to try.”
“I did try,” she started to argue.
“Not one of the gentlemen had any idea who you were. And after one failed attempt at conversation, you simply gave up.”
“I didn’t. It was just that—none of them were interested in talking to me.”
“Do you presume that Lady Persephone or any of the ladies of thetonwould sit back and allow men to ignore her?”
“No, but—”
