Lina had gathered from snippets of conversations she had eavesdropped on, or outright spied upon, that the Harlowes were quite anxious to unburden themselves of her. Evangeline had been more than helpful in bestowing upon Lina additional information to that effect: Lina was a financial burden on their already strained household, and the simplest resolution of such a burden was marriage, but since Lina was—as Evangeline had hastened to remind her several times—a bastard with no name and no inheritance, she was essentially without prospects.
The Harlowes, while impoverished, still held peer titles, and aristocratic bearing amounted to something. Evangeline also seemed fairly certain that a dowry of some kind had been salvaged for her.
Evangeline also clung to the belief that she was still as pretty as she once was. Lina, who had become accustomed to her role as plain, bastard child given a home only by the grace of fortune and because of Mr. Harlowe’s honorable word for a comrade-in-arms, had not been entirely disabused of this notion herself.
A wealthy male visitor, therefore, might rightfully make sense, if he were a suitor.
But a suitor for Evangeline.
“The best you can hope for,” Evangeline had told Lina, “is to marry a commoner, like a stable boy or a butler or such.” And then, because Evangeline was simply spoiled and insecure, and not truly mean, she had pressed her hand to Lina’s shoulder to reassure her. “At leastyoustand a chance of marrying for love. While I,” she had sighed with the sort of practiced sorrow that sent her to bed for days, and could have been very real or very imagined, “must sacrifice myself at the altar of wealth for the good of the family.”
Anna, who was a blonde angel and looked like a doll, had clasped her hands together in wonderment. “And what will I do?”
To which her sister had snapped, “You will get off the floor and behave like a lady, and not speak of such things at such a young age. It is positively improper.”
Anna was eighteen as of the previous week, but Evangeline would always think of her and treat her like a small girl.
A stillness pervaded the dining room once Lina was seated and basic introductions had been made, and it lasted through to the first course.
“Mr. Blackstone has traveled all the way from London in a single day,” Mrs. Harlowe said, to break the uncomfortable silence.
Lina did her best to contain herself, and failed spectacularly. A glow overtook her complexion and she nearly dropped her fork. “Oh, London,” she said breathlessly toward the dark figure, further obscured by the glow of the candles placed so near to her. “Is that where you live? Is it as exciting and glorious as they say it is?”
Mrs. Harlowe’s face had already become quite rigid by the time Lina finished her sentence.
There was a terrible beat of silence, and Lina pressed her lips together and cast her eyes upon her plate. She knew she was frequently “over-exuberant,” which was unladylike, but now she wondered if perhaps calling a city “exciting” was not also “wanton” in some way, which was something she was never,everto be.
“I am not particularly fond of London,” said a voice from the small table. It was a deep, authoritative voice, strong and clear, but in its contours Lina detected the inflection of a middle-class accent, one which, like her own mild French accent, had been scrubbed as clean as possible, but lingered stubbornly.
For the first time ever in her young life, Lina felt an inexplicable shiver travel through her torso. The flush of her cheeks deepened when the shiver pooled lower in her abdomen than was proper to even think about.
“I prefer Paris,” the voice said.
Lina’s exuberance reared its head again, as she lifted her eyes and smiled broadly. “But I am from Paris!” she said loudly, and to her regret, in a most unladylike way. “I am, that is, rather, I don’t have very many memories for I left when I was young, but the memories I do have—”
“Caroline,” Mrs. Harlowe said sharply, but not soon enough to stop Lina from rambling on to say:
“... are of such gaiety and liberal spirit...”
This final sentence caused Mrs. Harlowe’s features to pinch up into a display of mortification the likes of which Lina had not seen for some time. Lina was instantly overcome by emotion, which rushed to her cheeks and made her eyes sting.
“Caroline, I am certain that Mr. Blackstone has no interest in such impressions.”
Mr. Blackstone did not respond to this comment either to affirm nor deny it, and Lina took in a deep breath and lowered her eyes, hoping that her frustration did not well up in her eyes, as it sometimes did, as tears. Extravagances such as the goings-on of the Parisians were held in very low esteem by Mrs. Harlowe.
“Yes, of course,” Lina managed to say. She smoothed her napkin and took a small bite of pork, which Mr. Gray had prepared most extravagantly, in the only extravagant way he knew how—a French cooking method which Lina herself had instructed him in. She suddenly found the whole thing very funny and had to suppress a smile.
Mr. Harlowe took it upon himself to talk about the weather, and Mr. Blackstone’s journey, and inquire about various London businesses that he frequented when he traveled there. The meal continued on this way, and quite awkwardly, with Mr. Blackstone’s low, rumbling voice only occasionally issuing from the shadows. The sound tickled Lina from the inside, and more than once she felt desperate to speak to the mysterious man, but she held her tongue as instructed.
She was grateful that she managed to finish the meal without any mishaps and without speaking.
“Caroline, if you are finished with your meal, you may retire. I am certain Mr. Blackstone is quite exhausted and the men wish to take their liquor in the drawing room at a sensible hour.”
Mr. Gray was already there to pull out her chair.
“Mr. Blackstone, I suppose I will be taking my leave then, if you would excuse me. It was ever so lovely... dining with you, and...” Lina, at moments like this, always struggled with the proper words. “I do so hope that you enjoy your stay here at our lovely home.”
Mr. Harlowe cleared his throat, and Mrs. Harlowe’s eyes were nailed to her plate. So, she must have said something wrong, but there was nothing new in that. She left, relieved that she had not taken the tablecloth with her as she once had, and covered her mouth in the hallway to stifle a laugh.
