Rosalie tries to sketch out the scene in her mind. She should use every ounce of advantage she has, because once everyone arrives—once MissPine arrives—she knows she’ll be distracted.
She hasn’t been able to get MissPine out of her head all week. The way her eyes darkened, the huskiness of her voice, the challenge in her smile have left Rosalie befuddled since their shopping trip. And the way MissPine looked in the mock-up Madame Florent made of the dress Rosalie insisted on buying her?
Rosalie might actually die when it’s finished.
“Now, I want you to seat the girls, Gen.”
Mother and Aunt Genevieve approach Rosalie, Aunt Genevieve watching her mother with fond exasperation.
“Rosalie should be here,” Mother says, moving around Rosalie to place a hand on the fifth chair from the right, not quite at the apex of the horseshoe, but close. “And Mr.Dean will be right there,” she adds, pointing at the tree.
“Right where?” Aunt Genevieve asks, pointing about six feet to the left.
“No!” Mother says, her voice edging toward that shrill tone that could summon dogs.
“So, so sorry, yes, I see now,” Aunt Genevieve says, glancing at Rosalie with a wink.
Rosalie grins back. Everything’s always better when Aunt Genevieve and Uncle Walter are in town for the season. It makes Rosalie long for her brother, Christopher. They aren’t complete with him off at Cambridge, and she knows he’ll be disappointed to miss some of Uncle Walter’s visit in particular.They’ve always been close. Uncle Walter just understands him in a way it feels like Father never has.
But her brother’s complicated relationship with their father isn’t the point today. Today, Rosalie needs to impress Mr.Dean. Truly impress him.
Their promenade two days ago was an utter failure, according to Mother. They walked for over an hour along the Avon, didn’t say a thing to each other, and agreed to do it again next week.
She wonders what it would be like to promenade with MissPine, just the two of them. She wants to see more of that playful spark MissPine showed when they shopped—more of her cutting insights and smart observations. She wonders what it might be like to slip her hand into MissPine’s. To maybe find their way under a bridge, out of sight, out of mind. To push MissPine up against a—
“MissPine should sit—”
“Third from the left,” Aunt Genevieve repeats. “I know. I’ll get it done. Would you just calm down?”
“I am calm,” Mother insists.
Aunt Genevieve gives Rosalie a pointed look. Rosalie feels her shoulders go up, as if her aunt could possibly know about her treacherous, confusing thoughts. But Aunt Genevieve just pats her shoulder and heads toward the front of the garden, where the first guests are now arriving.
“Just focus on your own canvas, and you’ll be the best,” Mother says. “Mr.Dean will pick you as the winner, and they’ll all fall in line with him.”
The gentlemen get to judge the winner of the contest, as payment for posing for them. Or so Aunt Genevieve says is always the rule.
Rosalie isn’t sure they have much right to be judging the paintings. Mr. Deanshouldchoose hers. But Mr.Dean is... Mr.Dean. It’s always hard to tell.
“You’ll be the best. You’re always the best,” Mother says.
Rosalie nods reflexively. Henrietta and her mother, Amalie and her mother, and MissPine and Mrs.Pine have just entered the back garden, all six of them chatting. Henrietta has her arm through MissPine’s elbow and MissPine is laughing at something she’s said, her face bright and pink.
Rosalie’s stomach clenches. It should be jealousy coursing through her, that MissPine has charmed her friends. But it isn’t. She isn’t feeling any of the things she should, and what she is feeling—hot along her neck, flushed up to her ears, tingly—is inappropriate in the extreme.
Something is clearly wrong with her.
MissPine is athreatto everything Rosalie’s built.
So, she has to go over there. To oversee the afternoon. To guide MissPine to the right suitor. To ensure she’s making the proper connections.
Not to see if she’s wearing the same perfume she was when they sat close on the bench at the back of Madame Florent’s shop. Floral and fresh and—
“Welcome,” Rosalie says, approaching the trio. She hopes she looks confident and aloof, and that no one can hear the infatuated pounding of her treacherous pulse.
“It looks splendid,” Amalie says, gesturing to the garden. “Though I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Lady Jones throws the best fetes,” Henrietta tells MissPine.
