“I believe it,” MissPine says, staring around, her big brown eyes wide and delighted.
Rosalie should not be feeling any pride from that look whatsoever. Even if it is her aunt’s garden. It’s not like she had anything to do with it.
“Come see where we’ll be painting,” she says, taking the hand of Henrietta, who tugs along Miss Pine, who grabs Amalie, so they’re a traipsing train across the lawn. It loosens something in Rosalie’s chest.
“The boys will be there, and we’ll all have—I think it was two hours?” Rosalie says as they come up on the platform and easels.
“Two hours exactly,” Aunt Genevieve says, appearing behind them and grinning when MissPine and Henrietta let out little gasps of surprise. She likes to stalk her prey at these events, stealthily popping into conversations. It’s how she gets the best gossip. “Then the boys will choose the winner, and while they fawn over her, the rest of us will drink and drown our sorrows in tea cakes.”
“We’ll get biscuits and sweets too,” Henrietta tells MissPine. “When Rosalie wins.”
Rosalie bites her lip while Amalie swats Henrietta. “I don’t always win everything,” Rosalie says, going for humble. She does, but Henrietta doesn’t need to brag about it.
“Of course I’m rooting for my niece, but I do love a good dark horse,” Aunt Genevieve tells them. “MissLinet gave me a wonderful sketch the other year, and you yourself have painted multiple watercolors I’ve hung in my parlor,” she tells Henrietta. Both of her friends blush. Rosalie grins at her aunt. “And who knows, MissPine is a new variable in our midst.”
“I could beat you all,” MissPine agrees.
Rosalie meets her eyes, enjoying the challenge. “You think so?”
“My mother certainly does,” MissPine says with a shrug. “Though mostly I want to see your paintings,” she adds, looking to Amalie and Henrietta.
“I’m sure yours will be wonderful,” Henrietta says, while Amalie looks back and forth between Miss Pine and Rosalie.
Henrietta’s warmed to MissPine in the way Henrietta warms to everyone—trusting and giving her full self at a whiff of kindness. But Amalie’s remained steadfast in their mission; Rosalie’s winning the season, she’ll see to it. But she can like the girl.
MissPine is charming, and kind, and listening to her and Henrietta begin discussing shading and which ratios to mix to get the exact green of the giant oak leaves is practically warm and fuzzy.
It’s making Rosalie soft, which is a problem as the gentlemen enter the garden. What if MissPine is actually as good as she says? What if she’s not just being playful? What if, like with the pianoforte, she’s gifted and Rosalie merely has hard-won practice on her side?
Thankfully, she doesn’t also have to put on a show for Mr.Dean and his friends, because Aunt Genevieve snags them first. She positions Mr.Dean against the oak tree, staring off into the distance, not unlike how he spends most balls.
The broad Mr.Rile she places in a contemplative pose in a chair center stage, with the tall and narrow Mr.Fortes on Mr.Rile’s right on the floor, leaning back against the side of his chair. Rosalie rather hopes he’ll fall asleep with his head on Mr.Rile’s thigh.
Mr.Plory she plunks down on the front of the stage, legs over the side, hands on his thighs. “Look down, you’re sad,” she tells him.
He giggles and does as he’s told, clearly enamored of her. All of the boys are watching Aunt Genevieve, jumping to do her bidding. Who can blame them? The twinkle in her eye as she directs them around is infectious.
Rosalie glances back at the mothers, who have clustered on the patio in chairs to watch the proceedings. They’re all holding drinks already and laughing. Even Mrs. Pine looks amused.
Rosalie looks back at the stage just in time to watch Mr.Sholle gamely lie down on the floor on his stomach in front of Mr.Rile, a notebook and old quill in hand.
“Knees bent, legs kicking, as if you’re writing to a sweetheart,” Aunt Genevieve instructs.
Mr.Sholle looks up at her, then out at the group of women, his eyes wide. Aunt Genevieve hums, waiting, and Mr.Sholle gives a comical shrug before bending his legs and swinging them back and forth while pretending to write in the notebook, looking just like a schoolboy working on an assignment on holiday.
The girls giggle, including MissPine. Rosalie feels her cheeks heating up. In pride, obviously. Her plan is working.
Aunt Genevieve steps off the platform and walks backward to peruse the scene. The boys look ridiculous.
“Just as I imagined,” she says, making the entire garden laugh. “Now, ladies.”
She turns and begins directing each girl into a specific seat. Rosalie waits with Henrietta, Amalie, and MissPine, watching Aunt Genevieve place some of her acquaintances at the furthest seats on either side of the horseshoe.
Aunt Genevieve will give Rosalie the prime chair, like Mother wanted, but she clearly also wants a true competition, seating Henrietta and Amalie between Rosalie and MissPine, the four of them at the apex of the horseshoe of easels.
Rosalie slips on the apron from the back of her chair and sits down, taking in the tableau. Mr. Sholle’s actually writing something in the notebook, while Mr. Rile pulls contemplative faces. Mr. Fortes has let his sandy-blond head rest back ontoMr. Rile’s thigh, and at intervals they look at each other and grin. It’s adorable.
“No moving, gentlemen,” Aunt Genevieve says imperiously.
