Harriet gestured aggressively at the books. “I would learn more aboutcurrentsociety from the scandal sheets than these, but Father will not let me read them. He will not let us go to Bath, either; I guarantee it.”
“You said I would not be able to get your father to come and dance, but I did,” Frances replied, and immediately regretted it.
The last thing she needed was another reminder of that lovely moment, lost in the music and the company of him. Indeed, she did not need the encouragement, for the memory kept popping up as it pleased, anyway.
“Which reminds me,” she added thickly, “you have two hours of dancing to do this afternoon. Catherine will be your partner;Ishall play the pianoforte.”
Harriet groaned afresh. “I was not serious about that wager, Frances.”
“Well, I am, as I do not win wagers often.” Frances flashed her ward a grin, as the girl sat back in her chair and fought to keep a smirk off her face. “Now, come along. Ten pages. If you start to wane in your obvious enthusiasm, just think about the new dresses and bonnets you might soon possess.”
At that, Harriet could no longer hold back her laughter. “Am I such a difficult student, Frances? Oh, do tell me that I am not.”
“You are the most dedicated student I have ever taught,” Frances answered, smiling. “Then again, you are the first student I have taught that I am not related to. My youngest sister would not have thought twice about telling me this lesson is boring, before leaving to amuse herself elsewhere. But that is expected among family.”
Harriet frowned, ink pooling on her paper. “You make it sound as if you do not get along.”
“Oh, we do. I adore them, and I am almost certain that they adore me, but sisters quarrel, sisters snipe at one another, sisters can be cruel to each other sometimes; it is the way of things.” Frances chuckled. “Get a new piece of paper. That one is no good now. And that is the last question I shall answer until you have written at least a page, unless it isaboutwhat you are reading.”
Rather like Juliet, Harriet rolled her eyes and crumpled up the ruined sheet of paper. She set it to one side and pulled another sheet from the pile, starting all over again.
This time, however, there was a new sort of determination upon her pretty face as she put the nib to the paper and began to write, her gaze flitting between the book and her notes.
Twenty minutes later, Harriet was still deep in concentration, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as her quill scratched across the paper. Frances watched her with a swell of pride so fierce that it held back her urge to tell the girl not to stick her tongue out while she was writing.
She may well be the diamond of the Season.A prickle of guilt deflated her pride, for Juliet was also hoping for the title. Two women competing for the same position, both trained by her.
Just then, a maid came in carrying a tea tray, disrupting the difficult thought.
“His Grace sent this for you both,” she said, setting the silver tray down on a nearby side-table. “He thought you might want refreshment.”
Frances sat up straighter. “That is… very kind of him.”
“Shall I pour you some?” the maid asked.
“Yes, thank you.” Frances smiled and waited for the relief to hit.
This was what she had wanted, was it not—for Dominic to cease his involvement in her lessons? But the relief did not come.
“There’s a letter for you, Lady Harriet,” the maid said, as she poured the tea through a small sieve, balanced on the teacup.
The young woman suddenly jolted up from her studious work, jabbing the quill so violently into its holder that Frances heard the feather snap. Harriet scraped back the chair and walked quickly to the maid, her hand out.
“Here it is, my lady.” The maid slipped the letter off the tray and put it in Harriet’s eager hand.
The young woman did not return to the writing desk, but darted for the reading chair close to the French doors, where sunlight streamed in from the gardens. It also happened to be the only chair that no one could walk around, the back of it tucked into the corner. A chair that assured privacy.
Frances thanked the maid and took her cup of tea, a frown furrowing her brow as she observed her student.
She had never seen such a giddy look upon Harriet’s face before, and she had seen the girl at the very height of excitement, thrilled by a dinner party or a promenade or a story about theton. It was enough to give Frances pause.
“Harriet?” she said. “You are not yet done with your work. You should leave that letter until afterward, as a reward.”
Harriet did not bother to look up, her eyes flitting left to right as if she could not devour the words fast enough. “In a moment.”
“Who is it from?” Frances could only ask the obvious question.
“A friend,” Harriet answered, a note too quickly, the cadence almost rehearsed.
