“As is evident by my spinster status.”
“What is evident is your good sense at not taking on any young fool who looks your way,” he replied.
“Is that so,” she said in a wry tone.
Diana leaned around her brother with concern twisting her brow. “But are you chilled? I do hope you do not catch cold.”
“Nonsense. Our Vi is made of sterner stuff,” said Osborn, but then his laughter faded, and his brow furrowed as he considered Violet. “Do you wish for a drink? I am certain they have something that will warm you up in a trice.”
“Off with you now,” said Violet, pulling free of him and pushing him toward the dancers. “I see Miss Giles standing just there. Go plague her.”
Osborn’s eyes brightened, and his spine straightened as all thoughts of his sister and her friend vanished, dismissing them as though they’d never existed. Without a word of farewell, he drifted off to chase the young lady who was so adeptly toying with his heart at present, and Violet’s exuberance dimmed at the all-too-familiar dismissal. It was ridiculous to feel even a spark of indignation or hurt, as experience had taught her well just how quickly a person could be forgotten when a prettier face appeared.
Scoffing at herself, she cast that silly thought aside.
Taking her by the arm once more, Diana let out a sigh as her brother wove through the crowd with eager determination. “My brother is a fool.”
“Yes, but we wouldn’t like him so very much if he were sensible,” replied Violet.
Diana considered that and nodded. “Too true. For all that he is older, one would think he was the younger sibling by some years.”
Violet held back a huff of laughter at the manner in which Diana said the word “older.” There was a hint of a shudder to it, as though to be past the age of thirty was ancient, indeed. But Violet paid it no mind, for Diana meant nothing by the slight, and she remembered what it was like to be on the earlier side of thirty when anything else felt ancient.
But Violet’s attention veered away from that when she spied another friendly face in the crowd. “I see Felicity.”
“Where?” asked Diana, for she couldn’t see past the crush of people, despite rising to her tiptoes.
It took some maneuvering for the ladies to wade through the crowd, and though having the set end might be viewed as a boon (as it allowed them to cut across the dance floor), it only added to the chaos as couples shifted about. But with effort, they drew up before their friend, and Diana quickly embraced Felicity, bussing her on the cheek.
“How good to see you both,” said Felicity before reaching back to a pair that stood just behind her. “And this is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Annette Finch, and her daughter, Miss Joan Finch. And my brother-in-law is somewhere in this mess, though I haven’t spied him or my husband in some time.”
“No doubt they are causing trouble at the card tables,” said Mrs. Finch with a hint of a laugh. “Just as my two youngest are likely plaguing their nursemaids at home.”
“It is so good to meet you, finally,” said Diana. “We’ve been eagerly anticipating your arrival.”
Violet managed to cover the smile that threatened to emerge at that statement, for innocuous though it sounded, the anticipation hadn’t been of the pleasant variety.
“Oh, we are equally eager to be here for such a happy time,” said Mrs. Finch as she smiled at her sister-in-law. Felicity echoed the expression, resting a hand upon the swell of her stomach, though her expression became strained when Mrs. Finch added, “Losing my father-in-law was such a shock to us all, and my husband is quite determined to honor his father’s legacy and do his best as the new head of the family—including welcoming the newest member. My father-in-law would expect no less.”
When the lady’s attention turned, Violet widened her eyes and met Felicity’s with an amused smirk, which her friend returned in spades. Despite having never met Mr. Darius Finch, Violet had heard her friend speak of her husband’s family often enough to know that all had not been sunshine and laughter in the Finch household. But that was the nature of death. When one passed beyond this life, those left behind suffered fits of forgetfulness, ignoring any flaw or fault in order to paint the deceased as an angel or saint.
Mrs. Finch turned her attention back to her sister-in-law, and Felicity’s smile faded into something genuine as they took each other by the arm. The faint tightness in Violet’s chest eased at the sight. For all Felicity’s fretting, it seemed as though the visit was a pleasant one. So far.
“You two look a picture,” said Felicity, giving the pair an eager once-over.
Violet ran a hand down her skirts, which were far plainer than those of the ladies surrounding her. The Gadds were by no means in the same realm as the Finches—with their gowns of silk and lace—but they were wealthy enough to afford a carriage and six household servants (two of whom were manservants, no less), and Diana’s gowns were the creations of a modiste in Bentmoor.
“I do love this gown,” admitted Violet. Then, with a wry smile, she added, “Though Mama thinks the stripes are not becoming on a lady of my stature.”
Felicity straightened. “She said that?”
“Not explicitly. She would never be so critical, but our tastes in fashion are vastly different, and though she never says a word against my choices, there is an expression that crosses her face that reveals her feelings. I’ve learned to interpret her subtle cues.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Finch, snapping open her fan to bat at herself as her gaze swept down the length of her. “Whilst I know most avoid stripes on such a tall figure, the thicker width of the pattern is quite becoming. Not something I would’ve chosen but looks lovely on you, nonetheless. Especially with the contrasting swath of thin stripes that form your sleeves and the strip along your décolletage. Having them at an angle and different size is unique and eye-catching.”
Violet cursed her wayward tongue. She knew better than to say such a thing. When it came to fashion, Myra and Violet Templeton were quite content with a live-and-let-live philosophy, but others were unable to maintain such a sanguine attitude and always swept in to buoy up Violet’s supposed hurt feelings, never believing that Mama’s disapproval meant nothing more than a difference of opinion.
“And the pale blue is so flattering with your dark eyes,” said Diana. “Just the perfect shade for you.”
