A door closed hard from the floor above. Feet stomped, and voices carried loudly. I angled my ear, but I could not make out the words. A woman’s voice, and someone much younger.
“Ginny, darling, why don’t you play the harp for Miss Lane?” Mrs. Everett raised her brows. We’d only just met, but I wondered if her tone was a bit frantic.
Miss Everett—Ginny—tensed. “Must I?”
“The harp.Forte.” Mrs. Everett muttered the last word. “Miss Lane, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my youngest daughter.”
I started to stand, to offer to join her and save myself from the thrashing of Ginny’s hot and cold temperament, but Mrs. Everett was already at the door. “Dinner will be set around six. Ginny can show you your room whenever you areready. Do rest, and please enjoy our home as if it were your own.” She waved a hand and was gone.
Ginny was placing pages on a little stand in the back corner of the room beside her exquisite instrument. Her eyes focused, her elbows comfortably tucked as she positioned her fingers upon the harp’s strings to play.
Then the most beautiful sounds infused the air. Ginny’s fingers drew the strings into a melody of soft, moving music. Was I more surprised that she was so proficient or that such an angry person could make such beautiful sound? Either way, her music captivated me, and I found myself with plate and cup back in hand.
My shoulders started to relax. My stomach settled. I’d always assumed Graham’s lifestyle was akin to Papa’s, but his home was nothing like ours. A harp instead of a pianoforte. Bare walls save for a few amateur paintings. A sister whose temper gave way to free speech, and another hidden away upstairs. So much to write down in my notebook.
After a few songs, and a few too many sweets, Ginny’s voice broke my peace. “Shall I show you to your room?” She swiped up her music pages and set them on a nearby table in a swift movement, then strode toward the door without a backward glance.
I set down my plate and cup and hurried to follow.
“We’ve two additional floors,” she said, leading the way up the polished wooden staircase from the foyer. “The first is our library with beautiful windows overlooking the sea, designed and reconstructed by Graham. There are two other rooms for studying, and a smaller guest room. And the second floor is our rooms.Mamawanted you to have thebalcony room with the best view.” She emphasized the word as though her mother was indeed the only one so generous.
I’d be near the family. The walls were not that thick. Would we hear each other? At the top of the staircase, to the left, was a set of double doors that opened to a wide wall of windows, though I could not make out the view. A brief glance revealed shelves of books with a few comfortable-
looking chairs facing them. A scarce selection, perhaps, but enticing. We climbed the second, shorter staircase to the right of the library, up to the top floor.
“Mama sleeps here,” Ginny said, pointing to the only room on our right, set apart from the others. “I am here.” She pointed to the room in front of us. We walked a few paces to the left. “Graham here.”
I paused, staring at the dark door, following the patterns of wood grain down to the bronze knob. Sunlight stretched from under his door, and I imagined the curtains pulled back. I wondered what Graham Everett kept inside his room. Was he tidy? Did he sleep with a ledger book under his pillow? Perhaps he stuffed bank notes under his mattress.
“And this is my little sister Tabitha’s room,” Ginny said, pointing to the next door. “Though she often sneaks into Graham’s room to sleep. You might hear her fretting at night.”
“Does she often have bad dreams?” I asked, still half glancing back at Graham’s door.
“Almost every night.” Ginny walked to the end of the hall, where a door stood ajar. “This is yours.”
Ginny opened the door wide, and instantly the dark hall filled with sunlight. The room was generously sized, considering the entire size of the second floor. Wispy curtains framed the double doors that led to a balcony straight ahead.We stepped inside the room, and I turned in a slow circle. A small bed was situated against the right wall, with a little writing desk beside it, and an armoire on the opposite wall. Beside the hearth was a small table with a white washbasin.
Ginny waited at the door, arms crossed. “To your standards, it might be plain, but—”
“It is perfect,” I said, noting my hairbrush beside the washbasin. Mariah had already unpacked my things. My notebook was likely inside the writing desk.
Ginny, for once, seemed pleased. Proud. “As my brother said, if there is anything you need, please tell us. We want your stay to be ascomfortableas possible.”
I raised a brow, and she smirked. Clearly. They’d likely given me the best room in the house. What had felt comfortable turned sour. Graham’s family weregenerous hosts, but not because they wanted to befriend me. They wanted my money. Well, my father’s money. They wanted this investment as badly as Graham did, even if just to please him. And I did not blame them.
I always had the best. The front and center placement at every function. Why? Because I had Papa’s name and money to back me. We were not titled, but we were old money, and Papa had acquired many holdings. Mamas like Mrs. Everett wanted me to be friends with their daughters and to be courted by their sons, but not because they particularly liked me.
They liked what I could offer.
“Take your time preparing for dinner,” Ginny said. “We shall meet in the drawing room.”
I nodded my thanks, and she shut the door behind her.
Finally, a breath.
I’d survived the drive. Survived tea. And now all I had to do was survive dinner at Graham’s table and I’d be one day closer to the other side of this disastrous Season.
Papa would help me fashion a life for myself. Help me choose a suitable husband I could be happy with, be myself with, build a life with.
