Page 20 of The Lady’s Deception

The girls looked to one another, then back at her. Neither reached for a book or a pencil. Rosamund’s heart sank. She knew what that meant. Yesterday, following a similar inquiry about their previous study of history, she’d discovered that the girls’ father had not limited himself to the traditional methods of reading and recitation. Instead, he had had his children act out the speeches of Demosthenes (“while wearing tunics made of our bedsheets!” Bell had exclaimed), and build a model of the Battle of Agincourt, using chess pieces, candle stubs, and the contents of their mother’s sewing basket.

“The last mathematics lesson I remember was going to market with Molly,” Bell said, “and having to figure all the pounds and pence in our heads.”

“No, that wasn’t it,” Daphne countered. “Have you forgotten the mouse?”

Though she was almost afraid to ask, Rosamund echoed, “Mouse?”

“Papa told us there was a mouse who wanted to visit every house on this side of Merrion Square. We had to tell how many feet and inches the mouse would go if he started in our drawing room, chewed a hole through the wall behind the green sofa and into the Daltons’ drawing room, and so on.” In the air, she sketched the mouse’s journey. Rosamund narrowly contained a shudder, though she couldn’t deny the girls had learned something when Daphne concluded, “Nine hundred eighteen feet and a half, assuming every drawing room is a uniform width, though I don’t believe they are. I wanted to measure them, but Papa said we mustn’t disturb the neighbors.”

“And what did your mother say to all this?” Rosamund asked weakly.

“Oh, now I remember that lesson,” said Bell. “Mama said a real mouse would’ve gone considerably farther, because she’d never yet met one who wouldn’t find his way into the kitchens too.”

Rosamund wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. You are at liberty to set the curriculum, their brother had told her, so long as my sisters are no worse off when you leave us. But how, exactly, did one measure such things in the Burke household?

Dropping her chin, she fixed her gaze on the toes of her shoes, peeping from beneath her skirts. Her own dress, which Molly had brushed and pressed, though it would never be the same again. And her own shoes, with a heavy piece of paper fitted into the sole of the left one to cover the hole. One damp excursion and the patch would disintegrate; the bottom of her foot was still sore.

But she had five pounds now, didn’t she? Five pounds and the beginnings of an idea. “All right, girls,” she said, lifting her head and mustering a smile, “get your wraps. This lesson is going to combine mathematics, domestic economy, and art. We’re going shopping.”

“We’ve done that already,” Daphne pointed out as both girls got to their feet.

“Dress shopping,” Rosamund clarified. “You’ll have to figure yardage and price per yard, both fabric and trimmings. On a very strict budget.”

“Where’s the art lesson in that?”

“In choosing the proper colors,” Bell said firmly. “And style.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Rosamund laid an arm around the younger girl’s shoulders. “Dress making is an art.”

Daphne continued to look skeptical, but Rosamund managed to herd both of them toward the door to their room with little resistance. “Meet me in the front hall in ten minutes.”

Once more in her own chamber, she stood over the washbasin to remove the bandage, then rearranged her hair to cover the bruise as Molly had recommended. Afterward she donned her pelisse, slightly worse for wear than her dress but still serviceable. Her chip bonnet, however, was nowhere to be found. Doubtless Molly had determined it beyond repair. Groping about on one of the high shelves of the wardrobe, hopeful one of the Burke sisters had left behind a hat, her fingers brushed some sturdy fabric and tugged it from its hiding place. A cap. What luck! Except…

Turning it over in her hands, Rosamund wondered if she’d at first been mistaken. She’d never seen anything quite like it, except perhaps in an old-fashioned painting of rosy-cheeked Dutch girls. Still, she couldn’t very well go out without something on her head, and this, er, bonnet, however unfashionable, offered the added advantage of disguising her hair, shielding her face, and covering her bruise. Carefully, she put it on, trying her best to arrange the shapeless fabric.

When she reached the front hall, Bell took one look and slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Daphne’s brows lifted. “I wondered what had become of that cap. Mama bought it for Erica, because she was forever going outside with her head bare. Mama said she’d never find a man who’d tolerate her freckles.”

Bell let a snicker escape. “I guess the duke didn’t mind.”

Rosamund, who had been self-consciously trying to rearrange the monstrosity on her head, let her hands drop. “I beg your pardon. Did you—did you say…duke?”

“Mm-hm.” Daphne turned to open the door. “She married the Duke of Raynham in October.”

Molly had told her the Burke sisters had married “high-born Englishmen,” but Rosamund hadn’t imagined anything quite like this. “And your other sister?”

“Oh, Cami’s very proper,” Bell assured her. “She always wears a bonnet.”

Daphne rolled her eyes in exasperation. “She’s Lady Ashborough now, though she always swore she didn’t even want to get married.”

“Lady Ashborough. The—the author?” The London newspapers had been full of the story of the marchioness and her scandalous book, and even Mrs. Sloane couldn’t very well forbid the Times.

“Mm-hm,” Daphne said again.

Vaguely, Rosamund thought of correcting her. A child speaking to her governess ought to say, “Yes, Miss Gorse,” and “No, Miss Gorse.” But her brain was too busy trying to piece together what the rest of the girl’s words had meant. How, in all of Dublin, had she managed to insert herself into a household with so many ties to England? And not just any ties, but family ties to the highest ranks of the English aristocracy. Gentlemen who might know her brother from one of the clubs or even the House of Lords. What if Paris wrote to his father or sisters and mentioned her by name? She recalled the papers spread across his desk. What if he already had?

While the girls were busy tying their own bonnet strings and buttoning their pelisses, Rosamund forced one calming breath after another into her lungs. Her brother had always been too concerned with appearances to have broadcast her escape. And even if he had, why should a member of the Burke family, learning the name of the new governess, make the connection?

Nevertheless, when Daphne opened the door, more panic fluttered through her. It might prove unwise to stay in this house, but was it not equally unsafe to leave? Part of her expected to see her brother standing across the street in the familiar posture, arms folded over his chest, one booted foot tapping impatiently, waiting for her to appear so he could fetch her back to Kilready. After tugging the absurd bonnet even lower to shield her face, she ushered the girls onto the steps.