‘It would be just the thing. We will invite anyone who is anyone, which is an extremely confusing phrase because really everyone is someone, at least in their own mind. Besides, we don’t want people to forget you.’
‘Highly unlikely. We drink tea with the same people every afternoon,’ Rilla said.
‘I meant the gentlemen, my dears.’
On the day of the event, the girls watched the bustling of all manner of servants and trades people. Florists trooped in, housemaids swept and polished so that lemon wax perfumed the air and Lady Wyburn rushed about, her grey ringlets dishevelled and her forehead shining with perspiration.
‘I thought the house already immaculate,’ Rilla whispered to Imogene as they looked over the banisters into the front hall.
‘Indeed, and Lady Wyburn describes this as an intimate dinner,’ Imogene added.
Heloise, the diminutive French maid in charge of their appearance, hurried up the stairway, her feet tapping against the wood with businesslike efficiency. ‘There you are. I had been looking for you, oui. Miss Imogene, I need you to try on your gown. Miss Amaryllis, perhaps you should go to your chamber. You cannot be draping yourself over banisters all day.’
‘Yes,’ said Rilla, not unwilling to leave. With any luck she might even manage a few minutes with her churn. She had asked Heloise to save her bathwater and hoped to try out a modification in the design of her trough.
Despite her evident disapproval, Heloise had followed instructions and the bathwater remained. Although, Rilla noted, grinning, Heloise had relegated the churn to a far corner, half-hidden by the curtains.
The contraption consisted of a trough which channelled water on to a waterwheel which powered the churn. She had recently altered the design of the trough, hoping that if she carved a deeper channel, the force would increase, but less volume would be required.
Taking a small knife, Rilla scraped the wood with regular, methodical motions, enjoying the rasp of metal against wood, the roughness of the grain and even its smell. She liked this tangible link with home and the concrete practicality of the task.
Both the viscount and odious Jack St John were coming tonight. Of course, she’d seen the earl every day that week—that man was an all-too-frequent visitor, lingering like the smell of fish on Fridays. Moreover, Imogene apparently found him wildly humorous, although in Rilla’s opinion he had a stolid, humourless personality.
She dug energetically into the wood.
Still, there were other gentlemen who viewed Imogene with approbation. Lord Alfred Thompson visited most days and was more intelligent and less foppish on closer acquaintance.
Yes, he might do, although Imogene didn’t seem entirely smitten.
Wyburn hadn’t visited. Indeed, Rilla had not seen him since the ball.
This was a great relief, of course, Rilla decided, digging with sudden ferocity until her knife skidded, narrowly missing her hand.
Must the man even jinx her from afar? Not that she missed him. He made her too confused and her usually prosaic nature and logical mind became impaired by his presence.
There. She gave a final cut and put down the knife.
That should work. She would test it now. She always found concentrating on her inventions a calming occupation. Balancing the trough over the waterwheel, she used the jug from her dresser to scoop up the chilled bathwater.
She watched carefully as it splashed into the trough and on to the waterwheel, which then moved slowly, causing the two paddles in the churn to also shift.
‘Mademoiselle, whatever are you doing?’ Heloise hurried into the room.
Startled, Rilla almost toppled into the bath. ‘Bother,’ she said.
‘You’re getting yourself wet.’
‘I’ll dry.’
Rilla poured a second jug of water on to the trough, angling her body so that she could see the liquid’s progress and its speed of descent.
‘I meant you should rest or do something ladylike,’ Heloise said, making a clicking sound with her tongue.
‘I find this very calming. Besides, I think it is working better.’
‘Umff. Me, I will feel calm when we have done something with that hair. We should start now. Doing your hair is a time-consuming process and it will be evening soon enough, oui?’
‘But it is early still.’
‘We need all the hours God sends. Besides, her ladyship said that the viscount, you know, Lord Wyburn, remarked that you had cleaned up remarkably well.’
‘He did?’ Rilla dropped the trough.
‘Now look at the mess. I will clean it and then no more science.’
* * *
Rilla entered Lady Wyburn’s drawing room some hours later in a low-cut emerald gown, every aspect of her appearance primped and polished by Heloise.
A fire burned in the hearth, its marble mantel smaller than anything in the Gibson household, but vastly more sophisticated.
In fact, Lady Wyburn’s entire decor was one of understated elegance. Gilt trim glittered about the ceiling, reflected in the long mirrors which lined the walls. White-and-gold sofas and chairs furnished the room, and a red Indian carpet dominated the centre.
Imogene had come down already and sat on the sofa, resplendent in a pink dress and long white gloves.
‘You look beautiful,’ Rilla said.
It was true. Since arriving in London, Imogene had matured, transforming from a beautiful girl into the elegant woman she had always wanted to be.
‘You too.’
‘Thank you. Heloise worked hard and assured me I would not disgrace her which is high praise, but...’ Rilla paused, adding, ‘I am nervous.’
‘I am sure you need not be. You have been a success to date.’
‘But at other events, there has been dancing. Here we will do little but converse and I have no idea what to talk about. I’m doomed to stand mute like a pea-goose.’
‘You’ll be fine as long as you do not mention your inventions.’
‘They’d be more interesting than the weather.’
‘Ladies do not aspire to be interesting.’
Rilla giggled. ‘I aspire only to survive the Season without tripping.’
‘Rilla—’
‘I hear something.’
Careless of her dress and hair, Rilla knelt on the sofa, pushing her head through the curtains. ‘They’re already come!’
Indeed, the first carriages had stopped in front of the house. Rilla could see their dark outlines within the puddles of yellow light cast by the street lamps.
Rain fell heavily, bouncing off both the cobbled streets and the black-lacquered roofs of crested coaches. Several of Lady Wyburn’s liveried servants carried torches and black umbrellas as they escorted the guests towards the house.
Then, something happened. The scene warped, changing and transforming.
Her breath caught. Instinctively, she clutched at the thick velvet curtain. She swallowed. Before her eyes, the street disappeared into a black lake pitted with rain. Men waded into the water. They held flickering torches, their light reflecting on the water’s ink-like surface. She could see their cloaks. She could see the thick trunks of their legs and hear the splash of water