Roland squinted. “Ill? But I saw her only a few hours ago. She looked perfectly well to me.”
“Oh?” Miss Bell’s eyes widened almost alarmingly. “How odd. I think the journey simply did not agree with her. I daresay she’ll be recovered by tomorrow.”
At least that would make the sisters easier to keep track of in the meantime. Not that he wished the younger Miss Bell to be sick. In fact, he had almost begun to anticipate meeting her again, to see if she might say anything about their earlier interactions. But it was better this way. After all, Vivian was the one his mother had specifically invited for him.
“How good to see you again, Miss Bell.” Miss Tindale slipped seamlessly into the conversation. “I am sorry to hear about your sister, but so long as her condition is not serious, I hope she can join us soon enough.”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Bell said, and then stood with her mouth slightly parted, as if she knew she ought to say something else, but could not quite manage it. She glanced around. “This room is lovely. I like the—the colors. And the windows.” She shifted her weight. “Of course, Miss Tindale, you look lovely as well, with your . . .” She wafted a hand over her own head, indicating that she meant Miss Tindale’s elaborate hairstyle enhanced by two tall, white feathers. “And Mr. Hastings, you look—” She broke off, clearly struggling for words. “You also look lovely?”
She had used the word lovely thrice in the span of twenty seconds. And he wasn’t certain he had ever heard the term applied to a man.
“Thank you, Miss Bell,” he said, casting a confused look at Miss Tindale. She, of course, was too practiced in the ways of society to show any reaction save for a slight arch to her eyebrow.
They were all saved from further interaction by Mrs. Hastings’s announcement that dinner was ready. Roland excused himself and moved to escort the matronly Mrs. Marsden into dinner, as was proper, yet he could not help a glance back. Miss Tindale had rejoined her mother, but Miss Bell stood with her hands on her waist, shoulders slumped. As he watched, she let out a short puff of air from the side of her mouth, blowing a curl from her face. Then she met his eyes. She straightened suddenly, as if he had caught her doing something rather wicked.
During the Season, Roland had spent—at most—a few hours with Miss Vivian Bell, and he had assessed her to be everything society wished for in a young lady: poised, proper, and polite. But tonight it seemed as though something had set the young lady on edge.
Though, of course, this entire house party could certainly be reason enough. Roland was unsure if Miss Bell, Miss Tindale, and Miss Marsden knew precisely why they’d been invited, but they had to at least suspect. What was he to do, court all three in the hopes that one would somehow be all he was searching for in a wife?
He pushed back those thoughts as he offered his arm to Mrs. Marsden. He could not think that far ahead. He could be kind and polite, as his mother wanted.
At least for two weeks.
* * *
Dinner was not going well.
First, Cassie sat too quickly as the footman pushed her chair in, and she almost dropped to the floor. Thankfully, she caught herself on the edge of the table, and no one noticed. Then she spilled her glass of wine and stained the white tablecloth nearly the entire length of the table, which everyone noticed, though Mrs. Hastings assured her it was nothing.
Why on earth had she agreed to this switch? Her nerves were as frayed as her favorite shawl. She never felt entirely comfortable in company on a normal day, but neither was she ever this incompetent. At this rate, she would out her own charade in an attempt to save her sanity.
She steadied herself with deep breaths. Thankfully, she was seated beside Mrs. Tindale, who was far too focused on her daughter across the table to speak to Cassie. Miss Tindale had somehow managed to secure a seat near Mr. Hastings and had claimed his attention for most of dinner.
Which, Cassie realized belatedly, was exactly the sort of thing she was supposed to prevent while playing Vivian. She’d been so caught up in her fears of being found out that she’d forgotten her purpose. When at last Mrs. Hastings rose to lead the women from the dining room, Cassie followed with new determination. She would do what Vivian would do. She would not let Miss Tindale dominate the drawing room as she had dinner.
And she would not use the word lovely.
Cassie passed an awkward few minutes making conversation with the shy Miss Marsden, who somehow seemed more uncomfortable than Cassie. Was she always like this? Surely she wasn’t also pretending to be her twin sister.
Thankfully the men joined them rather quickly, which was unsurprising, as the male portion of the party included only Mr. Hastings and the elder Mr. Marsden. As soon as Mr. Hastings stepped inside, Cassie excused herself and moved to intercept him. But before she could take two steps, Miss Tindale swooped in like a falcon after a rabbit. How could she move so fast and yet so gracefully? Cassie pushed her chin up a notch. She would not back away. She joined the two of them as Miss Tindale began questioning him about the landscape painting that hung above the fireplace.
“That is our family house in Yorkshire,” Mr. Hastings said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Willow Cottage.”
“The artist is quite talented,” Miss Tindale said. “What pretty colors. I daresay it is something of a masterpiece.”
Cassie examined the painting. Were Miss Tindale’s eyes going dim? “I would hardly call it a masterpiece,” she said. Now was Cassie’s chance to set herself apart from the other ladies. “Why, if the house was actually at that scale compared to the coach, even a child would be hard-pressed to make it through the doorways. And the sheep look a bit more like clouds with legs rather than animals.”
If Cassie had thought she might impress with her detailed critique, she was quickly proven wrong as she was met by silence and bewilderment.
Mr. Hastings gave a slight cough. “This painting was done by my mother.”
Oh, dear.
“That is,” Cassie said frantically, “the brushstrokes are skillfully done, as is the general . . . uh . . . landscape.” She had told Vivian this would be a disaster.
But perhaps Mrs. Hastings had not heard. Cassie glanced behind her—and was met by the woman’s fierce scowl from where she sat not ten feet away. Drat. Never mind the spilt wine—she’d gone and insulted the mother of the man her sister hoped to marry.
“I think it a beautiful painting,” Miss Tindale said smoothly. “If the actual Willow Cottage is half so pretty as its rendering here, I should be very pleased to see it one day.”
Miss Tindale sent Cassie a knowing smile. Of course. The minx must have known Mrs. Hastings had painted the picture—hence why she’d complimented it in the first place.
But Cassie held her tongue. She’d already done enough damage to Vivian’s reputation tonight as it was.
Miss Tindale turned the conversation to other topics, and Cassie slipped away and retreated to the far corner of the room, where the cold and dark leeched through the windows as she sat primly on a chair. If she could keep herself far enough away . . .
“Are you determined to exile yourself, then?”
Cassie jerked her head up. Mr. Hastings had followed her across the room, leaving everyone else staring in his wake, though they tried to pretend otherwise. He stood beside her, his eyes amused.
She cleared her throat. “Only until I learn a bit of prudence.”
“Prudence is all good and well,” he said, taking the chair beside hers. “But so is honesty. And I must admit I’ve often thought the same thing of the cloud sheep.”
“I appreciate you voicing your opinion now, rather than two minutes ago,” Cassie said dryly.
Mr. Hastings grinned. “Never mind my mother. She’ll have forgotten by tomorrow.”
Cassie highly doubted that, but then it wasn’t his head Mrs. Hastings was currently glaring daggers at.
“Be that as it may,” she said, “I think it best to keep my head down.”
&nb
sp; He leaned back in his chair. “Probably wise for the moment. My mother has never been one to enjoy criticism.”
“Does anyone?”
“No, I suppose not.” Mr. Hastings wore a thoughtful expression. “Tell me, Miss Bell, what qualifies you to appraise artwork? Are you a painter?”
She almost laughed, but she managed to cut the sound off with a cough. No, Cassie was not a painter. But Vivian was. The only reason Cassie had even thought to mention the flaws of Mrs. Hastings’s painting was because of the many hours her sister had dragged her from museum to museum in London.
“Yes, I paint,” she said. Was it a lie if it was true about Vivian? Cassie hadn’t had time to untangle the moral ambiguities of what she was doing. “Though from my unkind words about your mother’s painting, you might assume a higher level of expertise than I actually possess.”
“As I have no artistic inclinations whatsoever, you still claim an advantage over me.” He tipped his head. “And what do you like to paint?”
“Oh.” She paused. Why was he pursuing this conversation? She’d just made a fool of herself in front of the entire party. Did he feel sorry for her, or perhaps feel as if he owed her time, having already spent a good portion of the evening with Miss Tindale? “I paint a bit of everything, I suppose.” Cassie tried to remember which subjects filled Vivian’s canvases most often. “Landscapes, flowers, animals.”
“Animals?”
“Yes, we’ve something of a menagerie at Brightling Place. My father raises hunting dogs, and many of our tenants also raise sheep and goats. And of course there is the parrot.”
Mr. Hastings raised an eyebrow. “Why, of course. Because what country estate is complete without a parrot?”
Cassie laughed. “It belongs to my grandfather. He purchased it from a sailor who seemed desperate to be rid of it, for reasons that soon became obvious.”
“You are keeping me in suspense, Miss Bell.”
Miss Bell. It shouldn’t feel so strange to be addressed as such. It was Cassie’s name too, after all. But as the older sister, Vivian had always been Miss Bell.
Cassie cleared her throat. “We soon learned that the bird knew only a few phrases and repeated them with unbridled enthusiasm—which would not have been so terrible if the phrases had been more . . . appropriate.”
Mr. Hastings’s lips twitched. “You are saying the parrot dared to use unsuitable language in front of a young lady?”
“Dares.” Cassie emphasized the present tense. “My grandfather loves the old bird too much to be rid of it. He used to travel a great deal as a young man, and I believe the parrot helps him relive those times.”
Talking of Grandpapa caused an acute ache in Cassie’s chest. She’d left Brightling only two days before, but she already missed him dreadfully. There was no one she felt more free with, more herself—save for Vivian, of course. Although lately Cassie felt as though even Vivian was drifting farther away, especially since the Season. Marriage had become of the utmost importance to her, and Cassie could not quite summon the same enthusiasm.
“You are fond of your grandfather.” Mr. Hastings watched her with a curious sharpness, one hand rubbing his chin.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. Why did it feel as if their conversation had suddenly turned into an odd sort of test? “Very much so.”
He smiled, and Cassie’s heartbeat took an unexpected tumble. He was handsome, after all, with that dark hair and those brown eyes, long lashes, and sharp cheekbones. Had she never looked at the man closely before? Or had she convinced herself society thought too highly of him and dismissed him without real consideration?
“Or perhaps,” he said, “you are simply fond of your grandfather’s improper parrot.”
Cassie did like the silly parrot—she thought it rather hilarious. But Vivian did not. Or at least she did not laugh anymore when Grandpapa brought the bird into the drawing room after dinner. She looked more like Mama, who clenched her jaw with every word that escaped the parrot’s mouth.
“I . . .” Cassie hesitated. She’d already shown Mr. Hastings perhaps a bit too much of her own personality tonight. She needed to let Vivian take control now. “I admit I did like it when I was younger. But now I find its language disconcerting, especially as I aspire to absolute propriety.”
There. That ought to help Vivian’s image.
But it seemed to have the opposite effect. Mr. Hastings straightened, and the gleam in his eyes disappeared. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I would never insinuate you are less than ladylike.”
“No, I did not mean—”
He shook his head. “No matter. I understand.” He stood and offered a brief smile. “My mother needs me.”
Indeed, his mother was gesturing at him across the room, her scowl from earlier gone, though the hard lines around her eyes remained.
Mr. Hasting offered a short bow, and for a moment his expression softened. “I hope we have more time to talk during the party, Miss Bell. I look forward to knowing you better.”
Heat crept across her cheeks. Cassie seldom blushed, but that was due to the rarity of a man’s attention more than any other reason. “As do I,” she managed with a nod.
He left to rejoin his mother, and Cassie tried not to let her eyes linger on his shoulders, his tall frame, as he walked away.
She did not succeed.
Chapter Five
“You must tell me everything.” Vivian propped herself up on shaking arms, her face pale, as Cassie slipped into her room that night. “This instant.”
“Can it wait until morning?” Cassie pulled pins from her hair, letting her curls loose from their tight constraints. “It is exhausting pretending to be you. How can you be so proper all the time?”
Vivian ignored her. “Please. Tell me. Did it work?”
Cassie sat on the bed beside her sister. “For the most part, though you may not thank me for it after hearing the details.”
She summarized the evening, from her idiotic lovelies to her insult of Mrs. Hastings’s artwork.
“And that is why,” she concluded, as if presenting a scientific lecture to the Royal Society, “we should never have attempted this in the first place. I only made things worse.”
Vivian leaned back, her eyes thoughtful. “Possibly. Well, certainly with Mrs. Hastings. But I can smooth her ruffled feathers with little issue tomorrow.”
“If you are well tomorrow,” Cassie pointed out. “You do not look the least bit improved. Are you certain this is just from traveling?”
“Quite,” Vivian said, though her trembling voice negated her answer. “But what matters is that you were able to distract Mr. Hastings from Miss Tindale.”
“Undoubtedly.” If looking ridiculous at a dinner party was her ticket to returning home, then she would happily make that sacrifice.
“What did you and Mr. Hastings talk about?” Vivian asked, rubbing her forehead with a wince.
“Nothing of great consequence, I assure you.” Cassie frowned, watching her sister. If Vivian was not better by tomorrow, she would insist upon a doctor.
“I must know everything,” Vivian said, “so we may transition back seamlessly tomorrow. He cannot know you were pretending to be me.”
Cassie sighed. She was right, of course. “We talked of your love of painting.”
Vivian nodded.
“And I mentioned Grandpapa’s parrot.”
Vivian stopped nodding. “The parrot? You cannot be serious.”
Cassie shrugged. “It made for interesting conversation.”
“But the parrot.” Vivian groaned. “That foul creature should have no part in a drawing room, even just in conversation.”
“It isn’t foul.” Cassie straightened. “It is amusing.”
Vivian fell back on her pillows. “At least I know you spoke of it, in case Mr. Hastings mentions it.”
Cassie shook her head. “Viv, you should not worry about this now. Rest, please.”
“All right.” Vivian did not r
esist very hard. “But do not let me sleep all morning. I am determined to go to breakfast.”
“Of course.” At least this lie was easy for Cassie to make, knowing it was for her sister’s good.
If only it could be the last lie she told.
* * *
Vivian was worse the next morning.
Upon finding her sister barely able to raise her head, Cassie went to Mrs. Hastings immediately—acting as Vivian, of course—and asked for a doctor. Fortunately, the matron complied without complaint, though she watched Cassie with narrowed eyes.
When Dr. Dutton arrived, he examined Vivian carefully. Cassie took up position at his elbow.
“Can you say what it is, Doctor?” Cassie finally asked. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
The doctor shook his head as he felt Vivian’s pulse. “I’m afraid I cannot be certain. She has a fever, but it is not dangerously high. I have seen similar symptoms in other patients recently, and all recovered within a few days.”
“A few days?” Vivian paled even more, which Cassie had thought impossible. “I cannot be abed that long. In fact, I need to dress now for breakfast.”
She began to rise from the bed, but Dr. Dutton set a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I’m afraid that will only make things worse,” he said. “For your own sake, and for the sake of others, I insist you remain in bed until I pronounce you well enough.”
Vivian sank back against her pillows. “This is ridiculous.”
Dr. Dutton went to his bag and gathered his instruments. “I’ll come again this afternoon to see her,” he said to Cassie. “Keep her in bed, and send for me if her condition changes.”
Cassie nodded and the doctor left. She turned back to Vivian, who scowled at the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. Even if she thought her sister’s plan of wooing Mr. Hastings rather silly, she never wanted to see Vivian distressed.
“A few days,” Vivian repeated again, defeated. “It is utterly useless. By that time, Miss Tindale will have ensured that no one remembers I exist.”
Cassie sat beside her. “Never mind that. We must get you well first. I promise you’ll have your chance.”
A Christmas Promise Page 3