Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (4)

“This will never do,” Great-Aunt Celia threw dress after dress onto the bed. “Too… too… too. They’re all too! What was your mother thinking?”

Amanda blinked. “Too?”

Great-Aunt Celia pointed from dress to dress. “Too virtuous, plain, promiscuous, lacy, white! Did your mother even look at your sallow complexion?” She threw her soft hands in the air and shook her head. Willowy Miss Heatly looked just as forlorn. “White will wash you out! That cream will make you seem jaundiced! These dresses are all fashionable and you, my dear, are not fashionable!” Great-Aunt Celia lifted a sprigged muslin on the tip of her cane, ignorant to the blow she’d dealt Amanda’s ego. “Hmm. Just look at this! Printed specks and knots of flowers! Gracious, the fabric will highlight every single blemish on your skin. What is to be done, Susan?” She lifted a soft pink gown. “The rose?”

Miss Heatly wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “The grey.”

Great-Aunt Celia rustled to the bottom of the pile, raising the plainest grey gown. With grey embroidery. And grey trim. “You know, I think you’re onto something, Susan.” She thrust the coarser cambric into Amanda’s arms. “Try this on, quickly, quickly! Oh, where is your lady’s maid? Couldn’t they even have afforded to leave you an abigail? The situation certainly warrants one.” She huffed, all the while stripping Amanda down to her shift with amazing alacrity (and not a single poke of her cane).

Since Great-Aunt Celia harped about her parents’ frugality, it shocked Amanda (another shock!) she’d have her don the cambric, rather than the muslin! Was she preparing for an at-home? It was a simple gown, not as fine as something she’d expected for an evening. The short sleeves were scalloped at two points, adorned with the slightest embellishment of pearl flowers. The only embroidery was a subtle grey weave about the hem. Her petticoats showed more design! peeking out ever so slightly under the edge.

She’d be duller than ditchwater beside a sea of nymphian bubbles.

“There!” Great-Aunt Celia exclaimed as she finished lacing Amanda in. “Let me take a look…” When she turned Amanda around, her eyes widened. “Susan, you do have an eye.” She nodded. “Now, if you could fetch a maid—the flustered blonde who nearly ran into the kitchens will have to do—we’ll see if she can pin hair.” Miss Heatly, as ordered, whisked from the room.

Great-Aunt Celia searched the bed for her discarded cane, looking a bit exhausted. “Hmm, my dear, now that’s settled, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you for a while. The miles have finally caught up with me. With my mangled leg, this trip grows longer each time. I will have a short repose in the adequate chamber allotted me, then we will leave for the Worthington’s. Don’t you worry, m’dear.” She patted Amanda’s cheek and tottered to the doorway. “You’re not a diamond, but it will turn out right, you’ll see.”

The door clicked shut behind her and Amanda was left in blissful silence.

Amanda did not see.

She could feel tears welling.

She furiously blinked them back.

One brother’s fate was unknown, the other took his fate into his own hands, her parents gone, her dresses inadequate, graves, ghosts, bodies—she hadn’t even made her debut and was told she wasn’t good enough. She was an unfashionable rock.

And she was wearing grey cambric.

The desire to throw herself atop the bed was nearly overwhelming, but the bed was littered with Amanda’s entire wardrobe and she doubted her current emotional state could handle the scolding if she wrinkled the only gown of which Great-Aunt Celia approved. She sighed, running fingers across the discarded, delicate, lovely fabrics, embroidered and embellished and laced to perfection.

Such perfection was apparently a standard to which her Great-Aunt did not think she’d amount.

She hadn’t expected much out of this Season. She hadn’t even expected to have a Season. With Daniel on his Tour and Geoffrey at school, their parents had discovered a marriageable daughter underfoot. While certain things in the household had been budgeted, a Season had not. When she was a girl, she’d thought of balls and parties. Now that she was older (wiser, and a bit more practical), Amanda planned a country life. She could meet a nice man, maybe a curate who wouldn’t mind a bookish wife. Though she enjoyed dancing and cards and an astronomical lecture or two, she could forgo that for a good life with a solid foundation.

Then her parents offered a Season.

What a world of longing that opened. Amanda still remained practical. Along the ladder of social position, she knew exactly the rung upon which the Pruetts stood. But perhaps she’d meet a nice gentleman who wouldn’t mind a bookish wife. He might take her to a dance or two and indulge in card parties or astronomical lectures. Amanda might lack Great-Aunt Celia’s grace, but she shared some of her looks. It was entirely possible.

Unless, all before she stepped foot inside a ballroom, society discovered that along with being an unfashionable, sallow, blemished clod who wore grey cambric she also let strange men carry her around cemeteries while bodies mysteriously piled in her library.

Amanda doubted gentleman, curate, or goatherd would have her, then.

Oh, Amanda, what sort of attitude is this, to wallow in self-pity?

What had the Pruetts recently learned: make use of what you have. She had a Season. And she had a dress, grey cambric or otherwise. She had a soirée to attend which she’d entirely forgotten about in all the recent activity. She also had a chaperone of utmost respectability. She no longer had a body in the library (or anywhere else in the house—she’d thoroughly checked while Great-Aunt Celia examined her rooms for adequacy). Though her temple remained tender, her headache had cleared. The things she had (or no longer had) were all good.

It did no good at all, however, to dwell on the things she lacked or couldn’t change (her gown, for example).

So, instead of crumpling her dresses in a dramatic collapse, she began to put them away, carefully folding her clothes until Maria arrived. She started with the frilliest frocks so that she would not keep comparing them to the simple, grey gown. Working a methodic path towards the head of the bed, she found her morning dress had been flung (by Great-Aunt Celia’s cane?) over the banister. There it hung, rather pathetically, by the sash at the waist.

“Come to me, dress!” She jumped and shook, but the fabric would not dislodge itself. “Bother.”

Scrambling upon the bed flattened the mattress into odd mounds she would have to sleep around (unlike only one, specific, bed in the house, hers did not include feather stuffing—mostly millpuff and horsehair tufts—though none, she was happy to say, contained hay—or bedbugs).

“I shall tell you something, dress,” she said, untangling the sash from a splinter around the post knob, “this day seems determined to test my spiri—my morale,” she suppressed a shudder, “and I am not inclined to let it. I may have been knocked upon the head and scared by ghosts (which do not exist, by the way, no matter what my eyes have seen), and thrust into grey cambric, but I,” she pinched the fabric and tugged, “will,” tug, tug, “triumph!” Tug.

The dress did not release upon its cue. She twisted, tugged once more, and felt the snag finally give, plopping onto the bed with the force. Something solid dropped onto her chest. She tossed aside the hard-won material and frisked along her ribcage.

“Oh, the watch!” She’d forgotten about it with the whirlwind distraction that was Great-Aunt Celia. Her fingers wrapped around the cool, silver disk. It must have slipped from her pockets (which, upon a turn of her head, she discovered had landed on the floor near the headboard).

“What shall we find, hmm? Do you conveniently have our former guest’s name engraved upon your person?” What amazing luck that would be.

It was beautiful and remarkably simple in style, without frieze or outer ornamentation. She released the catch revealing a beautiful brass mechanism displayed to perfection behind a filigree plate. Beside it, the maker was inscribed: Geo Plummer, London. Upon the dome, another engraving.

A single initial: A. (Or D.)

Amanda shot up in bed, despite the lumps.

“Geoffrey!”

Oh, she wanted to shout but could not draw Great-Aunt Celia’s attention.

“Geoffrey, Geoffrey, Geoffrey!” She whispered, skittering across her room on tiptoes.

Though they had not lived in the house long enough to know all the nooks, crannies, and closets, Amanda could still avoid several squeaking floorboards on her surreptitious way to her brother’s room.

She forsook knocking, slinking through the doorway, breath held the entire time.

Her brother sat in an armchair beside the fireplace. He only glanced up when she was halfway across the room.

“Amanda, you look—”

“Oh, I know, the grey… I must look like a—” she refused to say ghost, “—ghoul.” She grimaced. That was hardly better. “But, Geoffrey, you said you didn’t recognize him! Why didn’t you tell me the man in the library was the very man who carried me home last night?”

The Odyssey snapped shut. “He’s not!”

“He is!”

“—not!”

“Isn’t he?” She handed her brother the watch. “That is what I found upon his person.” She waited impatiently while he examined the timepiece. When he saw the engraved initial, Geoffrey shook his head.

“I promise you, Amanda, it was not the same man. Though our exchange last night was brief and primarily by moonlight, he stepped into the drawing room to deposit you. I may have been distraught, but not enough to mistake his face. It was not the same man.”

Relief that the man who’d carried her home was not lying dead upon her library floor warred with disappointment that she still didn’t know the identity of either.

“Then one or the other has possessions not belonging to him.” She sighed, sinking onto the bed (Geoffrey’s matching armchair was in the drawing room). “If they’re not the same man, I think I’m inclined to believe that you may be correct in thinking the man in the library was an opportunistic thief and that this,” she closed the watch face, “belongs to the man who carried me home.”

“Don’t look so disheartened! If that is the case, he might be well-known to the authorities and they will likely identify him shortly.”

Amanda pouted. “And here I thought I’d been clever and found Mr. A.”

“If it is a surname,” he teased, repeating her earlier reproof.

She grinned. “Or Lord A. His Grace the Duke of A! Well,” she pushed herself off the bed. “I should leave the mystery a mystery and let the watchmen do their jobs. Great-Aunt Celia intends to drag me to the Worthington’s shortly.” She motioned towards the book. “How is Odysseus faring?”

Geoffrey’s eyes widened, “Minerva just transformed into an eagle and vanished!”

“How expedient of her. We mere mortals must contend with horse-drawn carriages.” She kissed the top of his head. “Do not stay up all night reading. Get some sleep, you had little enough last evening.”

He was already buried in the book before she took two paces towards the door. Before she left, she removed Fantasmagoriana from his side table, just in case.

Amanda was much less careful on her return to her room, concentrating not on her footfalls but the watch, handkerchief, and the letter A. She supposed it would be too much of a coincidence for two separate men to have embroidered the initial upon their valuables only to lose them at her doorstep. Unless, she thought wryly, the items were intended as gifts for Amanda herself. She smiled. No, the objects must belong to one of the men. She didn’t believe in coincidences.

But she didn’t believe in ghosts, either.

“There you are, miss!” Maria stood abruptly when Amanda opened the door. The maid must have arrived shortly after Amanda rushed out. She’d had enough time to finish tidying the clothes and dust half the room. Shelby said that none of the staff would jeopardize their family’s current circumstances. Now, Amanda suddenly understood their amenable attitudes, no matter how spartan (or challenging) their accommodations.

“I am sorry to have made you wait.” Amanda placed the book and watch atop her nightstand and sat at the table where her brush and pins were laid out neatly.

“Oh, not at all, miss! I’m not so adept with hair as Shelby, but Miss Heatly told me quite specific what to do, and I know I can do it just as she said!”

Maria looked so enthusiastic, Amanda was not about to gainsay her. After all, she was already wearing grey. What did her hair matter? So, she sat holding her tongue while Maria hummed and fastened, frowned and tucked, tilted her chin and pinned.

“There, miss! All done! Oh, if only there were a glass to show you…”

But there was no mirror in the house. The landlord hadn’t thought to provide one (or didn’t dare risk seven years’ luck on new tenants) and her parents had sold their own.

Amanda could feel light, wispy tendrils tickling her neck. She could see a blonde curl falling gently over her brow. There were no artful braids wrapped around a chignon. No ribbons or feathers or headdress of any kind. Though her aching head appreciated the relief, she could only surmise that her hair looked like a loose-knit bird’s-nest.

She would not cry, but would accept her fate. Amanda had already taunted it twice today. If she were going to be unfashionable, she might as well do it fully and properly!

Perhaps she’d meet a well-read goatherd who liked loose-knit bird’s-nests and dancing and astronomy.

A perfunctory tap at her door was the only warning before it burst open. When she saw Amanda, Great-Aunt Celia looked as if she wanted to applaud. “Yes! Yes, Miss Heatly certainly has an eye.”

An eye for what, Amanda wondered. “I thought you were resting.”

“No, no. A twenty-minute lie down is all I need. Twenty minutes to be fresh and revitalized—you’d do well to remember that. Are you ready to go? We mustn’t keep the Worthingtons waiting. Fashionably late is one thing; never by more than twenty-two minutes, however. But where is your shawl, reticule, or your earbobs?” She directed Maria with her cane. The maid practically quivered in her presence but snapped to action upon command. “Small pearls, girl. A white lace for the shawl and…” the cane whacked upon the reticule Amanda had just selected (barely missing her wrist), “…what do you think you are doing with that?”

The purse was white to match the white shawl (which, fortuitously, did exist in her wardrobe). There was only a very subtle embroidery upon the rim. It was the dullest reticule she owned and the closest thing she could find to match the grey cambric. She thought her aunt would be pleased!

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Great-Aunt Celia pinched the bridge of her nose, her cane hanging limply from her hand. “What was Helen thinking? Despite marrying my nephew, your mother had some sense, I thought…” Her piercing eyes snapped to Amanda’s. “What has she had you going about in? How many outings had you enjoyed before she left?”

“Just one.”

“And what did you wear? Where did you go?”

Amanda thought. “A family dinner at father’s good friend, Sir William’s—I wore the cream sprigged muslin with green sash and…” she trailed off as Great-Aunt Celia shook her head.

“No, no, no. Thankfully you didn’t go to anything public! A few family friends, older acquaintances?” Amanda nodded. “Hmm. Well, we have time to repair any damage. Let’s just be glad that I’m here, now. And the incomparable Miss Heatly. For this ensemble, the proper reticule would be something along the lines of… ah! Perfect.”

It was a deep, midnight blue satin. Embroidered flowers weaved across the purse in bright red, green, yellow, and orange hues, the colors bold and shocking against the dark backdrop.

Amanda stared.

They dress me as a wraith with a circus for a handbag!

Her mouth dangled and bobbed. Before she could respond to her aunt’s selection, the door opened and Shelby stumbled into the room. Eyes wide like a frightened pony, she was wringing her hands. Shelby looked worse than she had this morning when she dragged Amanda to the library. A sense of foreboding overtook her, but there was no way to discover what was wrong with their current audience.

“Ah, your lady’s maid has finally arrived, just in time to see you off.” Great-Aunt Celia eyed Shelby down the slope of her nose, “She might want to keep on her toes and remember her duties before someone more enterprising,” her head tilted suggestively towards Maria, “takes her place.” She nodded, satisfied her message was delivered. “Amanda, I will await you in the carriage. Do not tarry long.” She left with the click of her heels (and tap of her cane) sounding down the stairs.

Maria practically bounced on her toes. “Praise be, you’re back!” She heaped the reticule and shawl into Shelby’s arms. “Cook will wonder where I’ve gone! You know how she gets…” She scurried out the door, rabbit-hopping down the stairs two or three at a time.

As soon as they were alone, Amanda surged across the room. Why was Shelby white as a sheet?! Her heart pounded and a lump of dread swelled her throat. Everything depended upon Shelby’s success… Had someone witnessed them moving the body?!

“What happened? Did all go well? You look distraught!”

“Oh, miss I…” Shelby hesitated, eyes flickering from Amanda’s loosely-pinned hair to her dress to the shawl and extravagant reticule. She let out a whooshing breath and stared at the floorboards.

“Is something amiss?” Amanda’s panic rose, her chest constricted. “Did someone see you? Do I need to stay and speak with the watchman myself? He didn’t try to accuse you of anything did he?”

Shelby shook her head and let out another short breath. Then she straightened, her expression clear, and smiled brightly. “It was a strain is all, miss. Sneaking about, then evading uncomfortable questions. Wore me a bit thin. But, don’t you worry—Mr. John Lowe is in charge, and he was quite capable. He’ll discover who the man was quick as a flash. Don’t you worry.” She handed Amanda her reticule and tucked the shawl around her elbows. “Now, your aunt said not to dally. Go enjoy your evening, miss. You’d better set off before they leave without you!”

Amanda hesitated. She narrowed her eyes as if squinting would help her see through the maid’s words.

She was not fool enough not to know she was being manipulated—after all, she had done something similar to distract Geoffrey just a few hours before. Moreover, Shelby had told her not to worry twice.

Practically proof positive something was afoot.

Considering the day’s events, attending a party struck her as being gauche. With her aunt, however, there was no begging off without a great deal of explanation she wasn’t willing to give. A simple headache would never suffice—beside, Amanda had a lovely purple and yellow bump to accompany hers and Great-Aunt Celia still expected her presence. No, despite her distaste for it, Amanda would have to go.

But why, if she was so obviously troubled, would Shelby insist she leave? Amanda was half-tempted to stay out of spite. She would eventually be able to wring out what Shelby was hiding. Yet Shelby had just as much to lose as she. If she encouraged Amanda to go… Well, that consideration was the only reason she allowed Shelby to usher her out the door and down the stairs.

The carriage they’d hired for the evening sat waiting at the curb. As they lurched on their way, she watched Shelby wave from the landing, smiling brightly the entire time. That smile made Amanda determined to discover the truth the moment they returned.

Settling back into her seat, she tried to put it from her mind. She had no idea when Great-Aunt Celia had made the arrangements in the short time since she’d arrived, but the carriage was clean, of above-average quality, and the squabs withstood their first test with a soft bounce as the wheels hit a pothole.

“Now,” Great-Aunt Celia grinned, “let the fun begin!”