"Well, you've met my future wife now," Tony said, adjusting his dinner jacket. "What say you, Byrne?"

Byrne didn't have a ready answer, so he poured himself a glass of port. He needed something after yet another encounter with that dirty mop of a dog this afternoon. Tony seemed too amused by the entire situation to take it seriously, so he supposed controlling the beast was down to him.

It wasn't the first time the little mongrel had been in the house these last days. He'd been chased off several times now and several items had new been damaged or had disappeared — nothing of value, perhaps some horse brushes and balls of yarn had been lost, and leather bridles were chewed up or missing chunks. Still, it must be stopped.

But he wasn't about to drown him over it. That was obviously a joke on his part, however Miss Crewe took it. Perhaps these English ladies were too delicate for his dark Irish humor.

His uncle Ciarán used to spur him on to work with increasingly elaborate threats of death, after all. And when times were a bit hungry, his Gran often amused herself asking him how he'd like to be cooked if it came to that. It was the way of it in Ireland. Life often seemed dark and dire and the only way to contend with it was to embrace it with a laugh. His mother often said, "You have to laugh, Dommy. It's a sight more fun than crying."

They were all gone. There was no one left to call him Dommy now. And very little reason to laugh. Domhnall wasn't a name the English would do business with. Half of them couldn't even say it correctly, he'd wager. He was Daniel now, a name that could be accepted among The Beau Monde, and had been for years.

He shook off the melancholy, handing Tony a glass. "I suppose she will do well enough," he finally said on the subject of Miss Crewe. Really, upon Tony's initial description, he was expecting some plain, thin-lipped termagant spinster with spectacles... Though she had been wearing spectacles, hadn't she? Still, he'd barely noticed them with the eyes behind them, wide and dark and rather bottomless. As for her lips, they were quite full and... "She's pretty enough. I'm glad, for your sake," he added hastily.

"She did seem more timid than I expected," Tony said.

Byrne turned to him, surprised. "She seemed timid to you?" He supposed Tony hadn't witnessed her impassioned defense of the dog.

"I grant you, I only met her briefly before, but she'd seemed more spirited. But one meets so many girls over a season. Perhaps I'm thinking of the sister. I confess, I had eyes mostly for her when we last met. Something about those redheads..."

Byrne felt strangely annoyed. "If you took little notice, then I have to wonder why you are still so determined to woo Miss Crewe. Our last guest has yet to even arrive and--"

"Miss Marbury? No, she won't do at all. I told you. Miss Crewe suits my needs and I'm sure I will suit hers. Though I suppose that wasn't evident just now." Tony frowned. "She didn't say a word when I greeted her."

It did seem strange, the way she grew silent the moment her maid appeared. "Her maid did say she was unwell."

"Yes. Very pale and quiet. Perhaps the country air will do her good." Pembroke shrugged.

The library doors flew open then. "I don't know how I am to survive this, indeed I do not."

"Aunt Dotty," Tony moved to the sideboard. "Glass of ratafia?"

"Madeira," Mrs. Baddeley said on a gasp, closing the door and leaning against it. "With two cherries."

Tony laughed, though he did open the cabinet, drawing out a bottle. "Oh, dear! It's not as dire as all that. It was just a stray mutt."

"It's not only that." Mrs. Baddeley collapsed to the sofa. "First, we have Miss Crewe's mother write to say she'll be without a chaperon, then Lady Adele comes without a maid and now..." She gathered herself as she took the glass. "Now Miss Marbury has written that she'll be arriving late and with a friend! Of course I wrote that it would be no trouble at all, but I am so deeply troubled!" She took a hearty gulp. "The trials of a hostess," she lamented. "How am I alone to attend to everyone?"

"Not personally," Tony assured her. "I promise we won't have you darning stockings till the wee hours, Aunt."

"I'm sure one of my maids would be happy to see to Lady Adele," Byrne proposed.

"Oh, bless you, Daniel," she sighed, finishing the glass. Tony quickly replenished it.

"It's no trouble at all, I assure you." He'd compensate the girl for the extra work, though he wasn't quite sure how equal she might be to the difficulties communicating. Lady Adele's chaperon, Mrs. Fernside, also didn't speak a word of French and seemed to think repeating things to her charge, only louder, was the way forward. Though he wasn't sure how much she'd have to translate anyhow. So far, the girl seemed to chiefly communicate in giggles.

Miss Vanessa Poole was a bit more sedate. Perhaps too much so. Though her companion, Mrs. Garvey had written to say she was beyond excited to be coming, the young lady seemed so disinterested it bordered on disdain. Perhaps, due to the color of her skin, she was anticipating disdain from others. He knew how that felt, upon first coming to England and experiencing how the Irish were looked upon. But his condition could be hidden if he stayed quiet. He could only imagine it being worse for her.

"Our numbers are still uneven," Mrs. Baddeley continued. "Four gentlemen and only three ladies. And what will that mean for dancing or cards or... or dancing?"

"Very true. I expect the other gentleman to fight to partner you in either, Aunt," Tony drawled. "Please don't break too many hearts. I have a reputation to uphold."

"Oh, Tony, do stop," she tittered, patting her curls. "I might have disappointed a few young men before I met my Arthur, God rest him, but I'm sure I never broke a heart."

"Well, you'd better not start now," Tony said, putting on a stern expression, "I'm warning you."

She giggled again. "Mr. Byrne, you must tell him to stop!"

"I could try, but he doesn't listen to me," Byrne grunted.

"As it is, I shall have no time for dancing. Someone must play the pianoforte," she said, sounding merrier now, whether it was Tony or that second glass, "and I would not wish to deprive any of our young ladies of the opportunity to dance as much as they wish."

Byrne wasn't sure how much luck the ladies would have with these gentlemen. The men had arrived two days before and their company had been less than exciting. He supposed he should expect nothing less. Pembroke had taken care in selecting the gentlemen that they not be... competition for the attention of the ladies. But Byrne had never been faced with duller sorts in his life. He'd hoped for at least a relaxing evening of wine and cards before the girls arrived, but Mr. Walford had insisted Pembroke take him on a very detailed tour of the house down to inspecting every chimney and Lord Swinton spent the evening in the gardens with a lantern, observing what local insects might make appearances at dusk.

The gentlemen were showed in then. Mr. Walford, a rather tall man with spectacles and perpetually tousled hair that gave him the look of a frustrated scholar, headed straight for Tony, eager to discuss the ruins on the west side of the property. Tony had told the man they were fake, one of the more ridiculous trends of the last century, but the man still found them fascinating. As for Lord Swinton, a short, round, slightly older man, he made his way to Mrs. Baddeley, with some business about someone mending his butterfly net.

He didn't want to admit it, but Tony was right. Perhaps this might be the most tedious party he'd ever attended. The most excitement so far had been Miss Crewe's arrival and that was mostly because of the damned dog's antics.

But the men didn't matter so much. It was really the ladies he needed to assess, and he had to remember to note everything about them, apart from Miss Crewe. She was not his concern. Yet he found his mind wandering in her direction several times since their inauspicious meeting... out of concern, of course. Though she'd assured him the dog had done her no injury, so he really should stop thinking about her.

Luckily, at that moment, two of the other ladies were also shown in to the library — Miss Poole and her companion, Mrs. Garvey. Pembroke was quick to take the opportunity to escape Mr. Walford and assure them the dog had been chased away.

"But might he come back?" Mrs. Garvey asked with some alarm.

"I rather hope he does," Miss Poole said with a shrug, moving to the shelves. "First bit of liveliness I've seen."

Byrne couldn't help but agree with her.

"Oh, Miss Poole, you don't mean that," Mrs. Garvey said, chuckling. "We are simply delighted so far. Why, we've only been here a day and already we've... experienced the local fauna. Miss Poole has found it all fascinating."

Byrne didn't believe that for a second.

Lady Adele entered next, without her companion, and looking rather lost. "Que se passe-t-il?" She began with wide eyes. "Mme Fernside est très contrariée. Elle ne quittera pas sa chambre pour le dîner."

The only word Byrne understood was Fernside. He offered her a quick bow before taking his seat, frowning into his drink. Though Byrne had previously considered her the most interesting headline and, upon meeting her, certainly extremely attractive — slender and graceful, with piles of blonde, silky hair and wide-eyes with a charmingly bemused expression — he was starting to wonder if a man could contend with a wife he couldn't converse with.

"Elle a dit qu'il y avait un ... chien diabolique?" She giggled. Which didn't help clear things up in the least.

"No English at all?" Tony hissed. "Hasn't she been here long enough?"

"Tony, don't be rude," his aunt protested. "It's a very elegant tongue."

"Yes, for those who understand it," Tony said. "Come now, Aunt Dotty, who could live in England for years without learning a word of our, admittedly, less elegant tongue?"

"She's stayed with relations, the poor dear, cast out of her homeland." His aunt moved to Lady Adele. "Er... Mrs. Fernside was... startled," his aunt said loudly, apparently taking Lady Adele's chaperon's method, as if yelling the words would transform them from English to French, though Mrs. Baddeley did add some entertaining gestures. "The dog..." Here she put four fingers on her hand. "It scared her..." Here she put her hands to her face and widened her eyes. "So you see..."

"She knows that," Miss Vanessa Poole said from behind her book. "She just said Mrs. Fernside has been upset by an evil dog and won't come out of her room."

Mrs. Baddeley clapped her hands. "Oh, Miss Poole. You speak French? How delightful! Could you possibly..."

"Very well." Miss Poole sighed and closed her book. "Lady Adele, je suis désolée que le chien ait effrayé Mme Fernside. Mais il est parti maintenant."

Well... it sounded reassuring. Byrne looked at Miss Poole with new interest. To be fair to her, he'd noticed she was pretty before, with dark skin and hair and full lips and intelligent eyes. He'd dismissed her as being too rich to bother with him, but thought she might do well enough for Tony if he wasn't so set upon Prudence Crewe. This one was just as much of a bluestocking, after all. From what he'd learned, she was a bright girl who'd exhausted the knowledge of every tutor her benefactor had sent her way, but this was intriguing. Two languages. Maybe more. She could be an asset, should he branch out into international dealings — if Napoleon was ever defeated.

"Êtes-vous sûr?" Lady Adele seemed to inquire. "Elle a l'air très bouleversée."

Miss Poole turned to Miss Baddeley. "She says Mrs. Fernside was very upset. Are you sure it's gone?"

Byrne couldn't promise the little lout wouldn't return. "Tell her, if he does return, I'll send him up to Mrs. Fernside for supper."

Miss Poole did not seem amused. But before she could attempt to translate, the door opened again, this time on Miss Crewe.

Byrne found himself standing rather abruptly, his port splashing on his hand. No one was looking his way, thankfully, not even Miss Crewe, her eyes on the floor and her color high as Mrs. Baddeley rushed to usher her in and introduce her.

Her appearance was an improvement on this afternoon, when she'd seemed pale and upset before disappearing into the house. Her hair, no longer under a bonnet, was rich and dark, but with subdued ribbons of red that the candlelight brought out starkly and her green gown was less dusty and more revealing than what he'd seen her in before. He tore his eyes away from the expanse of skin over her bodice and resolutely looked to her face.

He found himself oddly upset he couldn't see her eyes, downcast and hidden behind her spectacles. He supposed he was still concerned for her welfare, as he would be for any of their guests. Yes, that was why. And perhaps he should be. She seemed strangely nervous, her hands clenched around her fan so tightly, it looked as if she might snap it in half.

**************************

Emilia had hoped, after donning the green dress she'd eyed jealously since Miss Prudence had been fitted for it, she might feel like a lady. She supposed she looked the part, even if she didn't feel it. It all fit well enough, apart from the slippers, which pinched dreadfully and the corset, which actually felt a bit loose about the bust.

After also putting on beads and matching ear-bobs and painstakingly threading a darker green ribbon through the twists of her hair — a style Miss Crewe had always deemed too tedious to sit through — she felt more elegant on this Tuesday evening than she had on any Sunday of her life.

Yet she still felt so unequal to this. She'd been a scullery maid for longer than she'd been a lady's maid, after all. She was still never sure when she should and shouldn't avert her eyes when in company with Miss Crewe, and now she was expected to be in company without her. If she averted her eyes, would she look like a dunce? If she looked too much, would she be gawking? They hadn't discussed this part. Why hadn't she thought to ask it?

Perhaps she'd wasted too much time setting forth her conditions on this arrangement, which Prudence was quite argumentative about. But Emilia insisted that, if she was to spend two entire weeks in this foolhardy masquerade, then Prudence could at least begin to take more pride in her appearance.

"... only two dresses for painting. You will change in and out of them and I will wash them as needed," Emilia had said.

"Do you know how hard it can be when one must paint or go mad? What about when inspiration takes me and—"

"Then inspiration can take your dinner gown off before you spoil another one or I will go mad," Emilia said firmly. "Also... you will wear gloves when you paint."

"But I'd have less control of the brush. And I've never shown up to dinner with dirty hands. I scrub them faithfully every time."

"Yes. And your fingernails look like they've been grinded with stones!"

"Can we talk of this later? I've already agreed to dress as you like and do my hair as you see fit and I'm having the devil of a time with these stupid buttons!"

Emilia hid a smile as Prudence attempted to button the dress for a third time. "Not as easy as you think, is it?"

"I never said it was easy in the first place," Prudence huffed, still struggling with the tiny row. "I've helped Charity out of those fussy dresses you insist she wears, but this one is worse."

"I've never had a complaint from your sister on my choices."

"That's because, to Charity, the world is nothing but rainbows and daffodils."

"You could learn a lot from your sister."

"Oh, you know I mean no ill. No one loves Charity more than I do," Prudence protested, "not even Ian, I'm sure of it. But our interests have always been... different. Now you seem to want to turn me into her."

"That's not what I want at all," Emilia sighed. "I simply ask, from this point forward, until you either marry or take your precious cottage by the sea—"

"That I dress as you say and do my hair as you say. As for my marrying, that cottage will happen first, mark my words," Prudence went on, finally finishing the buttons. "I have a particular disdain for being told what to do and a husband might be even worse than you." She stood back, looking Emilia over. "And it's truly unfair as I've put no conditions on your behavior, apart from discouraging Pembroke."

"And apart from the spectacles," Emilia accused with a heavy frown.

"Look, he saw you in them. Perhaps those spectacles are the only thing keeping him from working out that you're not me. And if you think you look so dreadful in them, which you do not, then so much the better. We're not here to attract anyone."

Emilia supposed she had a point, but it was still galling, wearing those dratted things on her face for the better part of two weeks when she'd resisted them for so long. Still, if she was going to dissuade a man from marrying her, the glasses could only help. Convincing a man not to marry her must be easier than the opposite, or so she was telling herself. It didn't help her nerves.

Now, as Miss Baddeley paraded Emilia to every guest in the library, Emilia found herself frozen in front of Sir Anthony as he bowed to her. It was hard enough, looking these people in the eye when, in situations like this, she would either be downstairs where she belonged or tucked in the corner with her sewing at most. Now she was wondering if smiling and curtsying back counted as encouraging him. In the end, she dipped a knee, but decided not to smile, which only seemed to prolong the interaction, since now he seemed overly concerned about her well-being.

She turned away, not sure what to say to such scrutiny, and found herself facing Mr. Byrne. If she thought she'd escaped scrutiny with him, she was mistaken. His eyes — still as blue as she remembered — bore into hers for what felt like longer than should be allowed, not that she knew much about polite society and whether it conformed to her idea of polite. Either way, he soon bowed stiffly. "Miss Crewe."

He was the fourth person to have addressed her thus, yet she now felt this insane urge to correct him. She resisted it, of course, swallowing hard as she dipped a knee. "Mr. Byrne."

TBC

My corona-induced depression has gotten a little better. At the very least, I'm using this time to be as productive as I can. I hope all of you are staying in and staying safe. Socially distant hugs to you all.