"I hope you are recovered," Mr. Byrne was saying as he took her gloved hand, "from the events of this morning."

Emilia wondered why he was scrutinizing her so. Perhaps because she'd practically scolded him earlier over his very tasteless jokes about the dog. She stood by it, more so than she might have if she were Emilia Finch, a servant telling off her betters. She was Prudence Crewe tonight and Prudence Crewe could carry it off.

"There was nothing to recover from," she replied, trying for that casual, almost bored tone Prudence seemed to affect so effortlessly. "I thought he was lovely. Did the footman catch him?"

Mr. Byrne smiled slightly. "Sadly, no. He's off to terrorize other young ladies."

"I'm glad of it. There was nothing terrifying about him. I've never received such a warm welcome, nor such enthusiastic kisses." She felt her stomach drop and her cheeks redden as she realized what she had just said. To be sure, she was talking of a dog, but to be speaking of kissing in the company of men... She wondered if it was possible to fall straight through the floor and be deposited into the servants' quarters where she belonged.

Mr. Byrne, however, laughed — a low chuckle that raised the hairs on the nape of her neck. "I confess, his kisses didn't have the same effect on me."

She felt tempted to smile, relieved she'd not scandalized him. "I'm surprised he kissed you at all, with your threats of drownin'?" She resisted the urge to cover her mouth. If she was to pass as a lady, she should speak more like one. Out with the girls, she often hid her Yorkshire accent as she was positive most found it more fitting for a scullery maid than a lady's maid.

But he only smiled. "He's not very discriminatin' about who he's kissing," he replied, adopting the same casual tone. "I've seen him attempt it with many others, so take care with him. He's a scoundrel."

They'd not spoken much before, but she detected something of an odd lilt in his voice as well. Not odd, maybe, but new to her. Her travels outside of Yorkshire had really only extended to London and Scotland and the inns between. She couldn't quite place his accent, but there was something about that sing-song lilt she wouldn't mind hearing more of.

She quickly pulled her hand away. She was not here for that sort of thing. "I will do. I mean... I mean I shall." She turned to Mrs. Baddeley, a less confusing presence. "Thank you very much for the headache remedy, Ma'am. It did the jo... I mean, it worked magnificent wonders." Was that too flowery? Was it too obvious a fib?

Mrs. Baddeley didn't seem to mind, beaming. "Why, thank you. It is a potion of my own devising. I shall send the recipe with you for your mother, the poor thing. Your dear aunt is always telling me what terrible headaches she endures... something like that."

Emilia thought it more likely that Lady Dartmore was always telling her friend what a headache Lady Crewe herself was to endure. But Mrs. Baddely seemed a sweet, well meaning woman who probably took it in the nicest possible way. She'd seen the type over the years, those kind companions or poorer relations who strove to include everyone, even a maid like herself, in conversations. "I thank you, Ma... er... Mrs. Baddeley. I'm right sure... er... certain she will be grateful." Emilia didn't like the idea of lying. But considering the lie she was starting out with, she supposed she would have to get used to it.

She was glad when supper was announced. Perhaps she could focus on her food rather than the fact that she would be dining with real life French nobility. She'd only just convinced herself to stop staring at Lady Adele when she found herself unable to look away from Miss Vanessa Poole. It was hard to help. She'd never seen a person with dark skin before, except those ghastly charicatures in the papers that were less than flattering. She was quite pretty and her gown was of the latest fashion, though Emilia noted that the fussy neckline was doing her no favors. Something simpler would show off her long neck to more advantage.

Lady Adele was also uncommonly pretty, but with a gown several years out of fashion and a hairstyle that was far too severe for her delicate features. She resolved to keep that sort of thing to herself. She might be play-acting as Prudence Crewe, but everyone at this table was her better and she'd best not forget it.

At the moment, Mrs. Baddeley nodded to Lady Adele, who led the way to the dining room. Prudence had said something about this, how rank led the way. She supposed that Lord Swinton would be next, but he didn't move, nor did anyone else.

Mrs. Baddeley let out a slight laugh. "Ladies first, of course," she said merrily.

Emilia turned to Miss Poole, waiting, but the young lady was staring at her, tilting her head. Dear God, she was next? After a real lady? Then again, she was the daughter of a baron and the cousin of a Duke, wasn't she? At least until this farce was over. She tried not to trip over the carpet as she rushed to catch up to Lady Adele.

She'd never even served a formal supper like this, let alone sat at one. The closest she'd got was cooking it. Even if a footman got sick, Mrs. Douglass would hire a green lad from the village before they'd let a maid serve their guests. In the last year, Lady Crewe had requested her presence at supper on certain Tuesdays, after the fashion pages were delivered, so she could have "some company who cared about the important things," but that was a casual dinner with the family, nothing like this.

Lady Adele was already seated at the right of the head of the table. Even not knowing a word of English, she knew her place. Emilia dithered in the doorway, knowing very well Miss Poole and her companion were hard on her heels, and glancing back to see Mrs. Baddeley and the gentlemen bringing up the rear.

Helpfully, a footman came forward, the same one who'd been chasing the dog earlier, pulling out the chair to the left of the head. She gave him a grateful smile and nod, at which he looked confused. She lifted her chin and moved to take her seat, trying to remind herself that she was a lady taking her rightful place, not a housemaid thanking the footman for tossing out the rubbish.

Miss Prudence hadn't taught her about this sort of thing, but Miss Prudence had been born into this world. Perhaps she knew her place so well, she didn't even see it as a thing that needed to be taught. Or perhaps Prudence knew she'd muck it up and it would only dissuade Sir Anthony further. It didn't seem to work, since she was seated at the left of the head of the table, directly next to him,  and he declared her "faux pas" to be charming.

"But why should we proceed by rank? Silly bit of nonsense. Perhaps we should proceed by who is hungriest." 

"Aye, then perhaps I should lead the way," Emilia muttered. She hadn't a bite since their very early breakfast at the inn. 

 Sir Anthony chuckled. "Well, if the soup were a contest, you've trounced us all handily." 

She glanced up from her bowl, noting that she'd finished her soup while the rest had barely touched theirs, all chattering. How did anyone get any eating done with all this talk? Supper would never end if they didn't...

She flushed then, realizing that she was the one in the wrong as she watched the other ladies daintily dip their spoons until they were half-full, then slowly sip from them, rather than shoveling it in like they had chores to finish. Even the men were more delicate about it than she'd been. Yet another bit of etiquette Miss Prudence had neglected to tell her about. It was rather too late for her to mirror the others, since she barely had a spoonful left. 

"I suppose that was very ill-mannered of me." At least she was doing a spectacular job of making herself unattractive to him. 

"Not at all," Sir Anthony protested. "What's the country air for if not giving one a vigorous appetite? You are so refreshing, Miss Crewe!" 

Or not. 

Sir Anthony leaned in. "But I should warn you that you'll have quite a competitor in me once the lamb is served. The game is afoot, as Shakespeare would say!" 

"I'd rather a leg or a shoulder, so I should be glad he's not the cook." She snorted out a laugh, unable to help herself. She really should be discouraging the man, not joking with him. 

Of course, that worked out well enough. Since he wasn't laughing. Neither was anyone else, though they were all staring at her strangely, probably due to the terrible sound that just came out of her mouth. 

"Pardon me," she said, staring down the table, putting her napkin to her mouth and feigning a cough.

Everyone went back to their bowls... except Mr. Byrne, who lifted an eyebrow as if to say he knew that was no cough -- before he let out a few coughs of his own. "Yes, pardon me as well. Must be contagious." He shook his head, muttering, "a leg."  

She couldn't quite tell if he was laughing at her sad little joke or at her expense. Really, either should be unwelcome. Emilia spent the next courses in near-silence, concentrating only on clearing everything set before her with vigor, delicacy forgottene. After a day with too much to fuel her worry and too little to fill her stomach, it was just as well she'd now established her version of Prudence Crewe as a boorish, ravenous, snorting young miss with little in the way of table manners.

It was all the better to rebuff Sir Anthony's further attempts to engage her as if there was some sort of race as to who finished first. She won, of course. A life in service had trained her not to dally over meals lest she find herself washing up well into the night.

As the meal wore on, Sir Anthony seemed to give up, conversing with the others or even shouting pleasantries down the table at his aunt, so he was little trouble to her. Unlike others...

All too often, Mr. Byrne seemed to be looking her way. Then again, she could stop glancing his way. Perhaps he felt her gaze and only turned her way then. Yes, that must be it.

A welcome distraction came from Miss Poole to her left as the sorbet was served. "We've not met before this, Miss Crewe, but I've heard you called a hopeless bluestocking."

Emilia was not quite sure what to say to that. Miss Prudence would likely respond with some clever joke, but she had no such wit... as she'd just proved.

Miss Poole went on hastily to fill the silence. "I don't mean it as an insult. Quite the opposite."

"Yes, books. I... care for them a great deal," she lied. Miss Prudence was always tossing books her way and, though her reading had improved, it didn't mean she enjoyed them at all, not enough to finish. Outside the fashion pages, she was much more entertained by the novels Lady Crewe and Mrs. Douglass sometimes lent her, full of evil highwaymen and distressed damsels, which Prudence called absolute rubbish. "I might spend all my time in the library." That much was true. All the better to stay hidden, perhaps working on her tatting. It was a chore, but at least it was more relaxing than keeping up this charade.

"I confess, I am relieved. Pembroke's collection is rather good," Miss Poole was saying, "but with no order at all. Perhaps we can fix it together. I'm eager to have someone to discuss such things with."

Emilia endeavored to smile. "How nice."

"Have you read anything interesting lately?" Miss Poole asked.

Was she to be tested on books now? At least the other one only spoke French. Now she wished she'd finished at least one of Miss Prudence's recommendations. She searched her mind for just anything Prudence might have talked about as Miss Poole waited for her answer. "Mansfield Park," she said, possibly too loudly, then quieted herself. "I... I found Fanny Brice to be a bit boring. No, insipid," she corrected. "Yes. That's the word." That was what Miss Prudence had said.

"Her name is Fanny Price. And did you?" Miss Poole's smile tightened slightly, as if she'd said something wrong. "I respectfully disagree."

She wished she could tell her that it was really Prudence's opinion, not hers. But she was Prudence, was she not? "Well, I didn't mean insipid, I only—"

"No. I understand," Miss Poole broke in. "I suppose Fanny Price is a bit too moral to be interesting and a bit less witty than Elizabeth Bennet, but she's an outsider thrust into a world where she is told she does not belong. It's not easy, in those situations, to speak one's mind." She grew silent for a moment. "But she does have some strengths. She knows her own mind and clings to her principles when the time comes where she might betray them."

"Perhaps you have it right. I... I might have to read it over."

"I think you should. Let's not forget that Lizzie Bennet, despite her future being insecure, grew up well off enough to be respected and treated as a lady. Fanny... she was always on the outside looking in at those with better lives."

"Yes, I must keep that in mind when I read it again." Or for the first time. 

Miss Poole put her spoon down, as if she was done with the dish and the conversation, as the tiny bowls were cleared.

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

"I don't think she likes me," Tony said, frowning into his glass. "And I tried so very hard. Do you think I tried too hard?"

"I cannot say. I was down the table a bit. I could hardly hear," Byrne claimed. That was a lie. He was not very near to them, but he'd found himself listening all too closely. Perhaps more closely than Tony, with his next claim.

"Perhaps she is shy," Tony said, then scoffed loudly. "Ridiculous. Hasn't she had something like five seasons in London? Why should she be shy now?"

No, she didn't seem shy, though she'd often looked nervous. Still, five seasons was likely to erase that. So why had she always looked so lost? And why was he looking anyway?

Then again, what were his alternatives?  Seated between Mr. Walford and Miss Poole's companion, Byrne could barely find a word to say through dinner. He had no strong opinions on stone masonry nor whether needlepoint patterns were only followed by lazy young ladies. "I suppose you could have laughed at her joke." Miss Crewe seemed a bit discouraged to speak after that.

Tony tilted his head. "What joke? You mean when she was choking? Was that supposed to be funny?"

"No, she said something about a leg after you said the game was afoot and..." Damn it all, it didn't seem funny when he said it, so he didn't try. "Anyhow, she was laughing, not choking." Well, more like snorting. Byrne had been surprised to hear it. She'd been so severe with him that afternoon that he nearly felt like she was one of his village nuns, ready to rap his knuckles for some bit of naughtiness. He'd thought her a humorless thing. But she had shown some humor even before supper. In the last hour or so, he'd seen her blush, heard her laugh... or snort. Was it strange that he wouldn't mind hearing more of it?

Or perhaps that was just the alternatives, once again. Even now, the gentlemen offered little riveting conversation, staring out the window, Lord Swinton waxing poetic about night insects and Mr. Walford interrogating him on his knowledge of woodworms and how best to discourage them.

"Well, that went beyond me! I couldn't seem to get her to converse at any length," Tony went on. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be too hard on myself. She barely talked to anyone."

Once again, Tony was less than observant. She seemed to talk at length to Miss Poole... or perhaps it was the other way around. Once again, Miss Crewe had seemed nervous, lost.

"I suppose I was expecting her to be more forthright," Tony sighed. "If she's such a shy, retiring little miss, this very straightforward wooing I've planned will be a much more delicate process than I've anticipated. But enough about me." Tony brightened up a little. "What of your prospects?"

"Er... I'm still deciding," Byrne said, though he'd barely looked at the other girls.

"I suppose you're waiting on Miss Marbury to make your final decision," Tony drawled. "Good luck with that one," he added, so low Byrne almost didn't hear it.

"What do you mean by--"

"Nothing, nothing," Tony said on a laugh. "I just wish you good luck. Not that you need it. I suppose you have some deuced clever method about all this. It's very like you to want to examine all the possibilities before making an informed decision."

"Precisely so," Byrne lied, not wanting to tell his friend he'd spent most of the evening ignoring all other possibilities and watching Miss Crewe. 

It wasn't as if she did or said anything of particular interest, apart from being a bit louder than a dinner party required at times. She had a hearty appetite for such a skinny thing. A course was barely served that she didn't devour with a quickness, but that wasn't it. Perhaps it was that Yorkshire lilt of hers. Most of the girls he met in London, even in his circles, had a certain polish about them. They practically gleamed with it, full of artful gazes and droll observations. There was nothing of that in Miss Crewe. She seemed so unguarded, so new, as if she had been dropped into the world just now.

She was certainly no proper mistress of the manor. Still, that was Tony's concern, not his.

"We'd best join the ladies," Byrne said, stubbing out his cheroot. 

"Aye, get the torture over with," Tony groaned. "I'm sure Aunt Dotty is going to force one and all to dance. That or," here he shuddered slightly, "parlor games."

Yes. He'd best partner Lady Adele. She made the best headline... even if he couldn't speak to her. But what conversation would be required while dancing?

Luckily or not, dancing was not to be, nor were games to be played. Mrs. Baddeley insisted the ladies were too travel-worn for such exertions and they'd best all take themselves to bed. No one seemed to protest — Miss Crewe, in fact, headed for the door before anyone else — but Mrs. Baddeley insisted on comforting them all with the promise that she had all sorts of amusements planned for the morning and to fill every day hence.

"Nothing like a game to help all of you young people get to know each other and I have so many!"

Tony nudged Byrne, rolling his eyes and whispering. "And so it begins..."

TBC

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

Oh, no! Not parlor games!