Emilia had often chided Prudence Crewe for — in addition to her carelessness with her clothes, hair, and everything else Emilia took great pains to maintain — her lack of concern for social graces. It was something her mother as well as Emilia had often agreed bordered on a sort of proud insolence.

"She won't listen to me. But you are younger. Perhaps she will heed you, Emilie," Lady Crewe had said. 

This was during the early days of her promotion, of course, when Lady Crewe thought having a lady's maid with a French name was the height of fashion and Emilia certainly didn't object to having a prettier, more exotic name.

As no one with the exception of Lady Crewe called her by it, sadly, it did not catch on — since half her fellow servants still insisted on calling her either Em or Sticks — and neither did her efforts with Prudence Crewe. Even with Lady Crewe's blessings to scold the girl if need be, or perhaps because of them, she remained as stubbornly averse to self-improvement and delicate manners as ever.

But at this moment, Emilia greatly envied the girl's indifference. After stumbling through two dances, her face burned with more than exertion. Prudence Crewe might have carried all of it off with her studied nonchalance, perhaps even a laugh at her own expense. She might even think such a display was all well and good, and certainly best to discourage Sir Anthony, but the impostor in her place took no enjoyment in looking or feeling like a dolt. And Sir Anthony didn't seem discouraged, anyhow, as he was nothing but smiles, curse him!

Really, that wasn't fair. He was a very pleasant man. She'd like to think, if Miss Prudence herself were here, she could certainly do worse. Or perhaps she was blinded by her gratitude after his kindness to Mopsy, and after he'd tried to be so very helpful during the dance, with his cries of "Oh, this way, Miss Crewe!" or "To your left..." or "No! The right now!"

As for her, it was an embarrassing blur of, "Oh, Sorry!" or "I thought... Oh, is this the way?" or "I'm terribly... Oh, pardon me. Is it left now?"

Their supposed reward for winning the scavenger hunt, which was choosing the first two dances the rest of the party must hop to, seemed more like a punishment when it was enacted. Sir Anthony had even quite kindly allowed her to choose both herself, so she picked ones she thought she knew well enough.

Really, she did suspect her time practicing only the gentleman's parts with Miss Charity might cause a bit of confusion, but nothing near the chaos that had resulted, which included rushing headlong into Miss Poole, nearly knocking off Lord Swinton's monocle rather than taking his hand, and then getting her shawl caught in Lady Adele's bracelet.

But that was nothing to the second dance, with the supremely awkward moment when she ended up partnering Miss Poole — the only part of the dance she got right — in place of Mr. Byrne, who seemed to take that moment to back away from the dance entirely to scowl at everyone, but probably mostly her.

And she tried, how she tried, to laugh it away when Mrs. Baddeley stopped playing and they all fell into a bewildered mass of bows and curtsies. "I'm so very sorry if I... Well, if..." She'd started talking in the hopes she might be able to muster up some sort of clever rejoinder, but with them all staring at her, she only ended up dipping her head and finishing on a mutter, "I'm so very sorry."

"No need to apologize," Sir Anthony assured her with a laugh. "I found your movements wildly inventive. Who would have thought a staid old country dance could have such twists and turns?"

Lady Adele leaned toward Miss Poole, saying on a giggle, "Je pensais qu'elle danserait aussi avec moi. Mais je n'ai pas eu mon tour."

Miss Poole laughed as well. "Peut-être une autre fois," she answered as the both of them glanced Emilia's way, giggling together now.

Emilia felt her cheeks heating again. She had no idea what the girls had said, but she'd been on the receiving end of that sort of feminine whispering before — whether it was those snobbish maids in London or that wretched Mary Hartley, chortling with some equally horrid friend, making pointed complaints while Emilia tried to go about her damned duties and ignore it.

"I have no idea why this one's sent to do the fires. She shouldn't be seen."

"Can she be demoted, do you think?"

"Then again, is there anything lower than a scullery maid?"

She'd thought the protection of Miss Crewe's name meant she might be spared that sort of thing, but why should it be so? She was obviously just as low-born and clumsy in this fine gown as in a battered apron and everyone could see it. "I believe I've had enough dancing for tonight," she mumbled. "If you will excuse me—"

"Oh, you mustn't stop now, Miss Crewe," Vanessa Poole said, still smiling. "Lady Adele was just saying she'd hoped you'd partner her at least once, but you didn't give her a turn after all."

She couldn't quite tell if the teasing was good natured or not with these society folk. Their droll tones were the same in praise or criticism. Still, it did seem in good fun as the rest of the party laughed — with the exception of Mr. Byrne, who was still glowering, and Mr. Walford, who was much too busy inspecting the fireplace to join the party.

Emilia smiled and shrugged. "I really don't know how you lot do it, remembering all these steps."

"You lot?" Miss Poole repeated, tilting her head.

"Er... you... good dancers, that is." She really should be more careful. Miss Poole already seemed a bit suspicious of her. Or was that her imagination? She'd rather it was, but the young lady had seemed quite dogged in her attempts to engage her on the subject of the library during supper — almost too dogged.

"Very kind of you to set your maid on such a worthy task," Miss Poole had said as they waited for the soup to come their way. "This library sorely needs aid. But are you certain you don't wish to oversee her?"

"I... Of course, I do, but there is the... the matter of..." Emilia fished for something that seemed like a good reason for entirely too long.

She was rescued by Sir Anthony, of all people. "Are you two speaking of the library? Bang up job. I'd meant to say so before."

"We are happily surprised you noticed, sir," Miss Poole said with an arch look toward Emilia, as if she should be in on some joke.

"Well, I was told," he said with a shrug, then leaned closer to Emilia. "I'm quite grateful for the care you show my home, Miss Crewe."

Dash it all, she'd been afraid of that. "It's really my maid who—"

"Yes, I'd wanted to ask you about that," Miss Poole said suddenly. "She insisted that playwrights should be directly after poetry, with Shakespeare leading the way, citing you, but I think each section should be alphabetical. Are you certain you can't be persuaded away from this folly?"

And she was bombarded on either side. "I... have so many thoughts, but... My goodness me, I simply can't... not before all these people," Emilia said, grasping onto Prudence's little idea, glancing down at her lap. "I'm feeling very shy."

"Well, your Miss Finch certainly isn't," Miss Poole said dryly. "She seemed to be quite enjoying it, too. She said you had guided her education on these matters," she'd finished, peering at her in a way that seemed much too keen for a casual conversation.

"Aye, Miss Finch has become a bit of a bluestocking, herself. I've taught her well," she mumbled. It was a lie on so many levels, she half expected Miss Poole to stand up right then, point at her and accuse her of being an impostor before all.

But Miss Poole only sighed as the soup was ladled into her bowl. "You are very fortunate. I can't get my own maid to take my recommendations at all. Dora won't even talk to me about books," she finished, placing her napkin quite delicately across her lap.

Emilia made a noise that she hoped sounded vaguely sympathetic — though her sympathies were with the maid on this point — before busying herself with following Miss Poole's lead. She had frustratingly good table manners. She seemed to eat as if there was no hurry at all, even stopping to talk.

"I truly do envy you," the girl said between sips so dainty Emilia wondered if she'd even tasted the soup, which was a sort of creamy thing with mushrooms and far too delicious to eat so slowly. "The only conversation Dora cares for is my hair and the arranging of it."

Now that she would enjoy talking of.

Miss Poole's hair was likely even more troublesome than Charity's. It took Emilia so very long to work out the care of it, and to accept that it would never be as smooth and silky as she'd have liked. She did eventually find the good in it. The rough texture meant it rarely slipped its pins and curls would pile as high as she liked.

She cast a glance over Miss Poole's hair, how it was flattened to her scalp with pomade, then twisted into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. Several hairs were attempting to escape, longing for freedom. How she would like to get her hands in it, find its secrets, or at least tell this Dora that, with a little more effort, she might make something grand of it.

She was nearly ready to talk on that subject, perhaps find a way to give gentle suggestions for her maid on hair — also gowns. This dark blue had no interesting contrast with Miss Poole's skin. A pale color would be so much better. Perhaps the very pale yellow Lady Adele was wearing, Emilia noted, looking across at the blond.

The color certainly did her no favors, adding a sallow tinge to her complexion. Really, Lady Adele would also benefit from a more intricate hair-style. She was being tended to by a house maid, according to Prudence — and her hair looked it. If their maids would put just a bit more effort and thought into...

"You know, I still disagree with your assessment of Fanny Price as boring," Miss Poole was saying. "I think her refusal to go where her heart didn't lead was actually quite bold and she..."

It was just as well the girl was back to books. Though she quite longed to advise both Miss Poole and Lady Adele on their gowns and coiffures, she had no idea whether that was the kind of thing girls of their class did. She'd only ever heard compliments when out with Miss Prudence and Charity – and obviously more often with Charity. Perhaps only admiration was allowed and advice frowned upon. Even if it was acceptable, it wouldn't sound right coming from Miss Prudence Bluestocking Crewe.

And even if she asked Miss Prudence in her guise as Miss Finch to pass gentle reminders on, she'd learned some maids were apt to take great offense to that kind of thing.

Back in London, she'd run into trouble over what Prudence liked to call her "bossy little ways." Her friend, Hattie, who worked for the Marquess of Sanderson's sister, always took her suggestions for Lady Frances very kindly, so perhaps she'd been too free with them. Quite a few other lady's maids she'd kindly advised gave her scathing looks whenever they happened to meet at the modiste after.

"...but I suppose that's enough on the subject of Mansfield. What say you on Sense and Sensibility?" Miss Poole was asking now.

Had they moved onto some sort of philosophical talk now? If so, Emilia would be even further out of her depth. "Er... They are both fine qualities, I suppose."

Miss Poole stared at her strangely for some time. "Yes. Fine qualities," she finally said, and she didn't say much for the rest of supper.

Emilia couldn't help but feel she'd stepped wrong somehow, just as she had during every dance, and during her remarks after.

You lot! She might as well have put an apron on and curtsied for the gentlefolk.

Luckily, everyone was distracted by the argument now happening at the pianoforte.

"...only saying that a waltz might be simpler for all," Sir Anthony was saying.

"A waltz?" Mrs. Baddeley gasped. "With these nice respectable girls? Out of the question."

"Oh, Aunt Dotty. This again? Absolutely everyone is waltzing in London."

"And it will lead to no good. Why it's... it's as good as a lover's embrace on the dance floor. And you young people might think it's nothing, but I shall not..."

"We could ask one of these respectable girls. Miss Crewe, come take my part," Sir Anthony called out, turning her way. "Do you feel scandalized at the idea of a waltz?"

Emilia should say she was. She could imagine the disaster to come with her and her partner endeavoring to lead. But she wouldn't like to deprive the others. Perhaps she could sit that bit out. "I... I don't have a ready opinion on the matter," she lied.

"She's so very shy, you know," Miss Poole called out.

Did the girl miss nothing? "Nay, it's only that I am quite overheated from the first dance and would rather—"

"But poor Miss Crewe," Sir Anthony sighed. "Of course you are. I've been very inconsiderate."

"Not at all. But Aye, thank you. Perhaps if I could sit for the next—"

"Rather than a waltz, I think a walk might be just the thing." He threaded her arm through his. "It's nice and cool on the patio."

She was trying to work out how to politely refuse, as she was certain Miss Prudence wouldn't want her taking moonlit strolls with Sir Anthony, when Mr. Byrne suddenly appeared before them — so suddenly that he actually slid on the parquet before coming to a stop before the patio doors.

"Pembroke, I was just thinking—"

"Ah, Byrne. You've caught us. It's quite hot. We were just considering a walk in the cool of the evening."

"Don't you mean the damp of the evening?" Byrne gestured behind him. "The rain should come pouring down any moment."

Sir Anthony cleared his throat quite loudly. "Precisely why we wanted to have a stroll before that." He seemed to be jerking his head in her direction.

"And miss the next dance?" Byrne gestured to the pianoforte. "I've just convinced your aunt to play a Scotch reel. Haven't I, Mrs. Baddeley?"

"Oh, yes! I've one that can work very well for six." The lady popped her head up from the bench. "Won't that be invigorating!"

Emilia brightened up a little at that. There were no girl parts to a reel. "Aye, a reel would certainly be nice."

Sir Anthony gestured to the door. "But hadn't we just agreed it's so very warm? A walk would be much more tolerable."

"Outside in the damp?" Byrne tutted. "With this rain? Really, Tony."

"There is no rain," Sir Anthony hissed.

The skies choosing that moment to open up and pour down was certainly a good argument against that.

Mr. Byrne gestured to the doors, nodding. "Just as I thought. You can thank me later."

"Rather like to thank you now," Sir Anthony muttered.

"What a delight this will be," Emilia said, forcing a smile as she skipped to the center of the room, actually a bit happy to escape the gentlemen now speaking in hushed grumbles. She wouldn't have gone off strolling with Sir Anthony, even if Mr. Byrne had not been so dreadfully concerned about the rain.

Besides that, she was looking forward to dancing a reel. A reel was the same for either of the pair and the only difference was what side curtsied and what side bowed at the start. She knew that bit. She dipped low as Mrs. Baddeley played the opening notes, then glanced up, waiting for Sir Anthony to bow, but he wasn't there.

It was Mr. Byrne bowing before her. And she felt strangely unprepared for it.

Before dinner, despite how Mopsy nearly knocked him down the stairs, he'd been much more friendly about him. And she'd been enjoying their odd little game of wordplay, until she remembered she was not supposed to.

She probably shouldn't be dancing with him either — precisely because she rather wanted to and this tiny thrill went through her at the thought that he might wish to...

She glanced at the other two pairs. Of course. He'd already danced with Lady Adele and Miss Poole. She supposed she was just next in line. After witnessing the way she'd stumbled and stomped about like a donkey on the loose, it was a wonder he deigned to dance with her at all, but she supposed he was being polite.

She hadn't often looked at the other couples during the first two dances as she'd been much too busy trying and failing to keep up, but every time she had cause to pass Mr. Byrne, he'd been frowning at her.

He was frowning now, too. And she'd like to think she was doing much better with this one.

Perhaps that was simply his dancing face.

But it looked rather at odds with the jaunty tune as they skipped forward and grasped hands, and she couldn't help but let out a slight laugh.

"I'm wondering," he began as they circled each other, but didn't say anything more.

"Wondering what, Sir?" she had to ask, since they were still so very close.

"What you find so amusing," he said before they skipped in the other direction.

She dared not say it was him. Such a thing would be considered impertinent, that or flirtatious. And neither would be acceptable and she'd best remember it.

Lucky for her, the dance parted them and she was soon facing Mr. Walford, who must have finally been forced into dancing. She didn't try to converse as the poor man was consumed with counting under his breath as his very long legs struggled to keep up with the music. She gave him a sympathetic smile as she took his hands. She'd be the last to judge a bit of clumsiness, a point that was made clearly when she raised her arm and caught the side of her spectacles, which went sailing off to... she knew not where.

She stilled, hoping she could see where they'd gone, but without them, the room was a blur.

That was when Lady Adele — a very petite girl, but not when flying at someone with the speed of a reel — knocked into her.

It was then that poor Mr. Walford toppled over into both of them. He managed to right Lady Adele, but it was too late for Emilia, who found herself on her hands and knees.

She accepted her fate with a grunt. It was just as well she was down here. She'd have to find the dratted glasses anyhow.

"I say, Miss Crewe, have you been injured?" Sir Anthony called out. "Let me help you up."

"I'm right here. I can help her up," she heard Mr. Byrne grunt.

She winced a bit at a loud crack, but it was only thunder. She waved both of them off. "I'd rather no one help me up. I've lost my spectacles, so if everyone could be quite still—"

They seemed to have no choice as the music had stopped by then. Still, she must have spoken too late. As Sir Anthony rushed to her side, she heard something skitter across the floor.

"She said not to move." A hand gripped her arm and pulled her to stand. It was Mr. Byrne, whose frown seemed more suited to the occasion now. "You stay still. I'll find them," he barked.

"No, I can—"

"Miss Crewe, are you hurt?" Sir Anthony was asking.

"No, everything is perfectly fine," she said, dipping her head and wishing she was on the floor again. Sir Anthony had yet to see her without her glasses and she rather wondered if this entire charade would come crashing down once he did. "But if anyone sees my spectacles—"

"I don't see them anywhere," Miss Poole said. "Could they have slid under something? The sofa, perhaps."

Emilia rushed in that direction, dropping behind the sofa, thankful for a reason to hide. But then she wondered why she was so eager. Didn't she want this to end? Perhaps Sir Anthony would look at her naked face and suddenly remember who she wasn't. Miss Prudence could take over from there. She could be done with this now if she...

"I don't see them under here."

She glanced up to find Mr. Byrne in front of her, also on his hands and knees, grasping under the sofa.

"Neither do I. But I can't see much, so..."

"Wait a moment. I think..." His hand nudged hers away, then reemerged with her spectacles.

She started to take them back, but he batted her hand away again.

"Allow me."

She had no choice but to sit up on her knees and wait as he cleaned them with a handkerchief, then placed them on her nose.

"Is that clearer?"

"Yes. Thank you." He was so near and clear now that she rather wanted to hide her face again — which was ridiculous as he didn't know Prudence Crewe, not the real one. There was no reason to hide from him, and that was just as well as she was having trouble looking away.

"You never did tell me, you know," he said, a finger brushing her cheekbone as he adjusted her glasses.

There was something so strangely intimate about it.

"What?" she asked, though she wondered how she had breath to do it.

"What was so funny before."

He was so close, his eyes so blue even in this dark space and so warm and curious and, she knew they wouldn't be so if he knew who she was. They would barely glance over her. She would be nothing to anyone in this room, especially him. And that, selfish and stupid as it was, made her wish this insane charade could go on... maybe just a bit longer.

"Was something funny?" she droned.

"You seemed to think so before," he said.

She let out a breathless laugh. "I was simply enjoying the dance." There. That was neither impertinent nor flirtatious.

"Liar," he said softly, sounding flirtatious enough for the both of them. "You didn't seem so amused before dancing with me. I'm considering feeling insulted."

"It wasn't an insult," she found herself saying. "It was just your face."

"Oh?" He tilted his head, remarking dryly, "Well, that's not insulting at all."

"Not your face itself. It's quite a handso..." Good Lord, she was doing it again. Why must he fluster her so? "No. I mean that..." She cleared her throat as he stared at her, offering no help, eyebrow raised and smirking slightly. "Not your face, but the look on it."

"Was it a handsome look? Perhaps so handsome it was amusing? I've never heard of such a thing, but—"

"It was your frown," she broke in petulantly. Must he remark on simply everything she said? "And it's very silly, especially while dancing. You frown an awful lot, if you must know."

"Do I?"

"Even Mopsy can't seem to coax you out of it and he's the dearest thing in the world."

"Yes, I should have known you'd bring that mongrel back into the conversation." She had the notion to take offense on Mopsy's behalf, but he was smiling as he said it.

"Mopsy would have it no other way," she said, chuckling.

"Still, you're quite relentless about him, Miss Crewe."

She shrank back slightly, hearing that name and reminding herself that he wasn't flirting with her. He was flirting with Miss Crewe.

"Miss Crewe," Sir Anthony called out. "Are you still unable to— Oh! My goodness. Good evening."

She'd been so caught up with what was happening behind the sofa, that she'd almost forgot there was a world outside of it.

"Oh, dear! You've arrived!" It was Mrs. Baddeley now. "But how you must have suffered in all this rain!"

"Think nothing of it, Ma'am," a voice said softly. "We simply—"

"Did I hear someone say Miss Crewe?" she heard a very familiar, strident voice ask and she froze. It was almost too familiar. It wasn't any of the voices she knew from this charade, but...

"Yes," she heard Sir Anthony say. "I'm afraid you've come upon a bit of a disaster as poor Miss Crewe has lost her spectacles, so do be careful where you tread."

"We didn't mean to trouble you this late, Mrs. Baddeley," the softer voice was saying. "We'd hoped to arrive before the rain. Still, we thought it best to announce we'd arrived before being shown to our rooms."

"Tis no trouble at all, Miss Marbury," Mrs. Baddeley cooed. "You must be very tired, you and... I'm afraid I've not yet met your friend."

"My apologies. This is Miss—"

"But we must get you out of those wet coats! You poor dears."

Miss Who, damn it? Please don't let it be who I think it is! Please!

"Of course, you and your friend are welcome to join us," Sir Anthony said, "if you aren't too fatigued from your travels."

Emilia dipped her head to the floor, staring under the couch. All she could see was the open drawing room door and two dripping hems.

"I'm sure we are too fatigued to dance at the moment. We shall retire and see you all in the morning."

So that one was Miss Marbury, but that other voice...

"Don't be ridiculous, Cecilia. I may not be dressed for dancing at the moment, but I am so sincerely eager to greet an old friend." She supposed the voice sounded eager, but it didn't sound sincere at all. It sounded cloying and calculating. She knew it so well. She'd spent five years slaving under it... but there was always the hope that she was mistaken.

"Forgive me, Miss Marbury," Mrs. Baddeley said, "but I've yet to meet your friend, Miss..."

"Hartley, Ma'am," that sharp voice supplied.

Emilia squeezed her eyes shut, praying.

Dear God... I have been a very dutiful girl. Church every Sunday, even when I was very young, and mostly all by myself. I even got Papa to attend a few times, and that was no small feat. So... I know there are famines and floods to tend to, but if you could possibly make this someone besides her — some cousin, perhaps — I would be very grateful.

Her heart pounded in her ears as the thunder cracked loudly in the distance, as if to tell her that her prayers were too late.

"Are you certain you do not wish to refresh yourselves first?" Mrs. Baddeley prodded. "I'd hate to have you catch a chill."

"But I simply must see Miss Crewe," that voice went on, "wherever she is hiding. She is one of my dearest friends, after all."

No, she's not. And neither am I.

Mr. Byrne stood, sighing and holding out a hand. "It seems you are being summoned."

She didn't take it. She kept her crouched position, shaking her head frantically.

He tilted his head, staring at her curiously.

Emilia knew she couldn't stay down here forever, but just for another—

"Why there you are, Miss Crewe!"

It was too late. She'd been found. She had no choice but to lift her eyes to the face now peering behind the sofa. And meet the shrewd eyes of Mary Hartley.

TBC

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

As Mopsy might say... "Ruh-Roh!"

Thank you all for your patience as I struggle with this story and having the time to write it. Covid has sapped my inspiration and my family is having a very hard year, but I am going to try to get the next few chapters out in a more timely manner... try being the operative word.

On another note, I have finally started doing things on my long-neglected Youtube channel. So If you guys were ever curious about what I look/sound like (there are livestreams of me singing if you like old jazz), you will now know all. 

And if that  doesn't scare you away, please subscribe. I am toying with the idea of reading my stories out loud on my channel (accents included -- some good, some awful), but I don't think I'll even bother unless I hit 100 subs. 

So yeah, watch my (obsessive) thoughts on Bridgerton and maybe subscribe? And I might just record The Lady Pursues for you guys. 

https://youtu.be/tuwlWiHE3Fc