Louisa wasn’t elderly, but she wasn’t young, either. She had come to the family just after Sophie’s parents married, and she had been with them ever since. Any time the girls had enquired about the woman’s age, their mother had hushed them with a look and said it was entirely too indelicate a conversation to have with a brisk reminder they must not speculate on the ages of those around them.
The best Sophie could guess was that the cook was in her middle-to-late years, so she assumed afflictions such as rheumatism and gout might make the cold weather less tolerable than it would have been had Louisa been a younger woman. As such, she tried whenever she could to make the older woman’s life less taxing by fetching wood or carrying heavy pots between stove and table.
“Don’t fuss, chickpeas. I am fine, just fine.” Louisa rubbed her work-worn hands together before the grate. “And how would it be if I let you girls do all my work for me? Why, you are already chopping the vegetables for tonight’s dinner! If I let you carry the wood, what in the world would I do? Hmm?”
Sophie put the kettle on to boil. Tea always seemed in order, regardless of the circumstance. She busied herself gathering cups, saucers, the honey pot, and spoons. She thinly sliced a lemon, placing the half-rounds on a rose-patterned plate. The effect of bright yellow on rosebuds looked summery, and she smiled at the warmth the sight created within her.
“You do entirely too much around here.” Rachel hustled Louisa to the table, and gently pushed her down into the chair closest to the fire. “We have been working you ragged for years. Why, it’s a miracle you’ve put up with us this long. Isn’t it, Soph?”
Swishing hot water in the Brown Betty, then dumping it down the drain, was risky business so Sophie did not answer right away. She had burned her fingers too often to be inattentive to the hazard the hot kettle and teapot presented. When she had the teapot filled, she brought it to the table while Rachel grabbed the rest of the tea things.
She sat beside Louisa. Instantly she noticed the woman’s fingertips were nearly purple.
“What happened to the new gloves Rachel and I gave you for Christmas?” When the cook tried to hide her hands in her apron, Sophie reached for them. They were ice cold, so she rubbed them briskly between her own warm hands. “Really, Louisa. What happened to your new gloves?”
“Nothing happened to them.” Louisa refused to look at either sister, instead focusing her gaze on the fire in the grate.
Rachel caught Sophie’s gaze. She rolled her eyes, and then shook her head.
“Oh, you have done it again, haven’t you?” Sophie was not surprised. It wasn’t the first time they had had to track down a gift they had given the woman. They loved her, but her frugal nature bordered on obsession. She looked at Rachel and shrugged. “You know where we made our mistake, don’t you?”
“Mmm hmm. We should have asked for the old gloves when we gave her the new ones.”
“That’s right,” Sophie said with a nod. “You are still wearing the old gloves, aren’t you? Confess, Louisa.”
“There is nothing wrong with them.” Louisa had colored, but she still refused to meet either sister’s gaze.
“The fingertips are worn through!” Sophie still warmed Louisa’s hands, so she held them out between them and said, “Your fingertips wouldn’t be nearly frozen off if you were wearing your new gloves. Oh, Louisa, what shall we do about you? Honestly, sometimes I think Rachel and I are the mother figures and you—”
That got Louisa’s attention. She pulled her hands from Sophie’s grasp and in a miffed tone of voice said, “Don’t even go there. I changed your nappies—both of your bottoms have been sprinkled with powder by these very hands, so don’t for one minute think either of you are capable of mothering me.” She softened the words with a tired smile. “I am just attached to the old gloves, that’s all. The new ones are beautiful, but the old ones still have some wear left on them.”
Rachel went to the coat rack. She dug in Louisa’s pockets and retrieved the tatty gloves. Then she went to her own coat, removed her gloves from her pocket, and deposited them into the older woman’s coat.
“There. Now you have mine, and I have yours. Unless you want my fingers to freeze—and likely fall off!—you will remember to use your own gloves—the new ones, mind!—and return mine.” When Louisa looked ready to protest, Rachel held one hand up and cut her off. “And how will it be if my fingertips fall off? Goodness, I shall never find a man to marry if that happens!”
“Oh, you don’t have a thing to worry about,” Louisa said. They all knew the glove skirmish was settled, and her parsimonious deed curtailed. There would be others, and the sisters would deal with them as they arose in the same manner. The trio had been at the game for years, and was very good at it by now.
The tea had steeped sufficiently so Sophie poured three cups full. She added a dollop of honey to one cup before she passed it to Louisa. Then she added two largish blobs to Rachel’s cup, pushing it across the table to the spot her sister had just reclaimed. Her own tea she took without embellishment. Some things, she felt, were best savored in their undisguised version.
“Louisa’s right. You don’t have anything to worry about, husband-wise. You’re sure to get more than your share of offers, and probably this Season, too.” Sophie took a sip from her china cup. The tea slid down her throat as one smoldering wave, allowing her time to think before she spoke again. “Fingers or not, you will never have a problem finding a man, Rachel. Now, tell me, did anyone pique your interest at the Atwell’s three evenings ago? It seemed you danced every dance, and it looked like you had several different partners.”
“I did.”
Sophie recognized her sister’s hesitation. Louisa did, too. She said nothing, but the dubious look on her face spoke volumes.
For the past few days, Rachel had been uncharacteristically quiet, and more pensive than she ordinarily was, so it was noticeable that something occupied her thoughts. Hopefully, it was something mindless, like men or fashions. In all probability, it was one or the other, because Rachel was not usually introspective about much else.
“Well? Did any of your dance partners make an impression on you?” Sophie regretted that she had been so tied up thinking about her own part in the New Year’s dance that she hadn’t brought up the subject with regard to Rachel’s pleasure earlier. Now that they were on the topic, she wasn’t going to let the chance to learn more about her sister’s evening slip by.
Rachel grinned. “Oh, yes…a number of my partners were very impressive in one way or another.”
“Do tell—don’t keep us in suspense. It is not fair, is it, Louisa?”
A shake of white curls was the only reply. Now that her fingers were warmed by her teacup, Louisa looked like she might never let it go. She drank her tea, smiling as she waited to hear more.
“Oh, all right. Since you are so interested in how my evening went, I shall divulge my secrets.” Rachel placed her teacup on the table with a dull thud. Then, she picked up a carrot and a knife and began peeling. Orange curls fell to the tabletop, making a tidy heap, as she spoke. “You’re right. I did dance nearly every dance, and a great number of them were with new partners. Penny did the same. In fact, I believe she and I swapped partners on several occasions.”
When she stopped talking to reach for another carrot, Sophie pushed the dwindling pile of fresh vegetables across the table. Rachel took her time choosing one to peel, but Sophie didn’t rush her. She knew well enough to keep quiet and let Rachel’s story unfold at its own pace.
Sometimes she was as slow as cold molasses, but that was her way. The family loved her despite her snail-ish tendencies.
“As I was saying, Penny and I both had a completely delightful time at the dance. Not that you would have noticed.” Rachel raised one eyebrow in reproach, waving her paring knife in small circles beside a half-peeled carrot. “You were far too busy dancing the night away to observe whether I was dancing my feet sore or holding up a wall.”
“That isn’t fair. I
did
see you—several times. Any time I turned your way, you were either dancing or talking with someone. Mostly, you were chatting with men—as was Penny. You only think I was preoccupied, and didn’t notice you. That wasn’t the case, dear sister.”
Rachel seemed satisfied with the explanation, because she smiled. She turned her attention back to the carrot. “All right. I suppose you did keep a sisterly eye out for me, didn’t you? I am sorry for not noticing you were watching. It is just that you seemed so smitten with your tall handsome suitor that I didn’t think you even noticed anyone else in the room.”
Allowing the conversation to turn before she got to the heart of Rachel’s night wasn’t something Sophie was prepared to do.
She was not ready to admit that some of what Rachel said was true, either. There were times when she hadn’t seen anyone save her partner, but that was something she intended to keep to herself. For now, and probably forever. How could one admit they lost a whole roomful of people—even for a moment?
“We aren’t discussing my time at the party. This conversation centers around you, remember? Whom you danced with and how any particular gentleman did or didn’t affect you is what we’re attempting to discern here. I have known you your entire life. When you aren’t as open as a book I begin to wonder what you are hiding.”
Sophie tapped her fingertips idly against the tabletop. The drumming synchronized with the velvety-soft swish of orange peels dropping onto a growing pile. Her sister kept her eyes averted, acting as if all her concentration was needed to accomplish the kitchen task. As she knew that both she and Rachel could peel carrots with their eyes closed, she could only assume the younger woman’s evasion was intentional.
“You
did
meet a man, didn’t you? Oh, Rachel, you must tell me the truth.”
It was hard to believe it had taken so long for her to notice Rachel’s countenance, but now that she had several pieces of the puzzle everything slipped into place. Since the Atwell’s party, Sophie had caught Rachel daydreaming, simply staring off into space with a half smile on her pretty face. She had been so caught up in her own reminiscences about the affair that her sister’s introspective attitude had gone unnoticed—until now.
When Rachel didn’t answer, she reached across the table and stilled the hand wielding the knife. Fortunately, she did not lose any fingers in the motion.
“Put down the carrot and talk with us. We are dying to know who finally caught your eye. Aren’t we, Louisa?”
Louisa nodded. Now that her fingers had thawed and the conversation was well away from the glove issue, she looked happier by far than she had since she was blown through the doorway. She poured herself another cup of tea, then, without asking whether they wanted more or not, refilled the other two cups as well. Sophie and Rachel had been mothered in that manner their whole lives. It didn’t even occur to either of them to protest.
Sophie raised her cup and took a sip, slowly swishing the tepid liquid around in her mouth. It provided her an opportunity to study her sister. Rachel, for her part, had not yet raised her face and kept her gaze fixed on the edge of the table.
A
tsk-tsk
from the cook. “I fear I may never be able to rest until I know just who has put our Rachel into such a dreamy state. Why, yesterday I saw her stitch a pocket on her lavender morning dress closed! Our seamstress would never have been so careless if she didn’t have something quite important in that pretty little head of hers. Don’t you agree?”
Swallowing her next mouthful in a startled gulp caused the tea to go down the wrong way. Sophie sputtered, setting her cup on its saucer with a clatter. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her nose ran as she tried to catch her breath. The commotion caught her sister’s attention and brought her around the table with grace and speed.
“Now what did you have to go and do that for? The condition of my lavender dress is not all that important, I assure you.” Rachel frowned, reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a lace-edged cotton handkerchief. She handed it to Sophie, who took it and used it to cover her mouth. “Besides, I fixed the pocket. It was just a matter of taking out a couple of stitches, and putting them elsewhere. It was, truly, just a lapse of concentration, nothing more. Certainly not enough to justify choking!”
Rachel slapped her hard. The thump sounded loud in the room. It was followed, seconds later, by a second resounding whack. The area between Sophie’s shoulder blades stung from the force, so she twisted away.
“Stop it! You’re hurting me!” She gasped, and her windpipe cleared long enough for her to catch a solid breath.
Using the hanky, she blew her nose. Then, she wiped her eyes and cheeks. When Rachel looked poised to slap her yet again, Sophie shook her head. “No, don’t. Please, I am fine. Don’t hit me again.”
Rachel lowered her arm. “If you are certain you’re all right.”
“I am.”
“Well, then…” She sat in the empty chair beside Sophie. Her right hand looked poised to strike at the first sputter or gasp.
Now that her sister sat in the chair beside her own, Sophie took one of Rachel’s hands. She rubbed a slow finger across her sister’s knuckles.
They were so like her own—the whole hand was, really—that she could nearly imagine how the gentle touch felt to Rachel.
She turned and caught Rachel’s gaze. Speaking softly, she asked, “Do tell. We know you have met someone. Honestly, the pocket-sewing incident supports our suspicions. You are such a talented needlewoman that a mistake of that sort is entirely out of character for you. Now, if I had sewn a pocket closed—which, as you very well know, I have done on numerous occasions!—I am afraid no one would raise a breeze over it. But you, dear sister, are not all thumbs with a needle, the way I am, so we all know you were thinking of something other than your lavender morning dress while you were sewing. You were, weren’t you?”