had engendered much laughter, and she was certain that the evening ahead, unlike the night before, would be a lively affair. The cook had promised to prepare his outstanding poulaille filets à la marechale, which was sure to please the most discriminating palate, and his Turkish Mosque Ruin would end the meal with oohs and aahs. The glow was bound to last throughout the evening, even if Beatrice should decide to sing again.
Just as the thought of Beatrice crossed Felicia’s mind, the girl herself appeared at the dressing-room door. “May I speak to you, Felicia?” she whispered, glancing nervously at the abigail.
“Of course, Beatrice, my dear,” Felicia assured her, while throwing Katie a meaningful glance. “Do come in.”
The abigail promptly slipped out of the room, tactfully closing the door behind her. Felicia motioned Beatrice to the chaise—the room’s only furnishing other than the dressing table and its little upholstered bench. Felicia herself perched on the bench and looked over at her visitor curiously. “Is something troubling you?” she asked kindly.
Beatrice lowered her light eyes to the hands clenched in her lap. “No, not exactly. I’m having a perfectly lovely time, really I am. I know I didn’t sing very well last night, but you know how addled I get when I have to perform before strangers, and then, right in the middle of the song, I realized that I’d chosen the wrong selection, it should have been something livelier, something more—”
Felicia cut her off. “Beatrice, you’re chattering. And you know that you only start chattering when you get nervous. But surely you needn’t be nervous with me.” She leaned over and took her visitor’s hands in hers. “Tell me what’s troubling you. Whatever it is, I shall understand.”
“Well, I... I—”
“Do speak up, dearest. What is it?” Felicia urged. “It can’t be last night’s singing. Your voice was lovely and the song just right.”
“No, it’s not the singing. It’s—” She looked up at Felicia and took a deep breath. “It’s Algy. I think he’s”—a flush of color rose up in her full cheeks—”he’s taken with me.”
Felicia suppressed the urge to laugh. “Is he? I’m not at all surprised. And are you taken with him, too?”
Beatrice dropped her eyes again. “Perhaps. But I... I know so little about him. He’s a bit shy, you see.”
“Is he really?” Felicia murmured. “I’d not have guessed—”
Beatrice suddenly turned an intent gaze on her friend’s face. “What do you think of him, Felicia? Tell me the truth. Do you like him?”
Felicia hesitated. This is what she’d hoped would happen when she planned the party, but now her brief acquaintance with the Thomsett brothers had shaken her confidence. “Well, you know, I only just met him,” she said carefully, “but Leyton and Horace were at Cambridge together, and he’s quite fond of both brothers.”
“Is he? Truly?” Beatrice seemed pleased, but her curiosity was evidently not yet satisfied. “You know, Felicia,” she murmured, lowering her voice to a mere whisper, “Algy’s the younger of the two ...”
Felicia knew just what Beatrice was trying to ask. It was something every young woman had to know before embarking on a courtship. “Yes, he is the younger,” she replied to the unasked question, “but he has an estate of his own. I’m of the impression that both men are well to pass. Algy, I believe, in addition to being well established in the funds, is part owner of his brother’s bank.”
Beatrice beamed. “Thank you, my dear,” she said, jumping to her feet, “that’s just what I wanted to know.” She planted a kiss on Felicia’s cheek and went to the door. But there she paused. “Oh, one thing more,” she said, sounding nervous again. “You don’t think he’s too short for me, do you?”
This was too much for Felicia. She let out a peal of laughter. As a long-married woman, she knew that of all the
Learning to Kill: Stories