told them she had shared her “boudoir” with a man, eagerly.
Viola slept again on the couch, vowing to make a try at the bed the following night. The sound of the sea swishing and cracking on the beach below comforted.
A second day of fitting followed the first. Mrs. Hamper adjusted one of Serena’s muslin wraps on the spot, and Jane strapped the stays around Viola’s ribs with obvious relish and tied her into the confining garments. Viola submitted to having her hair yanked again, which her maid performed with gusto. By the morning of the third day she was able to descend to the breakfast parlor looking something like a lady who belonged at a house like Savege Park, if not feeling like one.
Clothes, however, did not make the lady.
“Which one do I use for the eggs?” she whispered to the man sitting beside her.
Mr. Yale leaned over and replied in an equally hushed tone, “The egg spoon.”
The room was empty save for Serena across the table and a footman standing to either side. Viola flickered a glance at the servants. They wore poker faces.
She murmured, “Which one is the egg spoon?”
“The diminutive one,” Mr. Yale supplied.
“The two of you sound like perfect nincompoops,” Serena said. “What must George and Albert be thinking of you?”
Mr. Yale pointed his forefinger at the smallest spoon, then settled back in his chair. “Why don’t we ask them? George, Albert, do you think Miss Carlyle and I are nincompoops? Now be honest. It is your mistress that you will offend by replying in the negative.”
George furrowed his brow beneath a white wig. “Well, I don’t rightly know, sir.”
“Noncommittal. Wise man. And you, Albert?”
“Wyn, you must cease quizzing the servants.”
“Albert?” Mr. Yale pressed.
“It does seem odd, sir,” the younger footman replied earnestly, “that there be a spoon only for the likes of soft-boiled eggs, I always thought.”
“Ah, do you see, my lady? Albert agrees with your sister and me. We in society use far too many spoons at breakfast.”
“I would like to know which ones to use for what purposes,” Viola said firmly. “Last night at dinner I was completely confused. I think I may have used my soup spoon for the jelly, or perhaps the other way around.” She looked up as Serena lowered the paper.
“We don’t care what spoon you use, Vi. Do we, Mr. Yale?”
“Of course not.”
“But I do. And when Lord Savege returns I’ll wager he will too. Could this be lesson number one?”
Her sister smiled gently. “Viola-”
“You said you would teach me how to be a lady, Ser. I am holding you to that.”
“All right. If you wish.”
“I wish.”
“May I join in the project?” Mr. Yale speared a piece of bacon on his fork and peered at it curiously. “I am in desperate need of a refresher on the finer points of noble dining.”
“Mr. Yale, I am quite serious about this.” Viola turned to him. “I don’t want to embarrass my sister or Lord Savege when we go into company.”
He met her with a sincere regard. “And I, Miss Carlyle, am quite serious about assisting you. If it is a lady you wish to appear to society, then a lady you must and shall.”
“Thank you,” she replied for the hundredth time in four days. Except to Jinan Seton. To the man who had insisted her family still wanted her and made her return to England to reunite with them. To the man who had suffered her silly wager and made love to her as she had never known it could be. Who had, simply by being himself, shown her that she would have made a great mistake in marrying Aidan.
The man who had left her without even a word of good-bye.
He deserved no thanks. He was a thorough blackguard. He’d said he did not take that which was not his by right, but he had stolen her heart. Just like a pirate. She owed him nothing. Not even a fond memory.
Once Viola was suitably garbed (and remarkably uncomfortable), Serena and Mr. Yale set about instructing her in a young lady’s accomplishments: drawing, painting, singing, playing, and achieving a smattering of French and Italian. It swiftly became apparent that she must first learn more fundamental tasks.
“I know how to walk. One puts one foot in front of the other.”
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Yale said, drawing her from a chair before the tea table to the center of the terrace. “But when one is a lady, one puts them in front of the other rather less resolutely than one has been accustomed to doing aboard ship. That is, if one wishes to glide across the floor like an angel.”
“Ha!” Viola cracked a laugh. “An angel?”
“Quite. As all will believe you are until they see you trip on your hem or hear you guffaw like that.”
“I didn’t guffaw. Don’t ladies laugh?”
“Of course they do,” Serena offered. “Only they are not supposed to do so with any gusto. A very silly rule if you ask me.”
“It is indeed, but I did not invent it,” Mr. Yale commented. “I am merely acting as a conduit of the foolishness that is English high society.” He grasped Viola’s hand in his quite comfortably strong fingers and stepped away. “Now, Miss Carlyle, if you will walk four paces allowing only two small inches between your forward heel and following toe, I will be gratified.”
“
“To commence.” His silvery eyes twinkled.
“I must learn to walk heel to toe as though I were a girl in some Oriental king’s harem?”
Serena cracked a laugh as loud as Viola’s guffaw.
“Certainly not,” Mr. Yale assured. “We will commence with exaggeration and when that is achieved, relax our standards to suitability.”
“I see.” She took a step.
He shook his head. “That was at least six inches. And ladies do not mention Oriental harems.”
“Or any harems at all, really.” Serena plied needle to embroidery board.
“Two is ridiculous.” Viola stepped again.
“That was five.”
“Changing Maria’s nappies is a great deal more fun than this.”
“Five again.”
“Then
“Ah. Much better. And of course a lady must never lift her skirts above the instep.”
“Is that true, Ser?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Viola ground her molars and stepped forward again.
“She is a quick learner,” Mr. Yale murmured.
“She always was,” Serena replied.
“It is impressive.”
“Truly.”
Viola whistled. “I’m still here.”
“And young ladies must never press themselves into a conversation into which they have not been invited. Or whistle.”
“Young ladies sound like no fun at all.”
“Most of them aren’t.”
Viola made her way back to her chair in mincing steps. With a great sigh she threw herself down into it, scooped up a pastry from the tea tray, and popped it into her mouth, then chewed contentedly. At least the rewards for her hard work were delicious.
After a bit, it seemed very quiet in the parlor. She looked up. Mr. Yale and Serena were both looking at the
