“Genevieve.” The spoon emerged, containing chocolate ice cream. “How may I help?”
“What are you doing back here?” Genevieve asked, confused. This had become Esmie’s unofficial engagement ball, after all. The rules of etiquette were quite strict, and Genevieve was sure they didn’t involve the bride-to-be hiding in a kitchen eating ice cream. “I’m sure everyone would like to congratulate you in person. And, congratulations.”
Esmie shrugged, a slender shoulder briefly emerging from and then disappearing back into a mountain of truly horrid orangish lace. “I wanted some ice cream. And as Mother won’t let me have any, I came here to be alone.”
If anything, Genevieve was even more confused. “Why are you not to have ice cream?”
Esmie looked her straight in the eye. “Mother doesn’t want me to gain weight,” she deadpanned.
Genevieve regarded her dubiously. It would take gallons and gallons of ice cream, eaten every day straight for ten years, to make Esmie Bradley into anything close to plump, let along large. One could hardly tell what her body looked like under the layers of terrible clothes she typically wore, but it was obvious she was unfashionably slim, with seemingly no curves on her slight—one could almost label it skinny—frame.
Truth be told, the girl could stand to eat quite a bit of ice cream.
“Is she truly worried?” Genevieve asked delicately, not wishing to offend.
Esmie shrugged again. “I was a plump child. Mother didn’t seem to care when we lived in Montana. But once we moved here, she became so concerned with fitting in … well, curvy is certainly fashionable, but being too plump is not.” She took another bite and closed her eyes in apparent bliss. Keeping her eyes closed, she murmured around a mouthful, “Mother doesn’t really do things in half measures.”
“I’ve noticed,” Genevieve responded, hiding her astonishment at the other girl’s behavior. This was more than she’d ever heard Esmie say at one time since, well … ever. Esmie opened her eyes and resumed eating her ice cream in a slightly more restrained manner. “May I ask—why didn’t Polly Palmer write about the theft of Sarah Huffington’s ring? It would have made sense, seeing as how you were at the ball.”
Genevieve’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know I’m Polly Palmer?”
Esmie favored her with a glance just short of withering. “Everyone knows.”
It wasn’t scandalous, her job, nor secret—women had been writing for the magazines since the 1830s—but it was unconventional for someone of her social status, and it did cause gossip. Ah well, let them gossip. Genevieve realized Esmie was looking expectantly at her for an answer, spoon paused in waiting.
“My editor wouldn’t let me,” she admitted, still feeling the sting of being passed over for the job.
Esmie nodded sympathetically and turned her attention back to her bowl. “Did you see her parading about tonight? Wearing crimson, of all colors.” She took another spoonful and kept the utensil in her mouth for a moment longer than was really polite.
Bewildered, Genevieve asked, “Who are we discussing?”
“Sarah Huffington, of course. She seems to be milking the attention around the theft for all it’s worth, flirting with every gentleman present. Eligible or not.” Esmie scraped her spoon against the bottom of the silver bowl, the sound causing Genevieve to wince.
Oh. Sarah Huffington and Rupert were friendly. Perhaps this was a display of jealousy?
“I thought Sarah was rather well entangled with Ernest Clark,” Genevieve ventured. “That’s what the Hood’s letter said …”
Esmie nodded, tapping her spoon against her lips once. “Oh yes. For some months now. That was hardly news.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Genevieve admitted. She refrained from mentioning that Eliza and Callie had seemed unaware of the affair as well.
“It was obvious to anyone who paid attention. You should get out more, Genevieve, if you wish to remain a journalist.” As Genevieve reeled slightly from this sharp bit of advice, Esmie’s manner softened. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”
Esmie walked to the far end of the room, where a large steel sink sat, and began washing her bowl. “The benefits of being a wallflower,” she explained over her shoulder, wiping the interior of the bowl with a cloth. “Nobody sees you. You blend in. But you see.”
She turned, wiping her hands neatly on the cloth before hanging it on a peg and placing the bowl in an open cupboard above the sink. All evidence of the ice cream was erased.
“You see everything.” Esmie tilted her head and gave Genevieve a long, appraising look. “I know all kinds of secrets.”
Unexpected gooseflesh suddenly prickled Genevieve’s arms. She cleared her throat uncertainly. “My friend Callie said she saw you at Mrs. Brown’s recently.”
“Yes, I decided to get my own costume for the Porters’ upcoming fancy dress ball.” Esmie raised her chin a notch, unconsciously mimicking the stance Genevieve had seen her mother hold in the study a few moments prior. The gooseflesh intensified. “Are you planning to attend?”
“I hadn’t planned on it, no.”
“You should have seen the monstrosity Mother wanted me to wear. The costume of a kitten. Bands of white fur, some of it fashioned into a tail”—Esmie gestured toward her nether regions, blushing—“and a headdress consisting of an actual stuffed cat.”
“Oh.” There really wasn’t anything Genevieve could add. It sounded horrific.
“I would be a bigger laughingstock than usual. I told Mother the bookstore was holding the new Stevenson novel for me, and I went to Mrs. Brown’s instead.” Her chin rose higher. “I wasn’t sure they’d accommodate me, as I had no appointment. But Mrs. Brown was very kind.”
Genevieve nodded, glad to hear the cat costume would not be making an appearance at the ball.
“Maybe you could accompany me to Mrs. Brown’s sometime?” Emsie continued in a tentative voice. “I need new clothes. Mother has always picked them. Now that I’m to be a countess, I should like to choose my own. Different colors. Styles that allow for more movement. I should quite like to try a bicycle, come spring,” Esmie’s gaze drifted wistfully toward the
