The Glittering Court
Page 17

There, I found a housemaid cleaning. I retreated, not wanting her to see my ineptitude, and instead chose to work in the conservatory. It was unoccupied; the music teacher wouldn’t be here for two days. I unlaced my overdress and settled down on a small sofa. I wriggled out of the voluminous garment and spread the fabric over my knees. It was a light, rose-colored wool, suitable for our late spring weather. It was thicker than the fine silks I’d embroidered, so I randomly chose a larger needle and set to work.
My maids had always threaded my embroidery needles for me, so that alone took time. And once I started sewing, I knew it was hopeless. I didn’t know how to seamlessly mend the tear. My stitches were uneven and badly spaced, creating obvious puckers in the fabric. I paused and stared at it morosely. My regular excuse about being a lady’s maid wouldn’t get me out of this. Maybe I could make up a story about how my abysmal sewing skills had gotten me dismissed.
The sound of the conservatory door opening broke my rumination. I feared someone had come to check on me, but to my astonishment, it was Cedric who entered. Remembering I was in my chemise, I promptly exclaimed, “Get out!”
Startled, he jumped back and nearly obeyed me. Then, curiosity must have won him over. “Wait. Adelaide? What are you doing? Are you . . . are you . . .”
“Half-naked?” I draped the overdress over me. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
He shut the door, looking more curious than scandalized. “Actually, I was going to ask . . . are you sewing? Like with a needle and everything?”
I sighed, irritation overcoming my embarrassment. I wondered what he was even doing here. He’d stopped by the manor only once since my initial arrival. “Can you please go before this situation gets any worse?”
He moved closer, daring a hesitant look at the dress I was clutching to me. The torn part of the skirt hung near my knee, and he knelt down to get a better look. “You are sewing. Or well, something sort of like sewing.”
The dry remark was enough for me to ignore his being so close to my leg. I snatched the torn skirt away from him. “Like you could do any better.”
He straightened up and sat on the couch beside me. “I could, actually. Let me see it.”
I hesitated, unsure of giving up my coverage—or revealing my ineptitude—and then finally handed the dress over. The chemise I’d worn under it was deep blue but still thinner than modesty allowed. I crossed my arms over my chest, angling myself away as best I could while still managing to look over and observe him.
“This is a quilting needle,” he said, pulling out my stitches. “You’re lucky you didn’t tear holes in this.” He replaced the needle with a smaller one and threaded it in a fraction of the time it had taken me. He then folded over the torn fabric and began sewing with neat, even stitches.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I asked reluctantly.
“There are no doting maids at the university. We’ve got to learn to make our own repairs.”
“Why aren’t you there today?”
He paused and glanced up, carefully keeping his eyes trained above my neck. “No classes. Father sent me out to get status reports from here and Dunford Manor.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll have a lot to say about my progress.”
His response was a smile as he returned to his work. His hair was casually unbound today, framing his face in soft auburn waves. “I’m afraid to ask how this happened.”
“Defending Mira’s honor once again.” As I spoke, I realized with a pang what the accusation had been—and his role in it. I had to avert my eyes briefly before turning back to him. “Clara was being typically mean.”
This caused another pause as he looked up with a frown. “Are they still harassing her?”
“Less than they used to, but it’s still going on. She handles it well, though.”
“I’m sure she does,” he said. “She’s got a strong spirit. Not easily broken.”
A strange feeling settled in the pit of my stomach as he returned to his work. There’d been no missing the regard in his voice. A warmth, even. My stomach sank further when he added, “I hope you’ll keep helping her. I’ll worry a lot less if I know she’s got a strong defender. Only a fool would cross you—I certainly wouldn’t.”
I couldn’t take in the compliment. A terrible thought had seized hold of me.
Had Clara been right?
Had Mira gotten here by sleeping with Cedric?
He certainly treated her with more than the indifference one might have toward an acquisition. He admired her and was concerned for her. And Clara was right that bringing her here had been a risk for him. I didn’t want to believe such things about quiet, resilient Mira, who had such pride and strength in her every action.
And I definitely didn’t want to believe it of Cedric.
Studying his profile now, the fine cheekbones and gently curved lips, I felt the unease spread from my stomach, tightening my chest. In my mind’s eye, I had a sudden flash of those lips on my friend, of those deft fingers running through her luxurious hair. I swallowed, trying to push down the inexplicable dismay I felt.
He looked up again, his expression softening as he took in my face. “Hey, it’s going to be all right. This is almost done. No one will know.”
I must have been wearing my emotions, and he’d misunderstood. I lowered my gaze, murmuring a stiff thanks, as opposed to one of the usual biting remarks we so often traded.
“There we are,” he said a few minutes later, holding up the overdress. “As good as new.”
Looking at it, I saw that he was correct. The stitches were barely visible unless you were right next to it. It would hopefully be enough to evade Mistress Masterson’s notice. I took the dress, turning away from him as I pulled it over my head. I was surprised that in so short a time, it had picked up the fleeting scent of the vetiver he wore.
It took me a few minutes to get the ensemble back together, fastening all the tiny pearl buttons on the bodice and smoothing the petticoat to lie flat. Then, of course, came the tedious process of arranging the contrasting chemise so it peeked out properly. When I finally turned around, Cedric was regarding me with amusement.
“Were you watching me get dressed?” I exclaimed.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t see a thing,” he said. “Except how much progress you’ve made in putting on your own clothes. I guess this finishing school is really paying off.”
“Someone should send you to a finishing school,” I retorted as we moved toward the door. “You have no sense of decency.”
“Says the girl who let me come in.”
“I told you to leave! You were the one who ignored me and marched right in anyway, despite the state I was in.”
That easy, confident grin returned. “Don’t worry, it’s easily forgotten.”
“Well,” I said huffily, “it shouldn’t be that easily forgotten.”
“Would you like it better if I say I’ll eventually forget it but not without a great deal of struggle and torment?”
“Yes.”
“Done.”
We parted, and I made my way toward the drawing room, where Mister Bricker gave us lessons about both history and current affairs. The door was ajar, and I lingered outside, reluctant to enter. I didn’t want to be called out for being late. I also didn’t really want to listen to his lecture. He was explaining the Alanzan heresy and its growing concern to the Osfridian church. All good, Uros-fearing people knew that six glorious angels had served the god since the beginning of creation and that six wayward angels had fallen and become demons. The Alanzans worshipped all twelve angels, dark and light alike, putting them on nearly the same level as the great god in bloodthirsty, sordid rituals.