The Strange Case of Finley Jayne
Page 7

“Am I late?” Finley asked. She was just putting on the earrings Phoebe had loaned her. In fact, everything she wore except for her undergarments was on loan from Phoebe.
“No, I’m early,” the girl replied, pearls shining in her thick, upswept hair. “I’ve been assured by many of my friends that constant punctuality is a failure of the worst kind.”
Finley smiled at the humor in her voice. “Are most of your friends constantly late?”
Phoebe returned the grin. “Exactly! You look lovely, by the way.”
“Thank you.” Finley blushed. She wasn’t used to compliments, and she wasn’t accustomed to wearing such beautiful gowns as the deep plum silk one she wore now. It made her eyes brighter—like the amber her mother compared them to. The color brought out the honey in her hair, as well, which she had always thought of as plain dark blond.
“You’re stunning,” she told the other girl. Most debutantes wore pale colors, but Phoebe was dressed in a rich peach that really made her green eyes stand out.
“Thank you. One of the perks to being an engaged woman is that now I don’t have to wear pastels all the time.”
Finley shuddered at the thought. She adjusted the earring and rose from her dressing table. “Have you been engaged for long?”
“Just a fortnight,” Phoebe replied. “Hold on, you’ve got a loose pin.” Finley watched in the mirror as the girl walked behind her and attended to her hair. She didn’t even wince when her would-be maid shoved a pin deeper into her coiffure.
“There.” The paler girl admired her work with a faint smile. “Now you’re gorgeous. All the eligible gentlemen at the party will line up to dance with you.”
“Not me,” Finley argued. “I’m just a companion.”
Phoebe’s smile faded, only to come back twice as bright—and a little forced. “Didn’t Mama tell you? We’re telling everyone that you’re my cousin from the country. No one will know you’re not filthy rich or connected.”
A wave of dizziness washed over Finley. For a moment, she felt that other part of her struggle to come to the surface, but she pushed it back down. “Why would you do that?”
Phoebe frowned. “I’m not certain. It was Mama’s idea. I reckon she thought we wouldn’t look so pretentious if it seemed that you were family. Since I’m engaged I no longer need constant chaperoning, so perhaps she simply wants someone watching over me at all times. I’m not certain what sort of trouble she thinks I’ll get myself into.”
Finley almost suggested she ask her mother, but then thought the better of it. Phoebe’s relationship with her mama was none of her business.
“I suppose being from the country will provide an excuse for any ignorance I might have for proper social behavior.”
Phoebe waved her hand. “You have more manners than most lords and ladies I’ve met. Trust me.”
Finley did, oddly enough. She didn’t think Phoebe or her mother were trying to harm her in any way, but the entire situation was very strange. She suspected there was more to it than either she, or Phoebe had been told.
“We’d best take ourselves downstairs,” Phoebe remarked with a glance at the clock on the mantel. “Mama will be waiting.”
Dutifully, Finley followed after the girl, despite the lump in her stomach. How on earth was she to pretend she was of the upper class? To be sure, Silas and her mother had instilled good manners in her, and her vocabulary was such that she could certainly speak properly, but she had no idea what that sort of life was like, outside of observing it. She had more of a “mongrel” look to her than aristocratic features—a fact she was more often happy for than not, as some nobles seemed to have been bred out of having any chin to speak of.
Well, there was no getting out of it. She would just have to do as well as she could and hope for the best.
Phoebe had been right, her mother was indeed waiting for them, along with the butler, whose name Finley couldn’t remember, if she’d been told at all. He helped first Lady Morton, then Phoebe and finally Finley into their wraps. Hers was yet another loan from Phoebe.
“Thank you, Tolliver,” Lady Morton said with a smile. She wore tinted spectacles that partially concealed her odd eye. “We will be home by four at the latest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed. “Have a lovely evening, ladies.” Then he opened the door so that the three of them could march out into the cool night air. A footman stood by the carriage to hand them in one by one.
As the carriage gingerly lurched into motion, Finley held her clenched hands in her lap and drew deep, even breaths. She could do this. All she had to do was follow Phoebe’s example and behave as she did. It would be easy.
So long as she never left Phoebe’s side.
It was a short drive to their destination, which was but a few streets away. The metal horses that pulled them moved faster than their flesh-and-blood counterparts. Finley couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a coach such a short distance when she had two feet perfect for walking.
That was exactly the sort of observation she had to remember to keep to herself. Aristocrats did not walk to social events.
As they stepped from the carriage, Finley took a deep breath. There were familiar scents in the air—the smell of real horses, of heated metal, of steam and grass—that calmed her pounding heart somewhat. Relief flooded through her as the anxiety waned. Intense emotions were not conducive to keeping control of herself. The darkness inside her loved to come out at those times.