Despite the amber tone of Abra’s skin, it paled.
“Lord Martindale can’t hurt me. Not any longer. Lord Ruskin…” Her voice trailed off.
“Has he asked you yet?” Geneva spoke gently.
Abra’s eyes widened, but then welled with tears. “No,” she whispered. “How did you—”
“Hannah mentioned yesterday before you arrived. We were finishing up the Education Reform article. She said a date had been selected.”
Her eyes dropped to her lap, where her fingers interlocked so tightly, her knuckles lightened. “Perhaps he’s decided on another.” Her friend suffered from a belief of inadequacy in her social status. Completely invalid concerns in Geneva’s view.Abra never considered how her hazel eyes evoked her father’s heritage and how proudly he viewed his daughter, daring anyone to speak ill of her. The man was a crack shot with a musket and a pistol and swords.
Something Geneva’s own father would never have considered. Even sober. He’d just waved his emptied bottles of gin about then fallen over in the process.
Abra’s lips firmed again. The stubbornness unfamiliar to those who didn’t know her well, orchosenot to know her well, set in. “We’re staying. Stepmother hates leaving London.” But she didn’t sound so sure and surveyed the chamber, effectively avoiding Geneva.
Geneva followed her gaze around the lovely room with its paper of pale blue, sprinkled about with posies of pink, that reminded one of a summer day in Hyde Park. The coverlet was snow white and covered with fluffy pillows.
Geneva hugged her. “All right, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” With a small smile, the tension faded from Abra’s shoulders. She speared Geneva with her usual pragmatism. “How shall we go about locating your medallion?”
Geneva stood and scowled. “I certainly can’t mention it.” She pursed her lips. “Mr. Oshea seems a reasonable enough man. Perhaps I can casually show him Mama’s half-written note and go from there.” She strolled over and looked inside Abra’s case. Then, testament to the friends they were, Geneva pulled out Abra’s jewelry box as well as her silver-handled brush, a wide-tooth comb, matching mirror, and arranged them atop the vanity.
Abra rose and went to the vanity. She straightened the already straightened hair instruments then turned to Geneva with an air of excitement shining from her eyes. “So what shall we do first to find your locket?”
“Don’t be daft,LadyAbra. There is nowe, my dear. You know your stepmother is gnashing her teeth to acquire Martindale for you. Bah, I should just toss in the proverbial towel and crawl back to London. It’s just a shame I haven’t the temperament for it.”
“At least you admit it.” Abra grinned. “All right. Let’s enter the lion’s den. See what we are up against.”
“Sooner rather than lateris my usual adage,” Geneva agreed.
They moved to the sitting room and Abra leaned in Pasha’s chamber. “We’ll return shortly, Pasha. Mr. Oshea has promised hot water.”
Geneva waited for Abra then led the way through to the main corridor. “I wonder what’s down that hall.” She spoke in a low, barely audible tone.
Excitement shimmered between them reminiscent of their school days. Missing only were Hannah and Meredith.
“Let’s look,” Abra whispered back.
Curiosity drove Geneva and she nodded. Together, they followed the length of the hall to a set of double doors. Geneva set her ear against it, but all was silent. She glanced at Abra with a small smile, but her friend, even with a small shake of her head, knew Geneva’s largest failing was her obstinate way and curiosity that kept her in trouble more than out. Geneva clasped the latch and pushed down.
Abra gasped and Geneva shushed her.
For such an old castle that from the outside looked so dilapidated, it appeared ready to fall around their ears, the door didn’t squeak when she pushed it inward. Geneva peered inside. In the corner, a pianoforte of mahogany polished to perfection with graceful cabriole legs tied by brass casters sat on a raised platform. It’s awfully huge for a music room,” she whispered. The one at Miss Greensley’s wasn’t near this size.
Large, mullioned windows with triangular, metal strips covered the far wall from the ceiling down to hip level. Beneath them was a cushioned bench that stretched the full length of the wall. Enormous mirrors rather than artwork graced the other walls. Overhead, ornate moldings edged the ceiling and an old-fashioned chandelier held some fifty unlit candles. They were currently unneeded, as the rain had stopped and the sun reappeared in its hazy glow.
“Don’t—”
Ignoring her timid companion, Geneva stepped inside, awed by the chamber’s vastness. “This must be the music room.”
Abra’s muffled huff and light footsteps followed Geneva. “No. It’s a ballroom. Much larger than those I’ve attended in London,” she said in a hushed tone.
“How can you tell?”
Abra pointed to a raised recessed area. “That’s the musicians’ gallery—so they don’t interfere with the dancing.”
“Goodness. They host balls here?” Geneva’s voice seemed to echo and bound against all those mirrors.
