As soon as they entered the house, Whitney mumbled an excuse and fled to her room where she flopped dejectedly into a chair and morosely contemplated the humiliating scene Paul had just witnessed, with her father jerking her ignominiously off her horse and then shouting at her. No doubt her aunt and uncle were as horrified and revolted by her behavior as her father had been, and her cheeks, burned with shame just thinking of how they must despise her already.
"Whitney?" Emily whispered, creeping into the bedroom and cautiously closing the door behind her. "I came up the back way. Is your father angry?"
"Cross as crabs," Whitney confirmed, staring down at her trousered legs. "I suppose I ruined everything today, didn't I? Everyone was laughing at me, and Paul heard them. Now that Elizabeth is seventeen, he's bound to offer for her before he ever has a chance to realize that he loves me."
"You?" Emily repeated dazedly. "Whitney Stone, Paul avoids you like the plague, and well you know it! And who could blame him, after the mishaps you've treated him to in the last year?"
"There haven't been so many as all that," Whitney protested, but she squirmed in her chair.
"No? What about that trick you played on him on All Soul's-darting out in front of his carriage, shrieking like a banshee, and pretending to be a ghost, terrifying his horses."
Whitney flushed. "He wasn't so very angry. And it isn't as if the carriage was destroyed. It only broke a shaft when it overturned."
"And Paul's leg," Emily pointed out.
"But that mended perfectly," Whitney persisted, her mind already leaping from past debacles to future possibilities. She surged to her feet and began to pace slowly back and forth. "There has to be a way-but short of abducting him, I-" A mischievous smile lit up her dust-streaked face as she swung around so quickly that Emily pressed back into her chair. "Emily, one thing is infinitely clear: Paul does not yet know that he cares for me. Correct?"
"He doesn't care a snap for you is more like it," Emily replied warily.
"Therefore, it would be safe to say that he is unlikely to offer for me without some sort of added incentive. Correct?"
"You couldn't make him offer for you at the point of a gun, and you know it. Besides, you aren't old enough to be betrothed, even if-"
"Under what circumstances," Whitney interrupted triumphantly, "is a gentleman obliged to offer for a lady?"
"I can't think of any. Except of course, if he has compromised her-absolutely not! Whitney, whatever you're planning now, I won't help."
Sighing, Whitney flopped back into her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her. An irreverent giggle escaped her as she considered the sheer audacity of her last idea. "If only I could have pulled it off… you know, loosened the wheel on Paul's carriage so that it would fall off later, and then asked him to drive me somewhere. Then, by the time we walked back, or help arrived, it would be late at night, and he would have to offer for me." Oblivious to Emily's scandalized expression, Whitney continued, "Just think what a wonderful turnabout that would have been on a tired old theme: Young Lady abducts Gentleman and ruins his reputation so that she is forced to marry him to set things aright! What a novel that could have made," she added, rather impressed with her own ingenuity.
"I'm leaving," Emily said. She marched to the door, then she hesitated and turned back to Whitney. "Your aunt and uncle saw everything. What are you going to say to them about those trousers and the horse?"
Whitney's face clouded. "I'm not going to say anything, it wouldn't help-but for the rest of the time they are here, I'm going to be the most demure, refined, delicate female you've ever seen." She saw Emily's dubious look and added, "Also I intend to stay out of sight except at mealtimes. I think I'U be able to act like Elizabeth for three hours a day."
Whitney kept her promise. At dinner that night, after her uncle's hair-raising tale of their life in Beirut where he was attached to the British Consulate, she murmured only, "How very informative, Uncle," even though she was positively burning to ply him with questions. At the end of her aunt's description of Paris and the thrill of its gay social life, Whitney murmured, "How very informative, Aunt." The moment the meal was finished, she excused herself and vanished.
After three days, Whitney's efforts to be either demure or absent had, in fact, been so successful that Anne was beginning to wonder whether she had only imagined the spark of fire she'd glimpsed the day of their arrival, or if the girl had some aversion to Edward and herself.
On the fourth day, when Whitney breakfasted before the rest of the household was up, and then vanished, Anne set out to discover the truth. She searched the house, but Whitney was not indoors. She was not in the garden, nor had she taken a horse from the stable, Anne was informed by a groom. Squinting into the sunlight, Anne looked around her, trying to imagine where a fifteen-year-old would go to spend all day.
Off on the crest of a hill overlooking the estate, she spied a patch of bright yellow. "There you are!" she breathed, opening her parasol and striking out across the lawn.
Whitney didn't see her aunt coming until it was too late to escape. Wishing she had found a better place to hide, she tried to think of some innocuous subject on which she could converse without appearing ignorant. Clothes? Personally, she knew nothing of fashions and cared even less; she looked hopeless no matter what she wore. After all, what could clothes do to improve the looks of a female who had cat's eyes, mud-colored hair, and freckles on the bridge of her nose? Besides that, she was too tall, too thin, and if the good Lord intended for her ever to have a bosom, it was very late in making its appearance.
Weak-kneed, her chest heaving with each labored breath, Anne topped the steep rise and collapsed unceremoniously onto the blanket beside Whitney. "I-I thought I'd take … a nice stroll," Anne lied. When she caught her breath, she noticed the leather-bound book lying face down on the blanket and, seizing on books as a topic of conversation, she said, "Is that a romantic novel?"
"No, Aunt," Whitney demurely uttered, carefully placing her hand over the title of the book to conceal it from her aunt's eyes.
"I'm told most young ladies adore romantic novels," Anne tried again.
"Yes; Aunt," Whitney agreed politely.
"I read one once but I didn't like it," Anne remarked, her mind groping for some other topic that might draw Whitney into conversation. "I cannot abide a heroine who is too perfect, nor one who is forever swooning."
Whitney was so astonished to discover that she wasn't the only female in all of England who didn't devour the insipid things, that she instantly forgot her resolution to speak only in monosyllables. "And when the heroines aren't swooning," she added, her entire face lighting up with laughter, "they are lying about with hartshorn bottles up their nostrils, moping and pining away for some faint-hearted gentleman who hasn't the gumption to offer for them, or else has already offered for some other, unworthy female. / could never just lie there doing nothing, knowing the man I loved was falling in love with a horrid person." Whitney darted a glance at her aunt to see if she was shocked, but her aunt was regarding her with an unexplainable smile lurking at the corners of her eyes. "Aunt Anne, could you actually care for a man who dropped to his knees and said, 'Oh Clarabel, your lips are the petals of a red rose and your eyes are two stars from the heavens'?" With a derisive snort, Whitney finished, "That is where I would have leapt for the hartshorn!"