Anya’s mother handed back the square of embroidered linen. “Adequate.”
That was high praise indeed, Lady Fitzgerald didn’t believe in excessive praise, or excessive anything really.
Anya took the handkerchief. “Thank you, Mother.”
“You need to excel in your accomplishments, Anya, if you’re to have any chance of holding a young man’s attention. You have enough competition here with Piety St. Clair, there will be many prettier, and more educated, girls in London.”
“I suppose Piety’s good practice then.”
Lady Fitzgerald frowned. “Your language is becoming distressingly casual and… gossipy. You are a Fitzgerald, you are above such bourgeois behaviour.”
As if Mother didn’t gossip worse than an old hen with her cronies. Anya bobbed a curtsey. “My apologies, Mother, it’s distressingly easy to slip into the local way of speaking when there is no one of suitable station to converse with.”
It probably should have been ‘which whom to converse’ but getting it wrong reinforced what Anya hoped was a subtle hint.
Her mother’s lips pinched, just a little, a lady’s countenance should remain smooth and serene at all times. “I see. Perhaps it would be useful to spend some time in Bath before your debut. It should provide you with opportunities for suitable conversations.”
She turned back to her letters, and Anya curtseyed again before gliding elegantly from the room.
As soon as the door closed, she picked up her skirts and ran for her room, calling to her maid as she entered. “Mary? I suddenly feel the need for a ride. Could you send someone to the stables to saddle Gingerbread, and help me change?”
Mary chuckled as she rang the bell by Anya’s bed. “Talked your mama into taking you to Bath did you? I hate to think of the mischief you and Miss Piety will be up to once we’re there.”
The DNA of Stories 