Myrah hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on her brother’s marriage proposal, she’d been snipping flowers for the vase in Mother’s sitting room and found some lovely late-blooming roses behind the bower.
She was bent over, coaxing a particularly reclusive flower from behind its thorny guards when voices had hit her from the raised floor of the pergola above where she crouched. She almost tipped over, into the rose bushes, just catching herself in time and swallowing a squeak at the bite of a branch full of thorns.
It was Rupert, overloud, which meant he was nervous. “Here we are, it’s a lovely spot, isn’t it? Quite my mother’s favourite place on a warm afternoon.”
Their mother hated the outdoors. It was only acceptable when snipped into attractive bouquets and arranged in expensive porcelain vases, well away from the windows.
A woman’s voice answered, lower than Rupert’s but Myrah knew those tones. Miss Gertrude Van Tosen, daughter of a wealthy fabric merchant and reluctant social climber.
Before Myrah had a chance to make her presence known, there was a thump on the pergola floorboards, had someone fallen?
Then Rupert started. “Miss Van Tosen, Gertrude, I know we’ve only known each other these few months, but please, allow me to tell you how much I have grown to respect and admire you in this time. In fact, I believe I have even grown to love you.”
Myrah covered her mouth with the hand not holding the roses. He couldn’t be! How utterly shameless! And poor Miss Van Tosen. Here was the heir to the Count of Maplebury declaring himself, when everyone, simply everyone, knew he was head-over-heels for Lady Lucinda Dartford, he just didn’t have the money.
Miss Van Tosen was wearing very soft shoes, otherwise Myrah would surely have noticed, and been able to hide herself, before the other young woman’s shadow fell across her. Myrah looked up, as Gertrude looked down.
One side of Gertrude’s mouth crooked up in a wry but friendly smile. Myrah grimaced, then, at Rupert’s continued droning, rolled her eyes. Gertrude bit her lip on what sounded suspiciously like the start of a giggle, then turned and said loudly. “Lord Rupert, you are too hasty. I barely know you. This is most improper.”
Rupert blustered something-or-other, and Gertrude replied. “I’m quite overcome, I think I might faint. You should go and fetch help. Immediately.”
She didn’t sound like she was about to faint, but as Rupert’s footsteps thundered into the distance, Myrah unhooked herself from the rose bushes and joined her possible future sister-in-law in the pergola.
Gertrude looked at her. “What do you think I should do?”
Myrah shrugged. “He’s as good as any other, and easy enough to manage, so long as you keep hold of the purse strings.”
The DNA of Stories 