The Isadora Interviews (The Network Series #1.5)(15)

“What did they look like?”

Perhaps it was old Mr. Rutherford’s boring son, the one who couldn’t even pick out the right kind of necklace. Boring, but an attractive distraction. Someone that her friend Stephany would enjoy.

“She was an old woman,” Abigail said. “With two different-colored eyes.”

“An old woman? Ugh. Maybe I don’t want to wear pearls then.” Priscilla batted them away. “My parents know far too many people. Forget the jewelry. I’m not out to impress an old biddy. Tidy up in here before you come down, Abigail. The blankets need airing.”

Abigail bobbed an awkward curtsy. Priscilla disappeared into the hallway, her shoes lightly tapping on the hardwood floor as she walked.

Spine as straight as a stick. Priscilla repeated her etiquette lessons in her head. Walk carefully. If you’re in the right mindset, you’ll float.

She descended the stairs one at a time to avoid the awkward hassle of not being able to breathe. Perhaps the bold style of this dress would offend whatever old woman had come. Then gossiping tongues would wag throughout Ashleigh and unravel all of Mother’s hard work.

It sounded delightful.

Priscilla Morton wore the most scandalous dress to tea the other day, one of them would say, talking over their tepid tea and porcelain cups. I don’t know how I managed to get through the experience.

“Too late to change now,” she muttered to herself, feeling a shot of gratification.

A quiet exchange of voices stopped when Priscilla came into view. The wide staircase opened into the grand entryway, gilded with gold trim along the walls. She stepped off the last stair and onto the black and white tiled floor. Marble statues of previous Ashleigh coven leaders guarded the walls in stony silence, and candles sat unlit in their golden sconces. The austere elegance had a sharp feel to it, robbing the place of any homey warmth. Priscilla glanced to Mother, whose cool expression left no doubt that she found something wanting. The look quickly disappeared, replaced by Mother’s usual beaming smile.

“There you are!” she said in the soft voice of a gentlewitch. “Priscilla, this is . . .” Mother trailed off, perplexed. She circled around to look at the old woman standing behind her. “I must apologize for my lacking manners. What did you say your name was again?”

The old woman smiled and stepped past Mother.

“I didn’t. Merry meet, Priscilla.”

Priscilla reluctantly took the proffered hand. The hag seemed like someone who had been attractive in her youth but had long since eroded into a mass of bone and wrinkle. Mother positioned herself just behind the visitor and gave Priscilla an arch look.

Be good or deal with me, it said.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Priscilla managed in a warm tone. It met approval, for Mother’s eyebrow lowered. The woman smiled a toothy grin. Her yellow teeth jutted at awkward angles from reddened, swollen gums. Priscilla recoiled but hid it behind a cough.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“I didn’t come for much.” The woman peered around the corner. “Do you have a warm fire? My hands are very cold, even on such a beautiful summer day. It’s terrible getting old, you know. Not that you two would understand. You might as well be sisters!”

“Yes we have a fire,” Mother said, simpering with the flattery. She sent Priscilla a frosty look over the woman’s head.“You’re welcome to sit there as long as you need.”

Surely this woman wandered in off the road with an addled brain, Priscilla thought but kept her thoughts to herself. She’d rather visit with a total stranger than deal with Mother.

“Please,” Priscilla said with the same sweet concern, extending her arm with a warm smile. “Come into our parlor.”

Why she had to escort such a decrepit stranger to sit on their silky white furniture, Priscilla couldn’t fathom. Mother wouldn’t even let the servants sit on the furniture. Why would she let a smelly hag? The worn cloth of the old crone’s dress would leave an eternal stain behind.

“Thank you,” the visitor said, not relinquishing her grip on Priscilla’s hand.

“Please,” Priscilla said. “Have a seat.”

Priscilla chose the mustard-colored chair, the darkest one in the room, but held little hope that it would remain clean. She brushed her hair over her shoulder with a careless wave. What did it matter? Abigail would clean it, not her.

“This is a lovely parlor,” the old woman said, running her eyes over the large painting of Priscilla’s grandfather positioned over the white mantle of the fireplace. It commanded attention and respect. Like all of her family, he had been a very handsome man, with a roguish smile and sparkling eyes. Priscilla imagined she would have liked him, had he lived long enough for her to remember. Flowers the color of sunshine decorated the mantle in white vases. In the middle was a quaint chandelier, which sparkled in the afternoon light.

“We like sitting in here,” Priscilla said, catching a glimpse of her Mother watching from the hall. She turned away so the woman couldn’t see her, and lowered herself into a seat near the stranger. “We sit here often with company. It’s full of light, which makes for the best reading.”

Keep up lively conversation, the internal voice of her Mother demanded. One never knows when one is being assessed.

“That’s a lovely painting,” the visitor said.