The Strange Case of Finley Jayne (Steampunk Chronicles 0.5)(12)

“It’s a good match,” Finley said instead.

“Yes.” There was an element of relief in the word. “It is.” Then she turned her attention to the window, and all conversation came to an end.

The carriage jerked into motion and picked up speed. They were home within a few minutes. Phoebe woke up so quickly and brightly that Finley wondered if the girl had been asleep at all.





CHAPTER FIVE




The next few days were filled with shopping as Lady Morton and Phoebe were determined to see Finley well dressed. She refused to allow them to buy her extravagant clothing, and instead set her mind to simple, well-made garments.

“I’m supposed to be from the country,” she argued. “Country fashion is much more practical than City dress.” She was right, of course, so they gave in. The result was a modest wardrobe of good, modern pieces—nothing too fine or fussy, but nothing so drab that they’d be ashamed to be seen with her in public.

If she needed something superfine, it was agreed that she could borrow something that Phoebe had already worn and alter it. Being raised by a seamstress had its advantages.

But all this shopping and stopping for tea, more shopping, stopping for luncheon and visiting, and then more tea, followed by dinner and an evening at the theater—in Lord Vincent’s box—meant that it was days before Finley had the chance to talk privately with Phoebe, and quite late at night at that.

Before changing into her nightclothes, Finley went to the other girl’s room. She dismissed the young maid for the night, so that she could help Phoebe get ready for bed.

Finley felt as though they had become quite close over the past few days. Perhaps not the best of friends, but at least confidantes. She hadn’t told Phoebe her secret, and the girl hadn’t asked, but Finley definitely felt comfortable around her.

They made small talk for a few moments, talking about the play they’d seen—a production of Oscar Wilde’s The Ideal Husband, which had been equally hilarious and surprisingly serious. Finley had quite enjoyed it.

“May I ask you a question?” Finley asked, as she loosened the laces of Phoebe’s damask corset.

“Only if I may ask one of you,” the girl replied, holding on to one of the posters of her bed. “Good lord, Finley, you’re going to lift me clean off the floor!”

“Sorry.” Sheepishly, Finley gentled her actions. Sometimes she forgot her own strength.

Phoebe smiled over her shoulder. “What is it you wished to ask?”

“Why are you marrying Lord Vincent?”

“How is it you can leap from a second-floor window and not even twist an ankle?”

“Usually how this sort of thing works is that you answer my question before asking your own.”

Phoebe shrugged. “I will answer yours after you answer mine.”

Oh, for pity’s sake. Finley sighed. “I don’t know how I’m able to leap out a window and remain unharmed, only that I can.” It was an honest answer, if a poor one.

Dark eyes narrow, Phoebe turned to face her, popping the hooks in the front of her corset, beneath which her chemise was stuck to her skin. “What else can you do?”

“I agreed to one question,” Finley dodged. “Now you must answer mine. Why are you marrying Lord Vincent? You obviously don’t want to, so why?”

Phoebe glanced away, clenching her jaw in an almost petulant manner.

“Are you going back on our agreement?” Finley demanded.

“I agreed that you could ask me a question. I did not promise to answer it.”

“Oh, that’s honorable of you.” She should keep her mouth shut. This girl was not her social equal. One word to her mother and Finley would be out on the street—again. But she was hurt, insulted and a little pissed. “I tell you something I’ve never told anyone else and you won’t extend the same courtesy. That’s just lovely. Good night.”

She made it perhaps two steps before Phoebe reached out and seized her by the wrist. For a second, Finley was in a poor enough temper that she was tempted to catch the girl’s wrist in her own hand and squeeze until the delicate bones rubbed together.

“Finley, wait.” An expression of real distress crossed her face. “Don’t go. Please.”

With a mulish set to her jaw, Finley turned, relaxing her posture enough that Phoebe dropped her arm. “I’ll stay.”

Phoebe’s thin shoulders sagged. “Good. Why don’t we sit down?”

They sat beside one another on the edge of the bed. Phoebe had slipped into a robe to protect her bare arms from the slight spring chill in the air. Finley waited patiently for her to begin.

Licking her lips, Phoebe tangled her fingers in her lap, thumbs rubbing together nervously. “Surely you noticed that Papa did not attend the theater with us this evening?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought to be honest.”

“No,” Phoebe said softly. “I suppose you wouldn’t. And it’s not as though it’s unusual for an engaged girl and her mother to attend the theater with the girl’s fiancé.”

Finley wouldn’t know what was unusual and what wasn’t with the upper classes—not really. “Did your father’s absence upset you?”

Phoebe’s pale cheeks flushed a deep rose. “No. You asked me why I’m marrying Lord Vincent?”