Page 31 of A Lady's Wager
Elizabeth nodded in the direction of Rachel. “Because Reed Firth seems to have captured the attention of your lucky number thirteen.”
Etta turned her head too fast and had to reach up to hold her wig in place. Rachel was where she’d been a few minutes earlier by the south veranda. A tall young man—too tall for her stout frame—with thick dark hair in need of a trim and barely a polish on his boots, stood closer than he should. Rachel, bless her pleasantly plump heart, was looking at him with complete adoration.
Rachel had not looked at Mr. Rigby like that. Not once. She had not looked at any of the men she’d met here in London with anything near the sheer joy reflecting off her face like the very sun.
“Oh dear,” Etta said, keeping her head steady as she began to make her way through the crowd.
This would never do.
“GOOD EVENING,” ETTA SAID, SLIDINGinto the too-small distance between the young people.
Young Mr. Firth took a polite step backward—he was very young—and Etta kept her eyes fixed on him. She extended her hand, palm down. “Mrs. Colletta Markshire,” she said as he took her hand in the country style and gave a slight bow. She could not nod her acceptance of his courtesy due to the wig, but it was just as well that she keep the intimidation levels high.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Markshire,” he said nervously without meeting her eyes. “Mr. Reed Firth.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Firth,” Etta said with decided coolness. She let the silence hang between the three of them as he released her hand and immediately began to fumble with the button of his coat.
“Mr. Firth is from Shrewsbury,” Rachel said in rushed tones. “Mrs. Markshire is my aunt, Mr. Firth. She is hosting me here in London for all the social events.”
“Ah,” Etta said, still staring at him. “Who introduced the two of you?” Introductions were rather formal affairs here in London made through a shared acquaintance—Etta would have known if someone had introduced them.
“The Firths live near my grandfather’s estate, we have known one another for years.”
“Is that so?”
Another awkward silence descended. Etta did nothing to appease it. She knew that Rachel’s maternal grandparents lived in the far north but did not realize it was Shrewsbury. She did not like being ignorant of such things.
“He is here in London with his sister, Lydia,” Rachel offered. “Though she is not here tonight.”
“And they’ve only arrived now? In late May?” Etta asked, even though Elizabeth had already informed her of these details.
“Well, they spent some time in Manchester—there are some social events there this time of year as well—but now they are in London for the duration.”
“Hmmm.”
Mr. Firth took another step back and ran a nervous hand through his overgrown hair, still looking at everything except her, which only emphasized how out of place he was. No refinement at all. “Well, I should, um, go. It was wonderful to see you again, Miss Johnson.”
“As it was to see you, Mr. Firth. Please give my regards to Lydia, I hope her health improves.”
He nodded again, then turned without saying good night to Etta. Country manners were not very charming, in her opinion. As he walked away, she could see the similarities between him and his father—handsome, thick-haired, and so very country.
Etta smoothly put Rachel’s arm through hers and turned toward the back of the room where they could walk together. For the moment the wig was holding its place well enough so that she could divide her attention between both troublesome issues of the evening.
“Tell me about your acquaintance with that young man,” Etta said, smiling at a friend who caught her eye but not slowing her steps or nodding a hello.
“As I said, he lives near my grandfather’s estate. The families dine together and, well, we would go walking sometimes.”
“Walking?”
“Through the woods there. To the village.”
“And when you say we, do you mean Lydia and yourself?”
“A-And Reed. Sometimes.”
“Reed? You are so familiar as to use his Christian name?”
She glanced sideways enough to see Rachel’s cheeks redden—she was too young for face powder, but then most of the young people were forgoing such things. “I mean Mr. Firth, of course. Manners are different in the country.”
