Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Lord by Celeste Connally

Author:Celeste Connally
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

SEVENTEEN

Petra found herself walking, without a companion and without a true sense of her direction. Irritation that she had not been able to retrieve whatever Arabella had thrown out the window made her walk quickly, in a way that would not be considered ladylike if anyone were watching. How would she go about finding the object without being seen, or questioned?

Her mind was filled with so many questions, she hardly knew what to do but to simply keep moving. When she finally looked around to get her bearings, she found she had not walked in the direction of Caroline’s house but instead turned onto Jermyn Street. Carriages abounded, and people were on the pavement, going in and out of shops, yet the number was few in comparison to places like Oxford Street.

A few steps away, Petra caught the words on the window of one shop. Bardwell’s Apothecary. Two women were exiting, chattering away to each other as they stopped in front of the latest broadsheet affixed to the window and adjusted their bonnets and gloves.

“I must say,” said one as Petra came upon them and looked into the window, “that Miss Bardwell does have a way with herbs and plants. This cream is but a miracle at easing the pains in my joints. I don’t know what she puts into it—marshmallow, for one, I think—but it is rather worth the eight pence.”

“Mmm,” said the other with a sour expression. “I do agree, but it is a shame.”

“What is a shame, Ermintrude?”

“Well, you saw her, did you not?”

“Miss Bardwell, you mean? But of course I did, Ermintrude. She assists me each time I am in the apothecary. A fine girl. Bit shy and reticent unless talking about her tinctures and whatnot, but very intelligent and pretty. A credit to Sir Bartie, I am certain.”

The second woman, Ermintrude, sniffed. “But Violet, you must have noticed.”

The first woman, Violet, made an exasperated noise. “Noticed what, Ermintrude? I cannot read your mind, so you must speak plainly.”

“Well, her mama is from Spain,” said Ermintrude.

The first woman seemed unconcerned. “Yes, I noticed her darker complexion and dark eyes. What of it? My Mr. Dimsdale is much the same, and I know his parentage from four generations back. He’s as English as you and I. Plus, the Spaniards are a lovely lot. Even King Henry the Eighth took one as his bride. His first bride, at least.”

“Queen Catherine was not a Moor, though, Violet,” Ermintrude said darkly. “But a good Christian Spaniard.”

Violet tutted. “And why would you think Miss Bardwell’s mama was a Moor? Preposterous.”

“Did you not see how the girl wrote down notes to herself? In those funny squiggles?” Ermintrude insisted.

“Indeed. Looked like stenography to me. My brother uses it to catalog his notes on the birds he watches. Says it’s faster than writing the whole word.”

“It is not stenography, though. Lady Bardwell writes that way as well, even though she speaks Spanish to her daughter. It is the way those who practice Islam as their religion write.

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