Pencils and Propriety by Regina Reed

Author:Regina Reed [Reed, Regina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-24T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

As Daphne stepped out of the church, she tightly drew her shawl. While it was not cold, the haven shade offered from the summer heat had been transformed by the crisp gusts of September. Settling against the sunny side of a tree, balmy rays drove the chill away. Its wide trunk sheltered her from the breeze.

While she had found the neighborhood genteel enough, she had not found it welcoming. And why would it be? She was a governess, a reminder of women’s dependency. After all, had she not once sat in the first pew? No, she could not expect more than polite curtseys and the occasional, “How do you do?” To admit her into their acquaintance would be to stare at society's failings—to face a structure that would not permit intelligent women to be more than dependents or servants.

The tattle of neighborhood gossips tickled her ears. She pressed against the tree.

“Miss Howell is a lovely child, is she not?” the parson’s wife, Mrs. Smith, spoke.

The second voice was that of a Mrs… bother, her name failed Daphne, yet she could picture her beak-like nose and elongated face.

“She is, indeed. Though I must confess, I see little of her father in her.” Mrs. Busybody—for that is what Daphne had named her—broke off. They bid good day to a troupe of passing neighbors. “As I was saying, of late, I see more of her uncle in her.”

“No,” replied her companion in a tone indicating she would welcome rather than repulse such blatant conjecture.

“Yes. I have it on good authority that he was desperately in love with her mother and intended to propose.”

As though the parson’s wife had read Daphne’s mind, she asked, “Did she reciprocate his affections?”

“Well.” Mrs. Busybody hesitated. Daphne envisioned her leaning in as a malicious scowl further disfigured her appearance. “Perhaps she did. Perhaps she didn’t. All I know is that Auriela looks more like his daughter than his niece.”

At those words, Daphne did not recall the lesson a stableboy had once given her on how to throw a punch, nor did she distinctly remember his warning against tucking her thumb. A tried-and-true method for removing blood stains from muslin did, however, occur to her. She hoped she’d have a reason to share this valuable piece of knowledge with Mrs. Busybody in the near future.

Mrs. Smith picked up the conversation. “It looks as though he is ready to move on.”

Daphne strained her ear, willing the leaves to be silent and stop their rustling.

“Indeed.” A vision of Mrs. Busybody scanning the area for eavesdroppers formed in Daphne’s mind. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Haverly House had a new mistress within two months’ time.”

“Perhaps my husband will be called upon to christen their infant within eight.” Both women cackled.

As the sound of their chatter faded, Daphne slid around the trunk to admire the view from the other side and not to escape detection. The scents and sounds around her faded.

Since her father's death, Daphne had known grief, poverty, and distress. She had been forced from her home by people who shared her name.

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