Mirror, page 2
Phoebe beamed at her reflection. “That I look even more beautiful than I did yesterday.”
She gave a delicate snort in reply, earning a glare from Phoebe’s reflection.
“And ever so modest, too,” Artemis added as she pushed herself up from the bed.
Somehow, Phoebe managed to pull herself away from the glass. “It isn’t arrogance if it’s true.”
Artemis was fairly certain that wasn’t the case, and was ready to offer that very opinion, when Phoebe’s expression shifted and a small burst of laughter came out.
“Oh, all right,” Phoebe admitted. “But, look!”
She gestured for Artemis to join her in front of the glass and wound her arm through hers as Artemis reluctantly looked into the mirror. It took her a moment to see it, but Phoebe was right. She was beautiful, even more so than usual. What was more shocking was that they both were.
Seeing her expression, Phoebe couldn’t help but gloat. “See?”
There was something about the mirror that made them both look almost like they were glowing. Artemis knew she wasn’t unattractive, by any means, but she’d never seen herself quite like this.
It was probably just a trick of light, but she wished she looked this good in the mirror at home. She remembered the dark circles under her eyes she’d seen just this morning. And yet, when she stared at her reflection now ….
“Where did you get it?” she asked, trying not to sound overly interested. The mirror was new.
Phoebe shrugged. “Father bought it. Another of his … gifts,” she said as her smile faded and she finally moved away from the glass.
“Oh,” Artemis murmured in understanding.
Whenever Phoebe’s parents had a row, and they’d had some magnificent ones through the years, a series of gifts from her father was sure to follow. The size and value of the gift was always in direct proportion to the size of the quarrel. Looking at the large double-sized cheval glass resting in an ornate mahogany frame, this one must have been … significant.
Phoebe sat down heavily on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” said Artemis, not sure what else to say as she took a seat next to her.
“Don’t be. How else would I have gotten that shopping trip to Paris last year?” Her smile was as false as the indifference in her words. Artemis squeezed her hand in support. That small act of comfort seemed to tug at Phoebe’s repressed emotions.
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” Phoebe continued, but Artemis wasn’t feeling very lucky these days.
“You know how your father feels about you,” she went on, sadness filling her eyes. “Oh, I know my father cares. He just expresses it with … things. But it would be nice, just once, to hear it.”
Artemis's heart clenched. Had Phoebe’s father really never told he loved her? She couldn’t imagine how that would feel. How lonely she’d feel.
Oh, Phoebe.
She squeezed Phoebe’s hand again, starting to say something, but Phoebe took a deep breath and stood, pulling away.
She stepped over to the mirror to compose herself. “We don’t want to be late.”
Phoebe always seemed so happy, so positive; it was painful to see her suffering like this. Perhaps more so because she undoubtedly felt this way far more often than Artemis had realized. She wanted to offer some sort of wisdom or comfort, but it was clear from Phoebe’s posture that the subject was best left for now.
“I’m afraid we already are,” Artemis replied, glancing at the clock. It was nearly five. The tea had begun at four-thirty.
Phoebe gave herself one last look in the glass, her smile genuine and warm again. “Fashionably late is perfectly on time. Never arrive at the start and never linger to the end.”
If only that applied to training.
Normally, Artemis wouldn’t have been anxious to go to the Raycrafts’. Typically, she would have rather stuck needles in her eyes, but normal was a luxury Artemis couldn’t afford anymore. She had to take respite where she could find it, even if that meant finding it at Dulcie Raycraft’s tea.
“Come on,” said Phoebe, handing Artemis her silk reticule. “We mustn’t keep all of this beauty to ourselves.”
Artemis gave her a wry smile. “It is our duty to share.”
Where the Cliftons' home was considered merely fashionable, the Raycrafts' had reached the level of ultra-fashionable, if not quite as exclusive as Piccadilly with its dukes and the odd marquess. As a mere baron, Lord Raycraft had to make due with … this.
The Raycraft mansion, for it could be called nothing else, stood imposingly on a corner of Eaton Place in Westminster, not far from Belgrave Square. Despite the temperate weather, a tall arching awning stretched from the street to the front door, while a wide, deep blue carpet covered the pavement and steps leading to the house.
Heaven forbid someone should touch a speck of dirt, Artemis thought, but stopped herself. She wouldn’t ruin this before it began. While this wasn’t the diversion she would have chosen, it was the one she had, and there was no reason not to make the most it.
Try to enjoy yourself.
A footman assisted Lady Clifton from the carriage, and then Phoebe and herself. Sir Henry tugged his waistcoat back down over his belly then cleared his throat, gesturing for the ladies to precede him up the steps.
Artemis had never been to the Raycrafts' before, and looking at the enormous front door and second footman, she didn’t have to wonder why. The crystal chandelier in the foyer was probably worth more than Artemis's entire home. These were not her people.
Phoebe slipped her arm into Artemis's and gave it a comforting squeeze. Whatever anxiety she felt, Phoebe didn’t share it. She was quite at home in the opulence the Raycrafts enjoyed. Idly, Artemis wondered if she would ever be so or if she even wanted to be.
Sir Henry handed the butler his card and spoke to him briefly in hushed tones. The butler bowed and then called out their names. As he announced their arrival, Artemis was surprised to hear her name called first and suppressed a smile at the image of Mrs. Perry, standing in their front hall, bellowing out her name every time she came home.
After the announcements, they were led into an elegant drawing room where Lady Raycraft and Dulcie’s older sister, Millicent, stood receiving their guests. Dulcie hadn’t come out yet and therefore wasn’t on the receiving line. Thank God.
The drawing room behind mother and daughter was the picture of elegance. The Indian red Wilton carpet that stretched out across the floor countered the moss green walls with elaborate white moulding in the shape of some sort of middle-eastern arch. Yet another crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, the candles and crystal sending a shimmering light reflected in the overmantle mirror.
When it was Artemis’s turn, Lady Raycraft looked at her expectantly.
“Artemis Schäfer,” she said a bit awkwardly, suddenly realizing that they’d never met before.
Lady Raycraft raised a manicured black eyebrow, her eyes appraising Artemis quickly, before offering her hand in a polite but brief grip and turning to her next guest.
“Hello,” Millicent greeted Artemis with a nervous smile.
Where Dulcie was quite beautiful, if one ignored the broken glass that was her personality, her sister by comparison was rather plain looking. Dulcie had apparently inherited her mother’s striking black hair and pale as porcelain complexion, while Millicent must take after her father, with average brown hair and larger than average teeth. She was tall for a woman, and always seemed a little uncomfortable in her own skin. She fidgeted nervously and usually appeared somewhat out of breath even when she wasn’t exerting herself.
“Your dress is lovely,” Artemis said sincerely. It was, truly, but she knew no one else would see beyond the gawkish girl inside it.
Millicent beamed, and in that instant was more beautiful than Dulcie would ever be. “Thank you.”
Artemis gave her another smile and moved out of line to wait for Phoebe. Guests lingered in the drawing room and the adjoining music room.
“All right?” Phoebe asked as she came to her side.
Why could she face demons when the idea of having tea at the Raycrafts’ made her knees wobble? The more she studied her surroundings, the more out of place she felt.
“I don’t belong here. I was only invited because of you.”
Stop it, she chided herself. If she could kill a shade she could manage an afternoon tea.
Phoebe opened her mouth to argue, but Artemis dismissed the topic. “It’s all right. Come on. There’s a scone somewhere with my name on it. Possibly two.”
Phoebe nodded sagely in agreement. They started moving toward the food when Dulcie stepped into their path.
“Phoebe, it’s so good to see you,” she said with a broad smile that faded as she observed Artemis standing next to Phoebe. A mild arching of her eyebrow, just like her mother’s, was the only show of recognition she offered.
The perfunctory acknowledgment was all Artemis merited, apparently, as Dulcie addressed Phoebe again. “Is your brother with you?” She peered with ill-disguised anticipation over Phoebe’s shoulder.
“No, I’m afraid he’s still out of town. Won’t be back until tomorrow.”
Poor David, Artemis thought. After the near disaster with Edwin Grey last month, Rosalind Deighton, the object of David’s affection, had been shipped off by her parents to stay with an aunt in New York. Between that and his injuries, David had taken it all quite hard. After his convalescence, he’d needed time away and was currently traveling somewhere in Switzerland.
“Oh. Well ….” said Dulcie, all enthusiasm for Phoebe evaporating at the news of David’s absence. “Enjoy yourself.”
With another polite smile for Phoebe, and a less than polite glare in Artemis’s direction, she took her leave.
Phoebe fought down a laugh.
“What?” asked Artemis, confused.
“You’re here because of me and I’m here because of him, and he’s the only one who isn’t actually here.”
Artemis snickered. “Lucky him.”
Phoebe took Artemis's arm again, and together they made their way toward the food.
Two scones later, Phoebe had been pulled away by her mother to meet someone, leaving Artemis alone. She searched the room for a conversation to join, but her courage faltered.
You’re the Blaze, she reminded herself. You can do this. You can talk to anyone, even a duke.
If a duke was here, where would he be hiding? Not that she’d recognize one if she saw him. They didn’t wear nameplates, although that would be handy.
Drawn to the sounds of a sonata, Artemis followed the lulling tones of the harp into the music room where small groups gathered in deep conversation. Her confidence wavered once again. Maybe she should start smaller and work her way up to a duke?
She scanned the room again and noticed two older women she recognized conversing near the piano. As good a place to start as any. With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and walked purposefully across the room to join them.
“You mustn’t take it so personally, my dear, Bertie Philpot doesn’t like anyone,” Mrs. Risewell was saying to Mrs. Parlow, a patient of her father’s. “Not even himself.”
Mrs. Parlow laughed quietly before turning her attention to Artemis.
“Hello,” Artemis said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just ….”
What am I “just” doing? How does one insinuate themselves into a conversation?
She stood there awkwardly under Mrs. Parlow’s gaze, butterflies in her stomach, before Mrs. Risewell came to her rescue.
“Hello,” the older woman said with a welcoming smile. “We know each other, don’t we?”
“Artemis Schäfer,” she said. “Yes, well, sort of. I’ve seen you at a few meetings.”
Mrs. Risewell’s eyes brightened. “Yes, that’s it. Of course. The WSPU.”
“Not that again,” said Mrs. Parlow, her expression dour.
“Yes, that again. And,” Mrs. Risewell went on putting an arm around Artemis's shoulder, “it will be young girls like this that finally break the old guard down. Mark my words.”
Parlow appeared unconvinced and displeased at the prospect. Then her pale blue eyes narrowed. “Schäfer. You’re Doctor Schäfer’s girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Her expression softened remarkably.
“Lovely man,” she said, almost dreamily, earning a barely suppressed smile from Mrs. Risewell. “I’ve been meaning to call. I’ve got this terrible pain in my hip, you see?” She touched the offending area and winced.
“Funny, first you’ve mentioned it to me,” remarked Mrs. Risewell.
“I don’t tell you everything,” Mrs. Parlow responded tightly.
“Yes, you do.”
Mrs. Parlow scowled at her friend. “Nonetheless, it’s become bothersome. Do you think it could be serious?”
Artemis opened her mouth and then closed it, finally saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
Mrs. Parlow seemed to realize the absurdity of her question. “No, of course not. You will tell him, though, won’t you?”
Artemis thought that a bit odd. The woman could simply call for an appointment and tell him herself.
“You know, Agnes,” said Mrs. Risewell, “you wouldn’t have so many aches if you got off your duff for more than tea and crumpets once in a while.”
Mrs. Parlow’s eyes flashed with annoyance and a little embarrassment. She was a little plump. Putting her small plate of food aside, she smoothed down the front of her dress. “I am in excellent health, I’ll have you know.”
“You know, you could join us for a march.”
“Pfft. Don’t be absurd, Marjorie.”
“Although I don’t know when the next will be,” Mrs. Riswell said with a soft tittering laugh. “Things have slowed a little since … well, the incident.”
Mrs. Parlow snorted, earning a chiding look from her friend.
“Yes,” Artemis replied, feeling a bit guilty at her role in instigating said “incident.” “It did put a bit of a damper on things.”
That was putting it mildly. Mrs. McPhee and the other suffragettes had wisely taken a lower profile since “the incident” where they’d turned the Autumnal Ball into the Autumnal Brawl and made the front page of every newspaper in town.
Mrs. Risewell squeezed Artemis's shoulder. “Take heart. The movement isn’t dead. Just … resting.”
* * *
After her success with Mrs. Risewell and Mrs. Parlow, Artemis managed to maneuver herself into several more conversational groups. She never did find a duke, but she did talk with the wives of two baronets and even an earl. Surely that added up to a duke? All in all, she was counting the afternoon a success. But it had been a long day.
A yawn overtook her, and she quickly veered away toward the windows, covering her mouth. All she really wanted now was to lie down for a few hours, or a few days.
She searched the room for Phoebe, but she was nowhere to be found. The last time she’d seen her, Phoebe’s mother dragged her off to speak with Lady Withelm. Artemis didn’t think she had any small talk left inside her and had demurred. But now, she was alone again and ready to go home.
All talked out, she gazed through the window to the garden beyond. Perfectly aligned rows of flowers stood at attention in precise flower beds. It was far grander than the Cliftons’, but it didn’t have half the charm. Theirs was a typical English garden, lush and natural. This was more like a military parade. A brigade of crocuses was flanked by two battalions of dahlias as it faced off against a smart-looking division of chrysanthemums.
She could almost picture a rabbit with a monocle striding past them in inspection. The thought made her laugh, but her laughter soon blossomed into another yawn. Not just any yawn either, but a gargantuan, jaw-splitting yawn that she could do nothing to stop.
“Hello?”
Artemis, caught mouth agape, turned her head to see Liam Parker smiling back at her. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but could do nothing to stop the rest of the yawn from coming.
Liam watched her struggle and chuckled in amusement. “I was going to ask if you were enjoying yourself, but ….”
“I’m sorry. I ….” She flushed, and not just from embarrassment. Liam Parker always made her feel off-balance, and today was no exception. He appeared even more dashing than usual in his long frock coat and gray trousers, and she realized that the soft green of his tie perfectly matched the green of his eyes.
“How are you?” she asked, trying to wrangle her voice into some semblance of normality. “I haven’t seen you since ….”
She wasn’t sure what to call the remnants of the Autumnal Ball where they’d last seen each other.
“No, not since …” he echoed, a friendly smile curving his full lips, “whatever that was. I heard you fell ill afterward. I wanted to enquire, but I was called to Paris. I’m pleased to see you appear no worse for the wear.”
Ill is one way to put it. She’d nearly been cut to ribbons by Edwin Grey’s shades and spent several days in bed healing from her wounds.
“Just a bit of a cold. All better,” she replied, holding out her arms to emphasize the point.
Liam took her in with a warm smile. “So I see.”
A new blush stained her cheeks, and she desperately shifted the conversation back to him. “What were you doing in Paris?”
“I was hoping to meet with Ernest Archdeacon. He’s an aviator,” he said, a light coming to his eyes at the subject. “I studied engineering and have a few ideas. I’m sure they’re rubbish, but—”
“I’m sure they’re not.”
It was Liam’s turn to blush, or least duck his head shyly. “Well, it might not matter. I spent two weeks trying to get him to notice me and failed miserably. I did meet another man, though, Blériot, and I think he was interested, at least.”
Artemis loved the way his eyes brightened when he spoke about it all. “That sounds promising.”
He seemed to be hopeful and pleased at his progress, but trying not to show it. “It’ll be an expensive venture, I’m afraid. And I’m on my own on this. My parents think it’s a terrible waste of time and money. That leaves me with plenty of the former and not much of the latter.”
