Whispering Twilight: The Extraordinaries, #4

By Melissa McShane

PERU, 1815. Bess Hanley, fresh from service with England's War Office and grieving the loss of her dearest friend, embarks on a sea voyage that ends in disaster. Shipwrecked off the coast of Peru, Bess's Extraordinary ability to mentally communicate with anyone is not enough to prevent her from being kidnapped by a lost tribe of Incas.

 

An Inca Seer's prophecy that Bess will help the Incas regain their dominance over South America tangles Bess in a political struggle that may mean her death. With the help of her Speaker friends, a mysterious Inca warrior woman, and a man who keeps his identity secret, Bess will try to stop a war—and fall in love with a man she has never met.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melissa McShane
• Release date: Jan 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781949663549

Melissa McShane

Melissa McShane is the author of the novels of Tremontane, beginning with SERVANT OF THE CROWN, the Extraordinaries series beginning with BURNING BRIGHT, the Last Oracle series beginning with THE BOOK OF SECRETS, and COMPANY OF STRANGERS, first in the series of the same title. She lives in Utah with her husband, four children, one niece, and three very needy cats. She wrote reviews and critical essays for many years before turning to fiction, which is much more fun than anyone ought to be allowed to have.

Book preview

Chapter 1

In which Bess makes a new acquaintance and is rudely Spoken to

In winter, the Hainsworths’ manor smelled, not of roses from Mrs. Hainsworth’s garden, but of floor polish and the sharp, nose-tickling scent of pine boughs. Bess inhaled deeply, welcoming the familiar smell that told her where she was better than her impaired eyesight could. To her, the grand entrance hall much farther than five feet away was a smear of white walls and the darker swirl of stairs ascending to the first floor. She adjusted her spectacles, which were smoked glass lenses that brought nearer objects better into focus and protected her weak eyes against the bright light of the lamps hanging from the ceiling. The effect was of a perpetual twilight, but Bess had long since ceased to rail against her misfortune.

A tingling in her temples warned her that she was being Spoken to, seconds before Eleanora Gates Spoke, I wish you were in London tonight. My house is full of guests and you would be so entertained!

I intend to be entertained where I am, Bess replied. Though I appreciate your thoughtfulness. The connection between them felt like a quivering bundle of filaments, intangible but glowing with a light only Bess could perceive.

It is all selfishness. I have not seen you in person in nearly five years. You should come to London for the season.

It is a possibility. Bess’s hand rested lightly on her father’s arm, though she was adept enough at maneuvering that she did not truly need his guidance. The cloth of his greatcoat was rough under her sensitive fingertips. That, too, was a touch of the familiar, grounding her solidly in the here and now. Excuse me, I believe our hostess is approaching. She ended the connection to Eleanora, letting the glowing filaments dull and shrivel, and felt the brief hollow ache in her chest that was the aftereffect of a Spoken conversation.

A man-sized blur of emerald green drew near, became Mrs. Hainsworth, her grey hair escaping its coiffure in wisps that gave her a silver halo. Squire Hanley, Mrs. Hanley, welcome, she said. She extended a hand to Bess. "And dear Miss Hanley. You are most welcome. Have you been home long?"

Two weeks, Mrs. Hainsworth, Bess said. I am glad to be back.

You must have had so many adventures in India! How dull our company must seem by comparison.

Not at all. Bess closed her hand more securely on her father’s arm. I missed my family and all my friends.

Her temples once again tingled, and Honoria Devereaux Spoke, Are you at the dance yet? I insist you tell me of your partners just as Mrs. Hainsworth said, Well, there are many here who wish to renew their acquaintance with you, and I do hope you will enjoy yourself.

Thank you, Mrs. Hainsworth, Bess said. To Honoria, she replied, We have only just arrived, and I cannot believe you are so unoccupied as to need the details of this evening.

Mr. Clendennan is not here this evening, and I am at loose ends, Honoria said.

Well, I cannot dance and Speak to you at the same time, Bess teased, and if your husband-to-be deserts you, you will have to find other employment.

Her father shifted his weight slightly, enough that Bess could tell he intended to move, and she let him guide her down the short, well-lit hallway to the Hainsworths’ ballroom.

Very well, Honoria said, but I expect a detailed report. You War Office veterans are no doubt experts at such.

The connection ended, and Bess peered at her surroundings. She had attended gatherings at the Hainsworth home many times and knew the ballroom well enough that she did not fear tripping over a wayward chair or addressing the harp as if it were a man. She released her father’s arm, and he said, Bess, are you—

I feel quite secure, Father, you need not worry, Bess replied. She smiled at him in reassurance. I wish to sit for a while. My head aches a little.

Her mother had turned away to speak to Mrs. Cavill, whose soft voice sounded like music. Father said only, Then let me assist you to a chair.

I—very well, Bess said, and once more took her father’s arm.

Father found her a quiet corner and patted her hand. If the pain grows too severe, do not pretend otherwise, he admonished her, and left her to her solitude. The ache behind her eyes was not too painful, but she knew from experience that it would grow worse if she were not careful. And she did not intend to permit it to interfere with an evening’s pleasure.

She closed her eyes behind her dark spectacles and let out a long breath. With her eyes closed, the room with its high ceilings felt smaller, as if it were closing in on her. The sensation unsettled her, but she kept her eyes closed, refusing to give in to irrational fear.

Her keen ear picked out threads of music as the players tuned their instruments: the mournful wail of the violin, the bird-whistle of the flute, the deeper voice of the violoncello. Footsteps on the varnished wood of the floor told her more guests had arrived. Soon enough, she would be asked to dance, something she enjoyed. Until then, she cherished the quiet murmur of speech and the strands of music.

John, she idly Spoke, then cursed herself and cut off her Speech before it could fill her with the dread emptiness that was a nonexistent connection. She had very nearly lost the habit of Speaking to him at quiet moments; it was only that she was at a gathering where their mutual friends were in attendance that she had forgotten herself. Had John been a Speaker, how much worse it would have been, never again hearing his Voice. Bess examined her reticulum, searching for someone who might distract her further.

Bess!

Mama’s voice rang out clearly across the room, a discordant note in the musicians’ chord. Bess opened her eyes and stood, focusing as best she could on the distant blur that was her mother advancing on her.

There you are. My dear, do not sit in the corner, there is a draft. I am quite certain you will catch a chill. Mama took Bess by the elbow and guided her away from her seat. Bess suppressed a sigh. She loved her mother, but Mama’s assistance, unlike her father’s, often made Bess feel like an invalid. But Mama meant only to help, and Bess never wanted to injure her feelings.

So she permitted Mama to lead her through the swirls of moving color that were men and women conversing before the dancing began. Moving so swiftly through the crowd made her uncomfortable. Though her spectacles improved her vision enough that she was unlikely to run into anyone, she could not help trying to feel her way with her feet, and the rapidity with which Mama moved made that nearly impossible. She heard snatches of voices she recognized, such as her older brother Charles and his nervous wife Mary, and—

Lord Cofferey! What a pleasure! Mama said.

The room began to close in around her again. Her happiness faded, replaced by a familiar sorrow and, on its heels, the guilt that accompanied it. She had thought Lord and Lady Cofferey would not be in attendance, and more guilt touched her heart, guilt at wishing this encounter ended.

Mrs. Hanley. Miss Hanley, Lord Cofferey said. His face swam into focus as he approached, that familiar dark complexion and deep-set eyes. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and creasing his forehead were deeper than they had been, Bess observed as she gracefully accepted his hand.

It is good to see you in company, Miss Hanley, Lord Cofferey said. His formality made her even more uncomfortable. But the time when he had called her Bess was years in the past—a lifetime’s worth of years. Lady Cofferey will wish to speak with you, I am sure.

I will be pleased to speak with her, my lord, Bess lied. The last thing she wanted was more uncomfortable conversation with John’s parents in which his ghost hung heavy over them all, blighting any possibility of normal speech. But Lord and Lady Cofferey were people she did not wish to injure. The death of their only son had caused them enough grief.

Excellent, Lord Cofferey said. Excellent. He bowed briefly to them. I wish you a pleasant evening, Mrs. Hanley, Miss Hanley.

Bess felt her temples tingle. She had never felt more relieved to be addressed. Excuse me, my lord, I am being Spoken to, she said. It verged on rudeness, but Lord Cofferey simply nodded and turned away.

Who is it, Bess? Mama asked.

Maria, Bess Spoke, I have not heard from you in days. Are you well? It is Maria Ellsworth, she told Mama.

Oh, do ask her to give her mother my love, Mama said.

I am quite well, Maria Spoke. Are you free?

Bess tilted her head back to indicate she was Speaking with someone. I am at the Hainsworths’ dance.

Then I will not trouble you now. Though I simply do not understand your love of dancing. It seems most tedious to me.

Mama asks to be remembered to your mother. Go back to whatever book you were reading, my dear.

The connection quivered with the Speech equivalent of a laugh. It is fascinating. Did you know the ostrich has the largest eyes of any land animal? Their eyes are actually larger than their brains.

Astonishing. Maria’s fascination with natural philosophy made her a wellspring of unusual and interesting facts. I will remember that when next I encounter an ostrich.

Bess lowered her head and opened her eyes to see her mother watching her expectantly. It was nothing of importance, she said.

Mama frowned. I hope you will not allow yourself to be preoccupied with Speaking to your reticulum tonight. It is very bad manners to be so distracted.

I assure you I will not, Bess said.

At any rate, I see Mrs. Battel, and we should speak to her, Mama said. She guided Bess toward a trio of blurs, two of them white, the third puce.

Bess listened with half an ear to her mother’s introductions and made appropriate noises at appropriate times, but her mind was elsewhere. Maria’s Speech had only been a temporary distraction from the memories Lord Cofferey had stirred up—memories at once fond and painful.

This was not as she had pictured her homecoming from four years in India, her obligatory service to the War Office as an Extraordinary Speaker. Not that she had given it much thought; she certainly had not pictured herself a conquering hero, deserving of a hero’s welcome. No, it was simply that she had assumed John would be there when she returned. Which was foolishness, because he was an officer in the Peninsula and not free to return home on a whim.

Had been an officer. Now he was dead.

She nodded at something Miss Eugenia Battel said and hoped it was the appropriate response. She had grown up with John, he had been her best friend, and everyone had believed they would someday marry. At times, even Bess had believed it, though she knew in her heart she did not love John as well as that. But to come home to the near-universal belief that theirs had been an explicit understanding, that she was mourning the death of her betrothed…it was a burden that weighed her down more than her grief over her friend’s death, a misapprehension she was powerless to correct.

Most of her friends and neighbors carefully—too carefully, at times—did not refer to John in her presence, and she had grown able to remember him fondly, without the terrible pain that had accompanied the news of his death. But sometimes that care turned into solicitude she felt she did not deserve, and then she felt guilt at not having loved John more. Now she considered how her life might have gone had John lived. Had he, eventually, proposed, she did not know if she would have had the strength to turn him down.

Miss Hanley.

Bess blinked and focused on Mrs. Hainsworth, whose approach she had not heard. Miss Hanley, may I make known to you Mr. Pakenham?

No relation to the general, Mr. Pakenham said. He sounded amused, and Bess adjusted her spectacles to bring him better into focus as she accepted his hand. He had very pale blond hair cropped close to his head and light eyes whose color Bess could not make out. Miss Hanley, may I solicit you for the first two dances?

Thank you, Mr. Pakenham, Bess said without thinking, and took the gentleman’s arm. Too late she realized the music indicated a sprightly cotillion. She was well enough with a country dance, in which she was never far from her partner, but the weaving and hopping of a cotillion made it difficult for her to keep track of whom she was dancing with. For a moment, she considered begging Mr. Pakenham’s pardon and bowing out. But then he would look at her with pity—poor Squire Hanley’s only daughter, blind as the proverbial bat—and pity was something she detested. He will pity you when you fall on your face, she told herself. It was a chance she was willing to take.

I understand you are recently back from India, Mr. Pakenham said as they took their places in the square. It must be a terrible adjustment.

It is certainly much colder in England, that is true, Bess said. At this distance, even through her spectacles his outline was blurry, tall and bright-topped with that blond hair, and she kept her eyes fixed on him and let her ears tell her where the other couples were, let her feet feel their way through the steps.

I envy you your time in the War Office. I have never done anything so daring, Mr. Pakenham said.

Bess stumbled slightly and righted herself before he could offer a hand. It was mostly quite dull.

Only mostly?

I was involved in thwarting a native uprising and an assassination plot against the Governor-General of India. That was exciting—more harrowing than exciting, in fact.

You see? Daring, Mr. Pakenham said. And now you are home, what do you intend to do next?

It was not a question she had ever asked herself. Oh…I imagine I shall do much what I did before I left. I am my mother’s companion, and I assist her in running the household.

And—I beg your pardon if this is presumptuous—do you not find that unsatisfactory now, after your adventures?

Not at all. But doubt crept into her thoughts. She was not entirely sure that was what she wanted, to pass her time paying calls and sewing and reading. And yet she could not think what else she might do. There were so many Extraordinary Speakers in England, finding commercial or private employment for her talent would be difficult, and she had no desire to return to the War Office, as enjoyable as her service had been. She had not realized how dull home was until Mr. Pakenham had implied it.

She drew in a calming breath. And you, Mr. Pakenham. It is your turn to speak. You are new to our neighborhood, are you not?

Mr. Pakenham laughed. My turn to be interrogated, you mean? Very well. I have taken a house in the neighborhood—Seven Pines. Do you know the place?

Yes, it used to belong to the Haverhills. I did not know they were gone.

I believe they moved to London. My good fortune, as it permits me to become acquainted with you.

Bess was not close enough to make out his expression, but she could hear the humor in his voice, tinged with a deeper meaning. You flatter me, Mr. Pakenham.

Not at all. I enjoy our conversation. I hope it is not entirely unpleasant to you.

It has gone on for perhaps five minutes, Bess said with a smile. That is hardly enough time to draw a conclusion.

My good fortune again, to have you all to myself for the space of two dances. I intend to make myself pleasing to you, so when we part, you will think of me generously.

It had been many weeks since any man had spoken so warmly to her. Then tell me more of yourself, she said, as I find that very pleasing indeed.

She found Mr. Pakenham’s stream of conversation better than a beacon to keep her aligned with him, and answered his conversational sallies cheerfully. She learned he had a good estate, but no talent, and spoke of her own talent in response to his questions, which sounded genuinely interested. He was pleasant, and charming, and Bess felt her spirits, depressed by her encounter with Lord Cofferey, lift.

At the end of their dances, Mr. Pakenham offered her his arm. I realize your eyesight is poor, but it seems not to interfere greatly with your activities, he said as he escorted her back to where Mama sat conversing with Mrs. Hainsworth.

My eyesight began failing when I was nine, Bess said, and has been this poor for several years. I have learned to adapt.

And your eyes may not be Shaped to restore your vision?

The fault is in the nerves, not the eyes, and I have spoken with many Extraordinary Shapers who tell me they cannot be repaired. They are reluctant to experiment on me for fear I may lose what little vision I have. It is not something that distresses me. It had distressed her, once upon a time, but she was older and more practical now.

Still, I admire your abilities.

I decided long ago there was no point in feeling sorry for myself. Without my spectacles, I can see no farther than a foot’s distance, but my eyesight will not worsen, the doctors tell me. And I am still capable of reading, which is a great pleasure.

Mr. Pakenham released her arm and bowed. Miss Hanley, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance. I hope we may meet again soon.

Likewise, Mr. Pakenham.

When he was nothing but a distant blur, Mama said, Oh, my dear, Mr. Pakenham is most gentlemanly, is he not? And five thousand a year, unless I miss my guess!

Mama, Bess said, I hardly think Mr. Pakenham’s wealth is of interest to me.

Well, it should be. You ought to be thinking of the future.

Bess laughed. Two dances is not a promise of the future, Mama. She took a seat next to her and closed her eyes. The head-ache, which had waned as she danced, returned, slightly worse than before, but not enough to signify.

She listened idly to her mother’s chatter to Mrs. Hainsworth, then directed her attention to the other voices in the room. It was a game she sometimes played, identifying who was present by voice alone. Lady Barnes’s deep, commanding voice, deeper than some of the men’s, was an obvious one, as was the high twitter of her younger daughter, only just out this past summer. Mr. Escot had a northern accent that set him apart from the Devonshire folk.

Then her brother Edmund said something, very nearby, about a horse he intended to buy, and she glanced in his direction and smiled. She loved all three of her brothers, but Edmund, closest in age to her, was also closest in friendship. She wished he were not quite so wild, but she had not the heart to reprimand him when he was also so full of life and high spirits.

Another man’s laugh followed Edmund’s last sally. Bess’s lips tightened as she observed a splash of bright copper hair in that direction. Lord Ravenscroft. He was, if anything, more of a wild spirit than Edmund, which accounted for why they were such good friends. Bess knew no real harm of the viscount, heir to the Earl of Waymark, but her parents believed he encouraged Edmund’s worst habits, and Bess wished Edmund would find someone more steady who might encourage his best habits instead.

Lord Ravenscroft’s laugh rang out again, almost comically shrill as if he were in liquor. Bess stood. I will walk about the room, Mama, she said.

Take care, Bess, Mama said.

Bess made her way past seated and standing guests, around the swirl of bright and dark colors that was the dance. This one, she might have danced with ease, and she wondered that no one had claimed her for it. Ordinarily, she never sat out a dance. Perhaps her popularity had waned in the years she was absent, or possibly her usual partners were leery of inviting the grief-stricken fiancée of a dead hero to dance.

Someone loomed up in front of her unexpectedly, and she bumped into a tall, solid form. She stepped back, mortified. I beg your pardon—I did not see you.

I wonder that you can see anything with those spectacles, a deep voice said. They seem rather more suited to a bright summer morning than a dimly-lit, drafty ballroom.

Mr. Addison, Bess said. How are you this evening?

As well as ever, Mr. Addison said. He was close enough for Bess to tell he had his attention on some other part of the room. He was handsome in a dark, brooding way despite his stiff demeanor. You do not dance?

Not at the moment. Unless you intend to ask me? Bess said mischievously.

Mr. Addison glanced at her, then looked away again. My apologies, but you know I do not dance.

I am aware, sir, Bess said. Mr. Addison had been her father’s neighbor for twelve years, and in all that time Bess had never known him to dance even once, not even when politeness demanded it. Bess judged him shy rather than arrogant, so she was not offended, though she sometimes, as now, could not resist teasing him a little.

Mr. Addison shifted his weight uncomfortably. Did you enjoy your time in India? he asked.

As much as anyone might. But I am happy to be home. She really ought to leave him to his solitude, but she was in an impish mood, and this was the most he had ever said to her at one of these gatherings.

Understandable. We are all, naturally, pleased to have you back.

Thank you. Will you remain in the country long, or are you London-bound?

He glanced at her again and said, I have not yet decided. What of you?

For Mr. Addison, this counted as truly garrulous. I am not certain either, Bess said. There is so much to do in the city, and yet I have been home such a short time…you see my dilemma.

Indeed. Mr. Addison bowed and added, If you will excuse me, Miss Hanley.

Bess curtseyed, choosing not to take offense at his abruptness. Of course, Mr. Addison. She almost felt sorry for him, and wondered why he continued to attend gatherings at which there would be dancing if he disliked the activity so much.

She made her way along the wall, well away from the dancers, until she found a seat in a quiet corner. Her head-ache had faded once again, and she felt at peace. Honoria, she Spoke, how goes your evening?

There was a pause, then Honoria said, Dreadfully dull. I am quite eager for the wedding to be here and gone, and myself and Mr. Clendennan on our wedding journey.

A journey sounds lovely. The realization surprised Bess. As she had told Mr. Addison, she had been away for many years; surely she should be content at home. But home contained so many reminders of John, it was difficult for her to overcome her grief. Again guilt struck her, this time guilt that she should want to overcome her grief, as if letting go of it meant letting go of her memories of her dear friend. Where do you intend to go? she asked Honoria.

The Lake District. Mr. Clendennan is quite the romantic, and loves the beauties of nature. The connection shivered with Honoria’s laugh, which in reality was rather horse-like and completely at odds with her extraordinary beauty. I am less convinced, but I am willing to take the chance.

Very daring of you. The musicians struck up a new song. With luck, this quiet corner would not be so quiet as to dissuade would-be partners. Excuse me, Honoria, I hope to dance soon.

Enjoy yourself, Bess. The connection vanished.

Bess sat up straighter. Perhaps she should move toward the dancers, so potential partners might see her. She did not relish the idea of sitting out most of the dances simply because others believed she wanted solitude.

Someone Spoke into her mind without warning, startling her. This is the most dreadful evening I have endured in many weeks.

It was no one whose Voice she knew.

Chapter 2

In which Bess receives an unexpected but welcome invitation

Ibeg your pardon! Bess responded, tilting her head back to indicate she was Speaking with someone so no one would interrupt. Who are you?

You heard that? the Voice said. He—she felt certain it was a he—sounded utterly startled, more startled even than Bess had been.

Of course I heard that. What I do not understand is how you were able to address me. You are not one of my reticulum.

The Voice went silent.

You must be somewhere in this room, to make a connection with someone not in your reticulum, Bess went on, and that also means you must be an Extraordinary. I ask again, who are you? I know of no Extraordinary Speakers in this neighborhood.

The silence continued. I must insist you tell me your identity, Bess persisted.

Finally, the Voice said, My identity is my own affair. What I do not understand is how you were able to hear me. I choose not to Speak to anyone.

How odd. Why not?

Answer me. How did you hear my Speech? The strong Voice reverberated in Bess’s mind.

Did you not know that an Extraordinary Speaker is capable of sending his Speech into the minds of anyone, Speaker or not? Your stray thought had behind it such feeling that I was capable of intercepting it. You must be new to your talent—but there are no children present, and I cannot believe you, whoever you are, manifested so late in life. She opened her eyes and scanned the room, but saw nothing but colored blurs, as usual. Tell me your name.

I have kept this secret for years. I do not intend to reveal it to you, whoever you are.

I am Miss Hanley. And you are somewhere in this room.

A sense of amusement filled her, the Speech equivalent of a laugh. Miss Hanley? You are nearly blind. It is unlikely you can identify me.

Then give me a name I may call you by. Why she was being so insistent, she did not know, except that here was a mystery, and she did not know she was bored until it presented itself. How unfortunate that a Speaker’s Voice had nothing in common with his physical voice, or she would know him already.

The Voice went silent again for a few moments. You may call me…Mr. Quinn.

She knew of no one by that name, but she already knew it would be a false one. Mr. Quinn. Why so secretive?

Are you always this persistent, Miss Hanley?

Not always. Now, certainly.

I do not care for this talent and its implications, nor that I might develop a reticulum full of distasteful Voices. I would be rid of it if I could. And if I am truly an Extraordinary, it makes this talent even more detestable.

Mr. Quinn’s vehemence startled Bess. She loved her talent and could not imagine detesting it enough to wish to lose it. Nothing requires you to make connections with Voices you do not like.

You are naïve to believe so.

Bess drew in an outraged breath. I have more experience with a reticulum than you, sir. Do not call me naïve.

You are insulted? My apologies. I can only say that my experience is contrary to yours. When one is surrounded by Speakers one dislikes, one’s desire to add them to one’s reticulum vanishes.

That was unexpected. She could imagine no circumstances in which someone might be entirely surrounded by unpleasant Voices. You intrigue me, Mr. Quinn.

That was not my intent. I do not know why I permitted myself to be drawn into this conversation.

His Voice sounded rather petulant, and Bess smiled. Mental Speech has an attraction, an emotional draw that fills a Speaker with the desire to continue. It is an intimacy only Speakers understand. Have you truly never Spoken to anyone before this evening?

No. I believed myself successfully isolated. I have no wish to be known as a Speaker, Extraordinary or otherwise.

Then you are known as someone with no talent. Which of the guests might Mr. Quinn be? She wished she had paid more attention to the arrivals, to know which of them were men of no talent. Mr. Pakenham, for one, and Mr. Addison…her brother Edmund, but surely he would not play such a trick on her? And his friend, Lord Ravenscroft…were there no others?

I will not give you the means to identify me, Mr. Quinn said.

You need not. It is impossible for anyone to possess more than one talent, therefore anyone here who has a talent cannot be yourself.

And I suppose it is useless for me to request that you leave me my privacy?

His words shamed Bess. She had allowed her curiosity to get the better of her. I beg your pardon, sir. You are correct, I have no right to pry. But…I have never known anyone to successfully conceal a Speaker’s talent! You are most unusual. A thought occurred to her. Surely it must be obvious to those around you that you are Speaking to someone.

Again, she felt that silent amusement. I do not strike a Speaker’s attitude, with the head flung back, if that is what you mean.

I meant that—

Miss Hanley?

Bess’s head snapped down, and she blinked to moisten her dry eyes. Young Roger Deering stood before her. He held himself stiffly, as if he were the deer his name suggested and might bolt at the least provocation. I apologize for intruding, he said, and I hope I did not interrupt an important communication, but I hoped to ask you for the next two dances.

Bess managed a smile despite her irritation. The gentleman was young enough that he might not realize what a breach of etiquette he had committed in addressing her while she was Speaking. I would be pleased to dance with you, Mr. Deering, she said. She rose and accepted his arm. We will Speak again later, she shot in Mr. Quinn’s direction.

I think we will not, Mr. Quinn said, and there was the decided stillness of a deliberate refusal to Speak.

Bess smiled at Mr. Deering, doing her best to be cheerful despite the mild irritation her conversation with Mr. Quinn had raised in her. It is good to see you, she said. I understand from Edmund you recently purchased a new horse.

Mr. Deering’s head came up. I did, he said with some excitement. It is—

A tingling in Bess’s temples distracted her from her partner’s words. Bess, you will simply not believe this, Catherine Tweedy said without preamble. Eugenia Hardwick said that Susan Wentworth told her that Mary Stofford is engaged to Randolph Masterson! Can you credit it?

Bess’s irritation swelled. I beg your pardon, Catherine, but I must give my attention to my dance partner, she said, and to Mr. Deering said, My apologies, Mr. Deering, I was addressed unexpectedly. Pray, continue.

She could not make out Mr. Deering’s expression, but his voice, when he spoke again, was tentative, and Bess wished she had Catherine present to shake her for her typical inopportune timing. She had known Catherine since they were both young Speakers at the Carteret Seminary for Talented Young Ladies and had added her to her reticulum before knowing how shallow and self-centered Catherine was. And now, since it was impossible to remove someone from one’s reticulum, Bess had no choice but to endure Catherine’s gossipy, sometimes malicious Speech and hope she would lose interest in Bess as a conversational partner.

It sounds like a lovely animal, she said, though in truth she was not fond of horses, being incapable of riding. But Mr. Deering was kind and had an honest heart, and he was enough younger than she that she felt a sisterly affection for him. After a few minutes in which Catherine said nothing else, Bess relaxed enough to enjoy her partner’s conversation.

She intended to accost Mr. Quinn when she was again free, but it seemed Mr. Deering’s approach had broken some artificial reserve, for she was never again without a partner. The need to concentrate on the steps of the dances, on not tripping into someone, prevented her from Speaking as she moved, as well as her feeling that she should give her partner her full attention.

As the evening wore on, she began to question her motives. Did she have a right to invade Mr. Quinn’s privacy when he so clearly preferred anonymity, simply because she could not bear a mystery? The answer, she was forced to conclude, was no. She would be no better than Catherine if she did.

Finally, she politely turned down a request for another dance and found a seat, wishing she dared remove her shoes and massage her aching feet. The room, which had been so comfortable, was now far too hot. She fanned herself with her gloved hand and closed her eyes against the returning head-ache. Perhaps Mama and Father might be willing to leave; it was rather late.

Does your head ache terribly? Mrs. Hainsworth would not begrudge you the use of a quiet salon, a soft voice said. Bess opened her eyes and regarded Mercy Caines, who had taken a seat next to her without Bess hearing her approach. It was something of a joke among their friends that had Mercy had a Bounder’s talent, she might have made an excellent spy, she was so gifted at moving silently and being overlooked in a crowd.

It is nothing to signify yet, but I hope it will not worsen, Bess said. I did not realize you were in attendance.

We have both been beset with partners, and Mama and Papa are unfortunately leaving now. Mercy edged her chair closer to Bess, bringing herself better into focus. I will call on you tomorrow, if you are agreeable.

I believed you occupied with the seminary. Should you not be there now?

I hope that is not a sidelong way of wishing me out of your hair, Mercy teased.

When you become tedious, I will tell you, Bess replied with a straight face.

I believed you knew I had left the seminary, Mercy continued. I returned home in August to help Mama when she was ill, and when she was well again, I found myself reluctant to return. It is not as if there is a shortage of French instructors, and I believe Lady Carteret wished to fill my position with someone who both speaks French and has talent.

I suppose that is the sensible, economical approach. Bess stretched her legs discreetly. Please do visit tomorrow.

I will. Good night, Bess. Mercy pressed her hand briefly in farewell and was gone. Bess followed her progress until she became indistinct and then closed her eyes once more. Mercy’s visit would be something to look forward to.

With her eyes closed, sounds became clearer, more sharp-edged. She idly picked out threads of conversations, not interested in eavesdropping for its own sake, but out of habit. Nearby, she heard a young woman say, I declare I have not sat down once all evening! Miss Lavinia Meldrum. A flirt, but a harmless one.

Nor I, said her companion. That was the eldest Miss Joyner. Mama referred to her as the plain one among the five Joyner sisters, but Bess thought her sweet, if a bit simple. There are so many handsome beaux here tonight!

Indeed. Though Mr. Clary is much missed. I wish this war were over, and all the men returned. Miss Lavinia yawned widely enough for Bess to hear it.

It is a shame about those who will not be returning. Poor Miss Hanley.

Bess flushed at the sound of her name. She ought to draw attention to herself, to prevent their conversation from becoming embarrassing. She opened her eyes and discovered there were several people standing nearby, none of them close enough for her to identify Miss Lavinia and Miss Joyner.

"Though I heard— Miss Joyner’s voice dropped to a loud whisper, one which Bess had no trouble hearing—Miss Hanley and Mr. Newton were not actually betrothed."

Miss Lavinia gasped theatrically. But—they corresponded, did they not? Surely Miss Hanley would not be so lost to propriety, even with her time in India?

I say it is monstrous wrong of her to act the part of a bereaved widow if she was not betrothed. But then I would not expect less of someone so proud. She has always behaved as if her Extraordinary status set her above the rest of us.

That was too much. Bess had heard enough to mark the two women by their voices. She stood and took a few steps forward. I beg your pardon, she said, her voice shaking, for my intrusion into your conversation, but your speech was such that I could not help overhearing.

Miss Lavinia and Miss Joyner turned to face her, guilt evident in their startled movements. Miss Hanley, Miss Lavinia said. We did not—that is, I beg your pardon—

If you are quite finished dissecting my character, I would like to pass, Bess went on. She longed to correct their misapprehensions, but anger filled her to the brim, and she did not wish to insult her hostess by fighting with a guest. She pushed past the two without waiting for them to respond further, stumbled, and barely caught herself. Her cheeks burning with double humiliation, she walked on, not knowing where she was going or whom she nearly collided with.

She found herself at a doorway and passed through it without knowing or caring where it led. Monstrous wrong…not really betrothed…set her above the rest of us…their words burned in her heart. She had thought those women, if not close friends, at least friendly, but now she wondered if she actually knew them at all.

The hall was dim, but that made no difference to Bess save for a lessening of the pounding behind her eyes. Ahead, a bright spark of light burned, and she aimed for it, craving direction of some kind. The hall smelled of candle wax and faintly of smoke, and squares on the wall, dark against the light paint, suggested art or family portraits. She trailed her fingertips along the wall beneath the frames, disliking the dampness of the surface, but feeling uncertain enough of her surroundings to need its steadying influence. Her feet made almost no noise on the uncarpeted floor; the whisper of her skirts was louder than her footsteps.

The speck of light grew, became a lamp hanging low over another door. Bess put her hand to the latch and pushed the door open before realizing the chill of the latch meant this door opened to the outside. She was so warm from the overheated room and her exertions, she welcomed the frigid air, though she would no doubt become too cold in a matter of minutes.

No lights illuminated the porch, whose columns looked like white trees in the moonlight. Beyond the columns lay the featureless expanse of the garden, beautiful in the summer but dead and depressing now. She smelled the cold dampness that suggested rain was imminent, a freezing fall of water that would make the ride home unpleasant for her family