Probably not, he decided. Mirabelle had been on the marriage mart for years now and had never shown the least interest in catching a husband. Her new wardrobe must be a result of something else.
Whit mulled over the possibilities in his head for awhile before giving it up and deciding simply to ask her when he informed her of their new truce. And as he had some idea of where she could be found at present, he decided now was as good a time as any to do just that.
Mirabelle made the short walk from her room to Kate’s, blissfully unaware she was the topic of conversation in another part of the house.
She had decided after dinner that it was time to address the ridiculous issue of spying with Kate. With that purpose in mind, she checked to make certain there was light coming from under the door before knocking softly. She was answered with a moderate-sized crash of what sounded like a chair hitting the wooden floor, followed by a great deal of indecipherable noise and movement. As it was Kate’s room, Mirabelle wasn’t the least surprised by the sound of furniture being knocked over, but the rest was a mystery.
“Kate?” she called quietly against the wood. “Kate, are you all right?”
There was a moment of complete stillness from inside and then the sound of footsteps and the clack of the bolt being thrown back. Kate’s face, when it finally appeared, was flushed, distracted, and just a little bit annoyed.
“Why didn’t you say it was only you?”
Mirabelle’s brows rose. “Who else were you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” Kate answered, peeking her head out to look down the hall. “Whit, I suppose. He came nosing about last night. And there’s that new friend of his, Mr. Hunter. I didn’t care for the way he was staring at me over dinner.”
Unable to stop herself, Mirabelle looked over her shoulders. “Do you really think a guest would be so bold as to show up at your door?”
“I suppose not. I…did you get a clear look at him?” Kate asked, pulling back. “Did he seem at all…familiar to you?”
Mirabelle pictured the handsome, dark-haired man who’d sat farther down the table from her. “Yes, I saw him, and no, he didn’t seem familiar.” She grinned wickedly. “Although, he seemed rather interested in becoming familiar with you.”
Kate merely snorted and peeked around the corner again. “The interest isn’t returned.”
“Are you going to let me in, Kate, or shall we drag a pair of chairs out and enjoy the fine hall air while we eat the biscuits I know you secreted from the kitchen? It’d be almost alfresco.”
“Hmm. What? Oh!” Kate smiled sheepishly and stepped back, closing and locking the door after Mirabelle. “I’m sorry, Mira. I’m a bit distracted.”
“Yes, I gathered as much.”
Mirabelle took in the familiar room with a glance. It was something of a mess, as was usual. Gowns, gloves, and bonnets had been neatly tucked away, but there were papers littering the desk, piled in toppling stacks and sticking out from drawers. The bed was unmade—the pale blue counterpane twisted and pulled back as if Kate had crawled in, tossed and turned for awhile, and then crawled back out again. Books had been piled haphazardly next to the bed and on the window seat. The desk chair was overturned, a hairbrush had been knocked off the vanity, and for some inexplicable reason, there was a teacup on the floor.
“Where’s Lizzy?” Mirabelle asked, looking into the empty adjoining room where Kate and Evie’s abigail usually slept.
Kate stepped across the room and righted the chair. “She wasn’t feeling quite the thing and asked to sleep in Evie’s room where the light wouldn’t bother her.”
“Is she all right?” Mirabelle inquired. She was rather fond of the girl, though the maid was always after fussing with her hair and clothes.
“Just a touch of the headache,” Kate assured her. “I brought her a powder earlier in the evening and she went straight to sleep. I expect she’ll be fully recovered by morning.”
Mirabelle nodded and wandered over to poke at the papers on the desk. “What is all this?”
“Music,” Kate answered. “I’m composing.”
That certainly made sense, she thought. Although…
“There’s quite a lot of it. Are you working on several pieces at once?”
“No, strictly speaking, it’s the same piece.”
“Is it?” She looked over the piles of paper again. “Are you having difficulty? Is that why you’ve been up so late?”
“No I…” Kate’s hands tugged on her dressing gown—a telling gesture of nerves. “It’s a symphony.”
Mirabelle’s mouth dropped open. “A symphony? Truly? You’ve mentioned the possibility before, but…” She gazed at the papers. She was always just a bit in awe of Kate’s musical talent, a bit amazed at the magic and beauty her friend could create with such incredible skill. And now a symphony. pleasure and pride bloomed, and quick to follow were excitement and delight. She laughed and threw her arms around her friend. “Oh, but this is wonderful, Kate!”