“We simply must turn back.”
“It’s not so terrible,” Mirabelle assured her. “The worst of it can be gotten around.”
“Well, I’m certain you don’t mind, Miss Browning, not in that old thing. How wonderfully clever of you to wear a…” She waved her hand about as if searching for the right word. “…dress one wouldn’t mind having splattered hem to neck in mud.”
“That old thing” had been her best day gown until she’d purchased the lavender dress. She opened her mouth to deliver a scathing reply.
But Miss Willory continued babbling. “Mine was made by Madame Rousseau, you know. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of her. She’s terribly select in her clientele. I dare say she’d be quite displeased to see the hem of one of her creations covered in mire. And my little half boots—”
Whit stepped forward and cut her off. “You’re absolutely right, Miss Willory. Such a charming ensemble shouldn’t suffer the indignities of mud. Do you see that path we just passed there on the right?” He turned her about to point down the hill. “Not more than ten yards down? It leads back around to the house. I’m certain you, and your very fine gown, will be more comfortable there. Miss Browning and I—and anyone else who cares to join us—will continue on this way.”
Miss Willory spluttered for a moment. “You’re very kind I’m sure, my lord, but—”
“Not at all. Can’t have that pretty white muslin ruined, can we?”
“I’m sure my maid—”
“Now, now, there’s no need to be brave about it.” He gave her a slightly less than gentle nudge. “Off you go, then.”
“Lord Thurston—”
“Miss Willory,” Whit said with just enough coolness to have Miss Willory blinking, “I insist.”
After that, there was nothing Miss Willory could do—short of begging—to retain her position in the group. But because there is nothing misery likes quite so much as company—particularly when felt by the likes of Miss Willory—she made a concerted effort to ruin everyone else’s fun as well.
“Come along then, Charlotte and Fanny,” she snapped. “Your mothers will have your heads if they hear you’ve been traipsing through the woods like common gypsies. And those worn boots of yours, Miss Heins, are likely seeping already, you’ll catch the ague.” She spun on her heel and began marching down the path, her reluctant followers trailing behind.
“Hurry along, Rebecca,” Miss Sullivan called out. “We’ll not wait for you.”
“I—” Miss Heins gave Mirabelle and Whit an embarrassed smile. “It was kind of you to let me join you this morning. I wish…well…it was kind of you.”
“Why don’t you stay,” Mirabelle suggested gently. “After the curve, this trail’s actually quite a bit nicer than the other. Not that they need to know.”
“It’s very kind of you to offer, but I—”
“I’d only be kind,” Whit pointed out, “if your company wasn’t genuinely desired, and I assure you, it is.”
“Oh…oh.” She turned a charming shade of pink and ducked her head.
“Do say you’ll come along,” Mirabelle pleaded.
Miss Heins looked toward the trail where the others, having kept their word and not waited for her, had disappeared. “I suppose, perhaps. They might wonder what happened to me.”
Mirabelle sincerely doubted they’d give it a single thought, but didn’t have the heart to voice the opinion. “Why don’t you run ahead and let them know where you’ll be? Whit and I will wait.”
“Well…all right.” A smile bloomed on her face. “Yes, all right. I’ll only be a moment.”
Mirabelle watched her scamper down the path.
“She’s like a lost kitten,” she murmured, and grimaced at her own words. “I didn’t mean that to sound insulting. There’s just something so endearing and helpless about her.”
“There is, isn’t there?” Whit agreed. “And that makes it all the more unforgivable for someone to kick at her.”
“I wonder why she keeps company with Miss Willory and her group?” Mirabelle asked as she wandered to the edge to look out over the water.
“I couldn’t say. I make a point not to involve myself in the social peculiarities of females. Perhaps there’s some sort of family friendship.”
“Well, her family could do better,” she grumbled, pacing a bit in her agitation. “Butter wouldn’t melt in Miss Willory’s mouth.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it might sour.”
That drew a laugh from her and had the knots in her belly easing. “Can butter sour?”
“I’ve no idea,” he admitted. “Shall we test it and see? You fetch the butter. I’ll hold her down.”
“Oh, Lord,” she gasped on another laugh. “Can you imagine? I wonder if we’d be lauded as heroes or villains.”
“Lunatics, would be my guess.”