Deirdre had never felt the weight of her own poverty more. “Yes’m. I understand.”
“Yes, ma’am. We speak proper English here.”
Deirdre bobbed her knees awkwardly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Your curtsy needs improving.” Miss Munro looked down her long nose and sniffed. “Cotillion is on Wednesday evenings, before dinner. We’ll have your country chaff worn free soon enough.”
Deirdre batted the stodgy wet air with the lace fan Esme had lent her. The sultry heat had persisted into the evening. At least her neck was blessedly cool, as Esme had braided her hair into a high crown and coaxed her fringe into neat curls across her forehead.
Though she looked the part of a fine-bred town girl, Deirdre’s first formal supper had been a failure. She’d nearly toppled her chair trying to seat herself at the long, silver-laden table. If it weren’t for Esme adjusting the cumbersome, bustled skirt and helping Deirdre lower herself, she’d have ended up on the floor.
And there were too many forks. Deirdre hadn’t a mind as to why one person needed so many to eat a single meal. Everything at Miss Munro’s school seemed too much. From the number of courses that stuffed her belly as tight as one of the Rays’ gilt hogs, to the layers of petticoats she wore beneath her borrowed gown.
As they made their way out to the veranda for after-dinner cordials, the sound of high-pitched laughter mocked Deirdre. She turned to see Phoebe and her dark-haired companion staring at her from the doorway, whispering behind their fans.
“Ignore them,” Esme said, weaving her arm through Deirdre’s. “We’ll go sit on the side porch, where it’s quiet.”
Esme led Deirdre to a palm-shrouded corner where a wicker swing hung from the porch’s ceiling, overlooking the boulevard. Deirdre moved aside her skirts, and sat on the swing next to Esme, this time with a bit more grace than before.
“See. You’re doing well,” Esme said, laying her hand on Deirdre’s. Her hazel eyes glimmered in the glow from the gas lamps along the street. “Tomorrow may be difficult. It will be your first full day, and you’ll likely be tired. Did Miss Munro give you the schedule?”
“Yes.”
“Well, so you’ll have an idea of things. We may be separated for the better part of the day, but I’ll do my best to watch after you.”
“You’ve been so kind to me.”
“I like you,” Esme said, opening her fan. “It’s good to see an earnest face. Many of the girls put on airs—Phoebe, Nancy, Constance—who is named well, because she’s Phoebe’s constant shadow.” Esme rolled her eyes. “They certainly didn’t make things easy for me when I was new. I hated Charleston at first. And I missed Sam dreadfully. I cried for an entire week.”
“Your gardener?”
“Yes.” Esme batted her fan more briskly. “Sam’s married now. To a blacksmith.”
Deirdre paused for a beat. “I didn’t know women could be blacksmiths.”
“I’ve never met a woman blacksmith in my life, though I suppose they might exist.” Esme laughed and closed her fan. “But women can certainly be gardeners.”
Oh. Oh.
Deirdre blushed and looked away. She’d heard of such things, of course, but didn’t quite know what to say. “I’m sorry, I . . .”
“Don’t worry. You can’t make me feel more ashamed of Samantha than my own family has made me. I’m recovered. We get on with things and do what we must as women. Have you got anyone back home?”
Deirdre smiled. “I do. His name’s Robbie. Robert Cash.”
“That’s a fine name.”
“I think so, too. I need to write him—let him know I’ve arrived.”
“Oh, that’s perfect. We can go together to post our letters on Friday—that’s when we’re allowed our afternoon outing. I still write to Sam. She’s with child and terribly lonely in her marriage, although the thought of having children underfoot gives her some solace for the future. Tell me about your Robbie. Is he fair? Dark?”
“Dark, with curly hair. Gray eyes like a storm.”
“He sounds handsome.” Esme glanced at Deirdre’s hand. “Has he proposed?”
“Not formally. He still needs to ask my pa. He’s promised me, though, and Pa has no objections.”
“Promises are a fine thing. Still, you should enjoy the dances. Miss Munro puts on three balls a year, and the next is coming up in August. It’s the biggest. Many of the girls meet their beaus that way.”
The thought of entertaining another man’s interest made Deirdre’s heart clench. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—betray Robbie like that, but she might enjoy the dancing. She had a feeling it would be required of her under Miss Munro’s charge, and she’d always looked forward to the barn dances back home.
A flicker of movement turned Deirdre’s head. A figure stepped from the shadows pooling beneath the houses across the boulevard. It was a man, dressed in black evening clothes. He moved oddly, strolling silently across the cobblestones as if he were wading through a heavy current. He paused beneath one of the gas lamps, his face hidden by his hat. A shudder of fear crawled up Deirdre’s arms and across her shoulders, until it settled beneath her collarbone and set the skin there to tingling. It was him. She was sure of it. A whimper escaped her lips, and she clutched Esme’s sleeve.
“What? What’s wrong, Deirdre?”
As if he’d heard them, the man lifted his head. Two flashes of silver shone beneath the brim of his hat.
“Tell me you see him, Esme. You must see him. Don’t you?”
“Who?” Esme asked, squinting and sitting up.
Deirdre squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. He was still there, leaning against the lamppost, one long leg cocked at an angle. Deirdre pointed, her finger trembling. “There. There’s a man with a top hat, beneath the lamp.”
“Don’t point. It’s rude.” Esme gently took Deirdre’s hand and lowered it. “And besides, there’s no one there at all. It’s only a shadow.”
Gentry was most certainly still there. He was real, though his form cast no shadow on the ground. “He’s there.” Her voice keened high, growing frantic. “He followed me all the way from Arkansas.”
Esme stood abruptly and moved in front of her, blocking Deirdre’s view. “I do believe the drink has gotten to you. You’ve likely never had Madeira before, have you? Or perhaps you’re taking ill.” Esme put her hand to Deirdre’s forehead and frowned. “No fever. You haven’t had any laudanum?”
“No,” Deirdre said, standing on shaky legs. “No laudanum.” She peered over Esme’s shoulder. Gentry was still there. Waiting, like a cat in the shadows. She willed herself to be calm. If no one else could see him, she’d need to learn to manage her reactions. She’d need to master her fear, or she’d end up in an asylum. “I think I’m only overtired.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? You’re pale as a sheet. Perhaps we should get you to bed.”