A Debutante In Disguise. Eleanor Webster

of interesting conversation—he did not know which was worse: the tongue-tied, big-eyed silence or the foolish chatter about ribbons, bonnets and the like.

      A noise startled him. He scanned the room, irritated that even here he had failed to find solitude. To his surprise, he saw a female figure curled within the library chair and apparently perusing a large volume. She wore a dreadful, ruffled gown of vibrant green. Her hair was an equally vibrant red and she was so absorbed in her reading that she had not looked up. He cleared his throat.

      She glanced in his direction. Her brows, surprisingly dark, drew together over gold-rimmed spectacles as she eyed him with an intense gaze. ‘I thought I was alone.’

      Her tone and expression indicated that solitude would be preferable. Indeed, her rather stern aspect did not contain any of the giddy girlishness he had come to expect.

      ‘My apologies for disturbing you,’ he said.

      She nodded, offering none of the usual polite platitudes and turned back to the book, an obvious dismissal which would irritate if it were not so damned amusing. For a moment, he watched her, fascinated by the apparent intensity of her concentration as well as the strong lines of her face, chin and high forehead.

      Again momentarily aware of his presence, she glanced up, removing her spectacles. ‘Please sit, if you would like.’

      She fixed him with her direct gaze. Her eyes were very green, a true green, not that wishy-washy mix of brown or grey which people called hazel. He sat, momentarily discomforted by the intensity of her gaze.

      ‘You also find dances overwhelming?’ she asked.

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘You looked pale. You sat with an abrupt motion as though off balance. However, you appear too young and healthy to suffer from any malaise. And you do not seem intoxicated. Not that I have a great deal of experience with intoxication, but I saw my brother the worse for drink on one occasion and his speech was slurred and voluble while you have said little but with clear enunciation. Anyway, I wondered if you also found the noise and movement of the dance floor exhausting?’

      ‘Um...not usually,’ he said after this monologue. Indeed, this was a tame event, too full of debutantes, anxious mothers and warm lemonade to encourage inebriation. He would not have attended except for his sister. ‘I take it you are not enjoying the festivities?’

      She pulled a face, but then smiled. He found the change from a serious demeanour to one of mischief intriguing. ‘Not entirely, although having access to Lord Entwhistle’s library is a solace, to be sure. You won’t tell?’

      ‘I am the soul of discretion.’ Although he doubted that the kindly Lord Entwhistle would care. He glanced at the book which so obviously fascinated her, uncertain what to expect. His sister liked novels and botanical books from which she would copy flowers and ferns with scrupulous attention to detail.

      More recently, she had also taken to devouring fashionable journals and often begged their mother for the latest mode.

      ‘Goodness!’ He gave a spontaneous chuckle as he read the title of the article. ‘“Cowpox”? You are reading about cowpox?’

      ‘Yes, and smallpox. Neither of which is a subject for amusement,’ she said reprovingly.

      He straightened his countenance. ‘No...um... I should not have laughed.’ This rather odd female seemed to have made him abandon a decade of niceties. And he was not exactly inexperienced. He had travelled the Continent and attended any number of balls and dances in London without feeling in any way socially inadequate.

      ‘You likely found the peculiarity of the subject amusing. My mother says that discussions about such topics will make me an oddity.’

      ‘She may be correct,’ he said, his lips twitching again.

      ‘She usually is. Or if not, her conviction of her own infallibility makes everyone believe it must be so.’

      ‘She sounds rather like my father,’ he said.

      He was still angry about a lecture his father had given him on a large sum of money he had lost in a bet. It had started with a card game and ended with a fast gallop across Rotten Row. Fun, but not good for the pocket.

      ‘Did your father tell you to come here, then?’ she asked.

      ‘No, that was Mother, actually. She is quite positive that my presence will greatly enhance my sister’s marital chances.’

      ‘And will it?’

      ‘Possibly. I decided that if I had to suffer, I would ensure that my friends were similarly afflicted.’

      ‘Misery loves company.’

      ‘Indeed.’ Although his best friend, George, did not seem particularly miserable.

      Infatuated, more like. What did one feel when one’s best friend suddenly falls head over heels with one’s sister? And George had always been such a sensible fellow. And he’d known Elsie for ever, except now he looked at her as though she was some miraculous creature—as if gowns and ribbons had the power to transform.

      ‘So, what is the fascination with cowpox?’ he asked, searching for a more pleasant topic.

      She did not answer for a moment, again fixing him with her disconcertingly direct gaze. ‘Did you want to know? Or do you merely aim to be polite?’

      ‘Actually, I find I want to know,’ he said, rather to his own surprise.

      ‘Very well.’ She spoke with the tone of a schoolmaster. ‘The concept of introducing a pathogen to develop a strength is so interesting. And then there is the controversy. You see, Dr Jenner is thought to have first identified that a person may be less likely to contract smallpox if they have been previously infected with cowpox. But Jesty the farmer may have had the idea first.’

      ‘Controversial cowpox—even more entertaining.’

      She frowned, fixing him with a dubious gaze. ‘Not the adjective I would use, but I surmise you are an individual frequently in search of entertainment.’

      She spoke with surprising perspicacity for one so interested in cowpox.

      ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘My brother is the responsible one. Do you not find that life can become remarkably dull, remarkably quickly?’

      ‘At times,’ she agreed, nodding her head for emphasis. ‘But you have no excuse for boredom. You can read whatever you want and likely no one cancels your scientific journals.’

      ‘Er...no,’ he said.

      He had never subscribed to a scientific journal in his life. He nodded towards the open book on her lap. ‘I take it yours were? Hence your interest in Lord Entwhistle’s library?’

      ‘Yes—you see, I would like—’ She stopped abruptly.

      ‘What would you like?’

      ‘I believe my aspirations might be considered odd. You will not laugh?’

      ‘I have managed thus far in our conversation.’

      ‘To provide medical care.’

      The remark was so unexpected and unusual that he could not contain his reaction, which was a mix of both shock and amusement.

      ‘You mean like a—a—’ He had been about to say midwife, but realised this was hardly appropriate. ‘Like someone who gives out herbs and...and poultices,’ he concluded lamely.

      ‘Or a doctor, surgeon or even an apothecary.’

      ‘Good gracious, why on earth would you want to do so?’

      She shrugged, the dreadful green ruffles rustling. ‘I’ve always wanted to do so. I cannot explain it. It is somewhat like questioning why one would want to walk or do any number of things which are instinctual to us.’

      He was about to say that walking