Godsmother, Part Two
There's a ball to-night, which Catherine had forgotten about. Eleanor, on the other hand, seems to have been thinking of nothing of else for a week, from the way she's going on.
"What do you suppose Alan's favorite color is?" she asks, impatiently, fingering the gowns that she's hung in front of her. "I knew I should have had one made specially, but I never got around to it, and now I'll just have to o with something I already have."
Catherine bites back a rude retort. "You know I've absolutely no idea about Squire Alan's favorite color," she says instead. "And you've no need to flaunt your wealth, Eleanor. It's rude."
It's an old joke between them, not a real complaint. Catherine has long gotten used to the fact that Eleanor is better off than she is, although half the time she wonders if some of Eleanor's comments aren't meant just to spite her.
As if reading her mind, Eleanor says, "You know I'm only teasing you, Catherine. I don't truly care about Alan's favorite color, or gowns." But before Catherine can say anything, she adds, "But I do like him, Catherine, and I do want to make a good impression on him at the ball. And I'm not going to tolerate any more comments from you. You don't know Alan that well, you must admit that, and until you do, you're not allowed to say anything cruel about him."
Catherine hides a grin behind her hand. This is why she likes Eleanor. She's not like other noblewomen. She knows how to stand up for herself, although she knows how to do it in exactly the way a proper noblewoman should stand up for herself, if proper noblewomen did that kind of thing.
"All right," she says, and adds: "Wear the violet gown. You know it's the only one that really suits you."
