Author's Notes: *hangs head in shame*
I know. I promised an update once every two months and I didn't manage it. Real life struck again with severe vengeance, making just the general act of writing fanfiction kind of near impossible for me until recently. I can only promise to get the fourth chapter to you all as soon as I am able.
Apart from that - I hope everyone enjoys this chapter! Especially fans of Molly/Irene ;) Also, please remember that feedback, even a favourite, is the best thing ever to happen in this world.
The carriage broke free of the thick copse of trees and approached the tall iron gate. A scrawny lad of little more than 10 wiped his nose, tilting his chin up. Stood by the gate, he asked who went. Irene pushed open the carriage door. The heat of the braziers stood burning either side of the gate touched four gold coins, nestled in Irene's gloved palm.
"My mistress is asleep, miss." The young man kept a focus on Irene's face. "Not to wake her save for emergencies. People dying, ill. That sort of thing."
Irene slipped the coins back into her purse. "What's your name?"
"Archie, m'lady. I'm not to wake anyone," he repeated.
"Save for an emergency, I heard you. Tell me, Archie – how do you know I am not in an emergency?"
"Well – you're not bleeding, miss."
"And I'm not ill. So how else can you tell that I'm worthy enough for you to wake the household?"
Archie's eyes briefly ran over Irene's own. He shook his head. "I can't, miss."
Irene frowned. The loyal boy blinked back at her, his forehead covered by a cluster of brown curls. His innocence brought with it a lack of naivety that most gatekeepers would have baulked at possessing.
She cleared her throat, digging back into her purse. "I've been invited," she explained, bringing out her letter. "Surely that circumvents any speculation on whether I'm distressed or not."
"My apologies miss. My lady likes me to be extra careful in the summer months." Shutting her carriage door, the boy turned away, running towards the gates. As the carriage entered, Irene stuffed the letter and coins into her purse. The drive was circular, the gravel shape surrounding a stone fountain. Its decoration was indiscernible in the black evening light. Twisted elaborate shapes spoke of both heaven and hell, of both war and peace.
Her carriage came to a stop, and she stepped out. A short set of steps led onto the porch. There were no coats of arms carved into stone above the door, no legacies. Irene knocked twice, loudly and rapidly, and stepped back. On the upper levels of the manor, she saw yellow flicker behind thin velvet curtains as a candle was lit. Behind the front door, she heard calls of panic.
"Who is that calls? Somebody, quick, answer – you, go on! Answer, see who comes!"
A footman greeted Irene, grand and impassive to his lady's panic. His mistress stood at the bottom of the main staircase in her nightgown and robe, holding a cane with one hand and her hip with the other. She peered at Irene through the low light, her eyes pressed together in a curious squint.
"Who is it that calls me?" she said slowly, her voice affected by age, though her demand was clear. Irene removed her travelling cloak, her eyes flicking up to the stairs. She smoothed her palms over her skirts as she approached her host.
"Lady Adler," she answered, taking her host's hand. "You invited me."
Her host's eyes widened. She clasped Irene's hand tighter. "But not for another week, child! I am happy to see you, of course I am, but – but—"
Irene's mouth dropped. "A week? I was sure you wanted me straight away! Oh, Lord forgive me, the inconvenience I must be causing – and to arrive at this hour! – It can't be good for your health – I'll go to town and spend the night there and return to London tomorrow."
"Oh, Lady Adler, if you think it possible, but the hour—"
"Aunt? What's going on down there?"
Meredith headed away from Irene, walking up the stairs. She craned her neck to speak to her niece. "Lady Alder has just arrived," she explained, throwing her voice up into the heavens. "But she was not to arrive for another week!"
Irene walked up the stairs as her host spoke, staring up through the multiple levels. Two floors above them, Molly stood to their left, leaning over the balustrade. She held her robe tight around her waist and held a candle lamp against her features. She peered curiously down the staircase.
"Poor timing on my part," Irene called up. "It seems your aunt has nowhere to put me."
Molly's brow dipped. "I don't see why you should go. We have plenty of rooms here, aunt."
"None that have been made ready," Meredith snapped. "Heavens! What wife shall you make a man if you do not understand a household is run?"
"One that is eager to learn, I'm sure," Irene replied. She looked back to Molly. "Don't worry, Molly. It's kind of you, but I'll find a room in town."
"Why can't you stay with me?"
Irene paused. She focused again at Molly.
Her cheeks were flushed pink from the candle's close heat. Her hair was loose, long, curled into tangles from her sleep. Her skin, against the dim darkness of the sleeping house, was entirely pale. Save for her face, made golden by the lamp. Her pink lips were a rosy red.
"Just for a night," Molly explained. "While her own rooms are made ready. It would save Lady Adler from riding into town so late."
Irene broke into a smile as Meredith sighed and spoke. Irene's eyes remained on Molly until she found herself addressed. "It's far too late to be riding, you're right. Lady Adler – would you share with my niece? It will only be for the one night, as she said. You can move into your rooms tomorrow morning."
She gave a sober nod to her host. "As long as it's only for the one night."
Molly returned to her room. Bid by her host, Irene headed up the stairs. The sound of Meredith's calls for a chambermaid followed her up.
The bed, an antique, its wood dark and its curtains heavy, stood in the centre of the room. Molly sat, her legs crossed, among its pillows. Silk thread had been used to weave a fine pattern of flowers and branches into the pillows covers. The bedsheets themselves were plain, without opulence. One painting hung in the room. Stationed above the dresser, opposite the bed, it depicted angels without wings. Their pale painted bodies were swathed in brushstrokes of white gauze, serenity carved into their faces as they danced among green woods. With quiet words a chambermaid ushered Irene into the dressing room.
The dressing room door was left open by a crack. Irene craned her neck to look through the sliver of light. She saw Molly.
Her head tilted back as she yawned widely. She stretched up, spreading her fingers wide, clasping her hands tight together before she lay down, her small body stretched out over the width of the covers.
Irene's lips curled into a smile.
Life at her aunt's moved slower than the life that surged through London. Past the thick glass windows, there were no carriages passing through, no drivers calling out to each other. Every duty was done with silence, everything and everyone put to its place with a bow of the head and short, murmured words.
Molly chuckled and lay across the bed's soft blankets, pulling her robe across her body against the cool temperature. Spring was crisp in the day, but here, the winter nights still clung on. Every morning, she'd awoken to frost and mist descending upon the grassy grounds of her aunt's estate. She'd watched as the sun had come every morning, rising to melt the frost into spring dew and thought of Helios in his chariot, batting away shadows, bringing warmth. Rolling onto her back, Molly tucked her hand behind her head. Her fingers ran small, thoughtful circles against her hair.
In the months she had known Lady Adler, during the lessons she'd been taught by her, Molly had seen a dramatic nature in her friend. A nature which led to a fondness for playfulness and mischief. Molly had loved her father dearly, loved her mother just the same, but there had never been room for mischief. Her father wished her to be intellectual. Always reading, with opinions she felt free to give. Her mother wished her to dress well, to have manners; to know when to speak, and of what to speak. They had been two opposing sides, she the battleground, and no victory.
The dressing room door opened. Molly sat up. Lady Adler entered the bed chamber, dressed now in her chemise and stockings. The maid curtsied and stood to the side.
A chaise longue stood at the end of the bed, the damask pattern white overlaid with black. Lady Adler lay against it, throwing her arm against her forehead.
"Molly, I've had a long journey." A silence. "Remove my stockings for me, could you?"
The silence transformed into a beat.
Molly slowly slid off the bed to stand.
She moved towards Lady Adler.
She was laid across the chaise, drawing the damask pattern with her fingernails. As Molly approached her, she sank further down the seat of the chaise, her legs curving up to her waist. Her eyes were hooded with exhaustion. Her chemise was thin. The hem of it pooled against the edge of her hips. Through the thin white muslin, Molly saw the shapes of her nipples. Her eyes traced the length of Lady Adler's body, settling on the dark patch of hair at her groin, just visible through the thin cotton. She swallowed. Her fingers flexed. Lady Adler wound her long dark hair, curled from a day of being pulled and held in place by pins, around her left shoulder. Her eyes snapped open. Molly looked away, staring down the stockings that went up Lady Adler's legs. They were more toned than she expected.
The stockings ended just above her knee, the tops of them tied with a white satin ribbon. The bow was small and at the side, easy for Lady Adler to undo.
Molly bent down. Her fingers hovered against Lady Adler's left leg. Faint hairs tickled the skin of her thighs, and Molly was struck with how beautiful her friend was.
She clasped one strand of the bow between her forefinger and thumb.
"Gently," Lady Adler whispered, barely a moment away from her but still feeling so high above her. Molly eased the ribbon from its bow. It came to pieces underneath her touch. The satin fluttered against Lady Adler's thigh. Molly repeated the motion with the second stocking. She felt rather than saw Lady Adler's approving smile. Her heart swelled with pride. She sank to her knees.
Her hands returned to the first stocking. The touch of her fingertips against Lady Adler's thigh was akin to feeling lightning in the air during a storm. Her hair stood on end, every part of her skin tingling with something unknown, as she rolled the stocking down Lady Adler's leg. Molly paused when she came to her ankle. A breath held as her palm tucked underneath the ankle. She peeled the stocking off her foot. Lady Adler gently withdrew her leg from Molly's hold, setting it against the chaise longue. Only after Molly repeated the motion with the second stocking did she speak.
"Thank you, my friend," she said softly. Molly lifted her head. Lady Adler sat up, leaning towards her. Molly instinctively leaned closer. Lady Adler's finger tucked against Molly's chin. Her smile crossed with something playful. Molly found some part of her, some deep part of her, wondered if this had all been planned. Lady Adler guided Molly closer with barely a word.
Her mouth on Molly's was light, chaste. Similar kisses had been given to her by Samuel, quick kisses pressed to her hand with every hello and goodbye he had given her. Pain pressed on her.
Lady Adler slid her palm against Molly's cheek and, quite suddenly, the pain in her heart subsided. Lady Adler's glance flicked to the side. The playful smile left her, replaced with a cold quirk of an eyebrow.
"You may leave us."
The door shut behind the chambermaid. Lady Adler drew away from Molly to stand. Her chemise was pulled over her head, abandoned on the floor. Molly watched her naked form duck back into the dressing room with fascination. The feeling grew when she re-entered, pooling between her thighs. If Lady Adler's chemise had been thin, her nightgown was sheer. Lady Adler climbed into the bed. Molly followed.
She was not unused to a sleeping companion. In her youth, up until she was no longer a babe babbling nonsense words, her nanny had slept beside her. Her nanny had been a security, the needed warmth to remind Molly that the nightmares she suffered were dreams that could not find her in reality.
A sleeping sigh behind her, and she felt a hand begin to curl around her waist. Molly froze.
"I shall not harm you," Lady Adler whispered against her ear, her breaths hot and sticky in the clinging winter air. Molly felt a brief chill. Frost was coming, mist descending. Dewdrops would soak into the gardener's shoes as he would work in the dawn.
Lady Adler's hand came to rest at her shoulder. Molly breathed and sank into the touch. Lady Adler's lips pressed a warm kiss to her skin.
"Never quite understood the need for a sleeping companion," Lady Adler murmured, in rumination. Her hand descended towards the hem of Molly's nightgown. She gradually drew up the material. Her fingers danced thoughtfully over Molly's half-exposed back. "Perhaps when a girl is still a girl, yes, but beyond that – seems a bit excessive."
Lady Adler kissed down the space of Molly's back, and the edge of her hip. Molly let out a giggle as she was turned onto her back, her friend's hand once more at her shoulder, pressing her into the mattress. Lady Adler shifted down the bed to kiss the softest part of Molly's belly. Molly's giggle left her at the touch. An instinctive shiver ran down her spine, Lady Adler's hands guiding her legs apart. She was pliant wherever Lady Adler touched her, stroked her-caressed her.
She touched something within Molly that had her shiver become a gasp, a sound that touched the tip of her lips. If they had been anywhere else but here, against the cold, the sound might've crystallised, become a soft cloud of mist, showing her surprise and pleasure for everyone to see. Molly gasped again, deeper than before. Her back keened up, asking for more from her fingers. Lady Adler's features were a half-appraising, half-amused look but her eyes, when Molly looked upon them, were fierce.
Her voice dropped to a whisper as she ran along the length of Molly's collarbone with her fingertips.
"I will not be here tomorrow night,"-Molly whined underneath her—"but I can be."
Her lips returned to Molly's ear. She threaded her hand against the back of Molly's head. Her fingers curled tight against Molly's hair.
"Leave your door open for me?" she asked.
Molly turned her head towards Irene. She was so close. Her scent thick, every line and bump and imperfection together in one perfect image. Molly nuzzled the hollow of Irene's cheek. Her answer was easy, floating from the effect of a sigh. "Yes."
Her friend smiled and rolled onto her right side. She lay on her right side, with her hand tucked at the side of her head, her body propped up with her elbow. Molly's sight blurred for a second, the excitement fading into exhaustion. Her eyelids fluttered closed. She felt Irene stroke her hair, and heard her softly urge her into sleep.
"Ah, my dear!" The arched windows of the breakfast room flooded the room with mid-morning sunlight. Her aunt, powdered and surrounded by the scent of perfume, rose to her feet and pressed her cheek to Molly's in a light greeting kiss. She gestured for her to sit by her side. "Irene did ask for me to send for you, but considering her late arrival last night, and how it disturbed you, I didn't think it would've been wise to have you rise early. My doctor tells me exhaustion can severely affect the health."
Molly began her breakfast with a demurring smile. "That's considerate of you aunt," she said politely, starting to eat. She laughed lightly. "I'm sure my health will thank you in years to come."
Her aunt blinked. She turned to Irene.
"How did you feel this morning? It is a long way by carriage. I've been up to London only a few times – not so much in recent years – and every time I've found the journey far too arduous for me. I found myself greatly disturbed for days afterwards."
"I slept well." Molly's gaze strayed, finding Irene's fingers. They held fine silver cutlery. Her forefingers ran along the spine of the fork and the knife. Each cut she gave was quick, slicing her food into two, and two again. The conversation continued, the words exchanged turning to society conversation, about fashions and balls. Irene's conversation never strayed into the world of scandal. That, Molly knew, was for the shadows.
She had seen her mother, overheard conversations in the parlour after dinner, when the men were away sharing cigars and whiskey. (She had once asked her governess for a taste of whiskey, and it was only after her father caught wind of the refusal that she found herself drinking his glass. The alcohol had burned her tongue, and the scent had given her a cough in her throat. It was the hardest her father had ever laughed.) The parlour room had been a small room, candlelit with pale pink walls and deep, dark red drapes hanging from the narrow windows. A fire, whether it was winter or summer, roared in the fireplace. Tea was laid out on a low coffee table, served by a maid. After tea came the conversation. Her mother's conversations with her friends had stuck for a while to books, to projects undertaken; but soon the characters and victims were replaced by thrilling tales of affairs and betrayals.
Irene's words were innocent, sometimes edged with mischief, her humour often a thread. They were a relief.
"Aunt—"
Both her aunt and Irene turned to see her, and she realised she had interrupted. Molly smiled apologetically.
"May I be excused? I wanted to walk around the gardens a while."
"Oh, well, of course. The architect took inspiration from Capability Brown, you know, when designing the grounds. And make sure to look in on the walled garden. The gardener has put in a new set of flowers; I specifically requested bright colours. They were very much needed after this awful winter."
Molly smiled at her aunt's eager words. "Maybe you could give me a tour, aunt?"
"No – no, flowers make me quite ill in the summer months. My doctor advises me to stay inside as much as possible. But if you ask the gardener, he shall be happy to show you."
"I'll confess it's been a while since I saw the walled garden, Lady Warren." Irene set her cutlery against her plate. Delicately, she wiped at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. The manner sparked with something familiar that drew Molly into a memory of warmth underneath bed covers. She cleared her throat and lowered her head.
"Why don't we explore the gardens together?" Irene suggested. Molly looked up. "Then if either of us show any sign of illness, we can be escorted back to the house."
Her aunt nodded amiably.
"Yes, do. I'll be in the drawing room – and make sure to talk to the gardener!" she added to their departing figures. Molly glanced at her aunt with a kind smile.
"We will, aunt. Take care."
Greenwood's park stretched on for a good mile or two, a brief unbroken expanse of fresh cut grass. Its scent held in the air. Their footsteps crunched against the white gravel. Irene, Lady Adler, wound her arm around Molly's.
"I can't stop thinking of last night," Molly confessed into their quiet, leaning close to her friend. "It happened so quickly – I barely felt like myself."
Irene shrugged a shoulder. "You were curious. I could see it in you. It's good to be curious."
"No." Irene's eyebrows dipped, but her frown slowly left her. Molly cleared her throat. "That is, it didn't feel like a curiosity. It felt like… as if it was something that should've been done before. Long before."
They rounded a corner in the gravel path, coming to the walled garden. Shallow stone steps led up to a tall iron gate held between walls of red brick. Beyond the iron bars, a stone path lined flowerbeds and a wide central fountain. A grand battle was carved out in miniature, the darkened stone telling of a hero's battle with a grotesque, a monster with curled lip and sharp teeth. At its base, water poured from the hands of desperate damsels, their stone feet touching the lip of the still water. Summer flowers surrounded the grand battle. Stone benches allowed for witnesses to sit and gaze upon the frozen moment.
Molly let go of Irene and pushed open the gate. The garden was quiet. When Irene spoke to her, her tone even, Molly felt a rush of relief.
"You said a lot of things last night – when we were together." Irene's voice took on a softer mantle. She sat on one of the stone benches, bending down behind her. Her eyes lowered towards a sweet pea flower. Her hand reached out and she stroked its lilac-coloured petals. Irene's eyes lifted to find Molly again. "Do you want to take them back?"
Molly frowned.
"No. I don't." She had spoken of not feeling herself when Irene had touched her, had whispered so gently, so lowly, into her ear. She had not spoken of the delight she'd felt at the sensation. The nimbus delights of being taken away from expectation and failed endeavours. Samuel. Molly saw her friend's quiet stare, and sat beside her.
Irene's stare turned examining, glancing over Molly's form. She narrowed her eyes.
"That's what scares you. Isn't it?" When Molly nodded, she raised her hand from the flower. She slid her palm into Molly's, the pads of her fingers stroking against Molly's pale skin. Echoes of the night. (Perhaps promises.) Irene's other hand touched her neck. Her breath trembled. "It's perfectly natural for a woman to love both men and women. And we are away from the world here, my friend."
Molly held Irene's gaze. Her mouth hovered, bottom lip open, her words ready for Irene to hear, to take into her memory.
"My door will always be open to you, Lady Adler."
Summoned by a maid, Molly dropped into an apologetic curtsey—but her apology faded when she found her host. She stood in the middle of the ballroom. Mirrors reflected the wide circular shape of the room. French doors, at the north side of the room, let in white sunlight. Particles of dust hovered in the air. A small orchestra, her private orchestra, inspected and tuned their instruments, plucking the strings with their fingers. Molly's host smiled and swept down into a bow.
Her black hair was combed back, hidden underneath a dark-coloured wig. A cravat tied loose around her neck, the sleeves of her white shirt were gathered loosely at the cuff. She wore plain green-coloured breeches on her lower half. The appearance of a man, tailored to her form. Lady Adler straightened. Every movement she made was reflected in the polished surface of the mirrors.
If a lady such as yourself is to progress in society, she claimed with a smile of masculine charm, you must learn to dance. Taking a step back, she bowed. The orchestra began. The gesture already learned, Molly dropped into a curtsey, rising to her feet. Lady Alder gave a nod. Very good. She took Molly's hand, her waist; and urged her towards the dancefloor.
Irene unfurled her hand from Molly's bare waist, her lips dropping kisses onto her hardened nipple. Molly sighed away the memory of the lesson. Her hands disappeared into Irene's hair.
Thin streams of blue, moonlight, covered their bare bodies. The plain bedcovers underneath them were pushed to the side, leaving only sheets as white as snow. Wingless angels, forever dancing in the wood, were the only watchers. Irene leaned over Molly, her mouth tasting the line of her friend's collarbone. Strands of her hair fell against Molly's small chest.
"I've had many bedfellows," Irene confessed against Molly's skin with heated breath, "but none quite as eager as you, Molly."
"It feels right," Molly gasped into the dark. It felt right when Irene touched at her and kissed her breasts. It felt as right as when she had touched herself, alone in her bedchambers, and imagined a man of golden hair and blue eyes holding her, caressing her as the stories told her he would. Molly whined as Irene kissed her other breast, covering the other with her palm. "So – so right."
Irene shifted down, kissing her stomach where she had kissed before. Molly relaxed, spreading her legs, pliant once more. Already her friend knew her so well.
Irene traced her fingers down and around the path of her thighs. Irene's nails scratched gently against her white skin. Her lips mouthed a kiss to her stomach as she hitched both of Molly's legs over her shoulders. Molly's chest and cheeks flushed pink. Her body tightened, her toes curling against Irene's shoulder blades, her fingers threading back into Irene's dark hair.
Her imagination, when she had been alone and it had been her hands, had never ventured this far. It had always left her with a thrum and an ache. Knowledge that there was more, so much more, to be found. To be taken from her.
"Relax," Irene whispered. Her hands ran with reverence over her body, worshipping. She cupped Molly's sex, sinking a finger into her wet folds. Molly shuddered. Irene moaned. "Oh, you're so wet Molly. I've prayed to God for a lover like you."
It was a separate world, Greenwood, these chambers, and Molly wanted more than anything to drown within it. To be a lost figure, body flailing and desperate, but claimed nonetheless. Let me be claimed, she prayed. Let me be claimed.
Irene's tongue, clever with words, breached her cunt. She explored Molly's heated centre, licking and sucking at her clit. Molly watched in wonderment as Irene's head bobbed. A pant came up from her chest, she writhed in sweet agony. This was what it was like: to be claimed.
Then Irene inserted a finger, rotating it against Molly's clit as her tongue worked deeper at her centre. Molly bit hard on her bottom lip to contain her shriek of delight. (This might have been new to her, but discretion was not.) Muted grunts came from her still, and her hips bucked. Irene grinned as she withdrew her mouth, wiping at her lips. Molly whined, but her protest bled into a gasp, a surprised giggle, as Irene slid a second finger into her, pumping her fingers against her centre, made so ready and wanting by her tongue.
Molly bucked and fucked herself on Irene's fingers. Each pant, each soft slow moan, filled her ears until there was a pulse at the back of her head. It pulsed with one thought. A thought that Irene whispered against her cheek.
"Come." She kissed Molly, her tongue salty with the taste of her. "Come for me."
"I'm so near," Molly whimpered, her voice a breath. Tears came to her. "Please – please, give me your tongue – whatever you did—"
Irene slowed the thrusts. She tutted, smoothing strands of Molly's hair back from her sweat-soaked forehead.
"That's only for good girls," Irene said huskily, deep in Molly's ear. "Good girls come when I tell them to. Are you going to come for me?"
She was full to bursting and she needed more. Molly wiggled and writhed before the wingless angels, begging so quietly that only Irene could hear, Molly's breath warm on her cheek.
"I'll come, I'll come—" she panted. A deep-throated groan took her.
Molly sank back on the bed, boneless.
Irene withdrew her fingers and rolled over onto her stomach, sighing a contended sigh.
Molly watched Irene's back. Her muscles were relaxed now, but the memory of them taut and flexing as they'd held her thighs, keeping her sex tight against her mouth, remained sparkling in her head. Molly shifted closer and lifted a hand.
She traced a soft line down Irene's back.
Her friend shivered underneath her touch and shifted, turning her head.
Molly continued to draw a line, a pattern that followed the shallow curve of Irene's spine, of her form. She stopped when she came to Irene's lower back. Molly's breath hitched. Irene had released something so new and yet so old within her, something hidden far beneath contradicting educations and opposing opinions.
She changed the direction of the line. Inching up, she curved the invisible line across Irene's lower back. The line stopped at her hip, where Molly cupped it with her palm, squeezing it lightly in question.
Irene rolled onto her back. Her blue eyes were blazing. She spread her legs. She took hold of Molly's hand.
Slowly, she guided it down towards her groin, the patch of small curled black hairs. Under Irene's hold Molly spread out her fingers. With deference, a devout eagerness, she brushed her fingertips over the black hairs.
"Go ahead," Irene whispered.
Listening to her aunt, Molly half wondered if she should question the validity of her aunt's physician. He seemed, whoever he was, intent on keeping her inside. Away from sunlight, away from flowers, away from the beauty of her own home.
Irene sat opposite her on the rounded breakfast table. Among the food sat a plate of chocolates piled high. As Molly's aunt chattered about her health, Irene picked one out. It was round. She tossed it from hand to hand, feeling its weight before she held it in her right, between her finger and thumb. Innocently, she bit into the chocolate. White cream bled, oozing out of it. Her pink tongue darted out to catch the excess. Swallowing, she popped the rest of the chocolate into her mouth and with a casual turn of her head, Irene watched Molly's aunt come to the end of her conversation.
"I thought I might extend my visit," she announced. "To a period of two months – perhaps three? I admit that my illness is not the main cause. That will be cleared in a matter of weeks, for it is only a common cold. But with the London season approaching, I do need some respite, and Hampshire feels like the perfect place. Of course, my lady, if it is too much inconvenience for you and Molly—"
Irene's words were hushed and dismissed in quick succession by her aunt, who insisted Lady Adler stay for as long as needed. "The most common of diseases can lead to the worst of maladies, my dear," she said sagely.
Secretly, Molly grinned.