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THE MORNING AFTER THE DANBURY BALL, Elizabeth sat in the Beaumont drawing-room with her sisters, and their mother, Helena. Callers had been filtering in and out all morning, all of which bearing gifts and, unfortunately, flowers. The abundance of flowers was all she could focus on, for they stuffed her nose and watered her eyes. Despite the flowers dampening her senses, her hearing remained unaffected, allowing her to appreciate the beautiful melody that filled the space. The music originated from the pianoforte in which the ever-so-talented Ophelia nimbly played. The talent seeped from her fingers, pressed into the keys and blessed the ears of all who were fortunate enough to be in listening range.
The cook had prepared a large number of biscuits as well as other treats, an impressive feat considering the rest of the kitchen staff had been fired. Looking at the food, Elizabeth's stomach knotted. No doubt Helena ordered the cook to prepare the amount present in an effort to create the image that the Beaumonts were affluent enough to have a team of cooks. Elizabeth pitied the one cook remaining. The poor soul must have begun baking in the early hours of the morning, only for the food to be scarcely touched.
Although she was not hungry, she reached over and grabbed a biscuit.
Sunlight seeped through the open drapes brightening the yellow of the floral wallpaper covering the walls further and shimmering in the crystal chandelier above. The light hit the portrait of the Beaumont sisters behind Beatrice's head, adding a glowy hue to the rather dark and dull painting.
A tea set was set on the coffee table between Elizabeth and Beatrice. The entire morning, Beatrice had been sneaking glances at Elizabeth whenever she was speaking with a suitor. If the gentleman was droning on and on about himself, she would send her sister an unimpressed look and if he had said something unbecoming or distasteful, Beatrice would widen her eyes in disbelief. To be honest, Elizabeth found the silent forms of communication to be very entertaining.
Frederica, seated next to Elizabeth, was busy working on her needlepoint. Much like Beatrice, the youngest Beaumont sister was awful with needlepoint. Countless hours have been spent where Elizabeth attempted to help them improve, however, to no avail. For the sisters never improved and their pieces were often subjected to droplets of blood from pricked fingers. Their talents lay elsewhere, yet unfortunately, their mother was adamant about needlepoint.
"Ouch!" Frederica winced upon striking her finger with the needle for the nth time that morning. Turning to Helena, she groaned, "Mama, why must I practice needlepoint? I do not like needlepoint nor am I any good. I'd much prefer to practice my harp, which I am quite talented at might I add!"
Helena did not look up from her needlepoint. "Frederica, you are practicing needlepoint because I wish that you do."
Frederica huffed, irritated.
"I would like to hear Freddie play the harp, mama," Beatrice added, sharing a soft smile with Frederica. "I'm sure Ophelia would be relieved to have a moment of respite. She has been playing for hours."
