Page 12 of The Scandalous Saga of the White Lady

“They are lovely together, my dear. But I hope you did not go overboard with your expenditures?” Anna said, as she flopped down in her most comfortable chair awaiting the arrival of their tea.

“I was prudent,” Dorothy insisted. “But you bought hardly anything. What happed to that lovely blue dress you were ogling?”

Anna sighed. “It was quite pretty, but I did not think I would have occasion to wear it soon again, so I decided against it.”

“Oh, Sister, you hardly ever pamper yourself. You are far too severe.”

“It is not that. But I may be too practical at times. I do not like waste or frivolity.”

“Like I do, I suppose?” Dorothy said with a slight pout.

“Not at all, dear. You are always just your true exuberant self and it is charming.”

Warrick came in with the tea tray, set it on the table and poured the first cups for them. The sisters went to the table and sat.

“Thank you, we will be fine now,” Anna said to the butler.

“Ladies,” he said and left.

Dorothy leaned over the plate of tea cakes, picked one up, bit into it, but did not like it, and put it back on the plate. Then she did it a second time with another cake.

“Dorothy, what are you doing? That is disgusting. I hope you will be better behaved at the dance dinner.”

“But they are stale,” she complained.

“That may be, but do not put them back on the serving plate. You know better than that.”

“But it is just us. It doesn’t matter.”

“Nevertheless…”

Dorothy found a cake she liked and sat back in her chair and gazed at her sister with a smile.

“Tell me about your Mr. Christopher Stewart.”

“He is notmyMr. Stewart. He is a pleasant gentleman, and for some unknown reason, he seems to have taken a fancy to me and…”

“And what?” Dorothy pried.

“He wants us to dance on the evening and he might have suggested a correspondence when he returns home.”

Dorothy leaned forward with a salacious grin. “He wants to write you? Already? He hardly knows you.”

“Exactly. It is a ridiculous notion.”

“I think he is dreamy,” Dorothy said. She sat back in her chair again and extended her arms out to her side as though to embrace the whole world.

“He is pleasant,” was all Anna would admit to.

“He said he wants to dance with me as well.”

“Then I expect he shall.”

“But I will not if he is to be your beau,” Dorothy said pouring another cup of tea.

“Really, Dorothy, he is not my beau. You really are too romantic sometimes. And I cannot even imagine that anything will come of it. He lives in Dorset and that might as well be China for all the good it will do anyone who lives in Wiltshire. I am quite certain that, once he returns home, we shall never hear from him again.”

“Does he have a handsome brother that looks like him?”