Cassandra laughed. “I’m not supposed to be here? I fancy Mrs. Withers would be far more alarmed to walk in and find you hiding in her store room than me,” she teased with mock dignity, a display slightly ruined by a few giggles as she pictured the scene to follow. “You do realize, of course, Mrs. Withers would be half-shocked and half-over-awed to find a Prince of all Aclea squatting amongst her flour. She will ultimately, I’m sure, boast of the event for years to come and, likely, beg of you your seal to use above her door – and, likely, get it too, given how you will be granted not a wink of rest until she’s had her way. Truly, in such an event, I pity you.”
Mrs. Withers was, arguably, the worst gossip in Elsbridge which, in so small a town, so burgeoning with gossips as this, was an achievement. Cassandra had always found the name of her shop — the Three Roses — quite amusing for two reasons. First, Mrs. Withers had a well-known tendency (which she apparently considered quite subtle) for using the maintenance of her roses as an excuse to spy and easedrop on her neighbors and, second, because Cassandra liked to joke that — despite the abundance of rose bushes dotting the landscape of her garden — Mrs. Withers could only boast three rose blossoms due to her sad tendency to accidentally decapitate the flowers in her eagerness to overhear the latest tittle tattle.
“You do realize the gossip would suddenly become that you’re a the notorious thief who plagues everyone who has extra riches to boast of, that I’m mourning a broken heart watching Mr. Persimmons’ passion for all five of the Turners, and that both you and I are even now planning some diabolical and incomprehensible retribution on, likely, High Inquisitor Griffiths or some such personage, which only relates to our troubles in a very confusing and circuitous fashion.”
That was something Cassandra liked very much about Mrs. Withers: oh, she always jumped to conclusions, but never obvious ones. Another person spotting two rich, attractive young people both hiding away somewhere might draw the obvious, tawdry conclusions, but Mrs. Withers was more…creative in her conclusions. In fact, usually they were quite wild. Why, just recently a young woman dancing along a local wood had been declared scandalous by Mrs. Murdock – the chiefest of the gossips in Elsbridge – but Mrs. Withers had not thought their speculations about harlotry could be quite correct: Mrs. Withers had put it around that this behavior was that not of a harlot, as the Queen of the Gossips had declared it to be, but the act of a religious zealot. What deity this supposed ritual had served was unclear, as was its purpose and truly anything else about it, but to Mrs. Withers, no intention had ever been more certain and she could not be drawn off her opinion of the matter for anything.
Cassandra laughed. “At least Isabella isn’t finding any excuse to yodel…a plight I have, admittedly, both cultivated and brought upon myself. I think I shall bring Mr. Persimmons round again to the snake skins. It was far more merciful on my ears.” Cassandra chuckled. “Do not pity me, sir, in my case, I am extremely diverted. My worst trial is twofold: first, I do so wish I were not the center of all his attentions: he is far more managable and diverting when one may share his focus with another and, two, my self-discipline is taxed to its last shred. I am dying to laugh! And I cannot! I feel fit to burst. So we needn’t wish Mr. Persimmons on poor Isabella, again, just yet.”
She paused, a look of sympathy entering her expression. She knew the conclusions of their relationship had proven painful both to the Prince and to th Dragonrider, and Cassandra wished, uselessly, that there were something she could do to aid them both. She could, at least, make him laugh, she concluded, and decided to try.
“Perhaps you could take a page out of your brother’s playbook and escort whichever of the Astleys or Turners who best suits your mood, any given day,” she suggested with a playful smirk. “The Prince of Arith told me off just yesterday for so shamefully attaching myself to your cousin, Charles,” she added, eyes twinkling with amusement. “When I knew full well my heart lay a different way. I confess, I did nothing to dispel such attributions and, instead, I threatened to become a priestess of Vestia and spend all the rest of my days wailing at her altar for the love I was denied. In truth, I’ve no notion who I’m supposed to be in love with, and I’m sure I’ve made things so much worse for everyone, but I could not resist. It was the most ridiculous thing I could think to say at the time, and you know in such moments my mind always flies to the ludicrous.
“In any case, I certainly caught him off guard with that line,” she laughed. “I’ve never seen someone look quite so stricken. He turned beet red and looked as if he would choke, and then he told me — half-yelling, half-commanding — that ‘True piety is the essence of truth!’ which as far as I can tell, means just…nothing at all, so I knelt and began to pray to cover that I was laughing so. I think I may fairly say that he does not now know what to think of me anymore than I of him.”
dailybridgerton
dededos
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