The Strange Case of Finley Jayne

The main part of the house was just as impressive as the outside, with cathedral ceilings, marble floors and classical statues. Finley paused for a moment to take it all in. She clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping—wouldn’t do for her to show her awe. Standing around with one’s mouth open made one look like a lowbrow commoner, which she might very well be, but was determined not to look it.

Down another corridor. Mrs. Gale stopped and knocked on a partially open door, and when she was given permission from the lady within, she opened the door the rest of the way. “Miss Jayne has arrived, my lady.”

“Send her in.”

And then Finley was on her own, wishing she had the sturdy housekeeper to cling to. She crossed the threshold into a small, pretty blue parlor and found herself being stared at by three identically green eyes, and one stormy one.

“Miss Jayne,” Lady Morton greeted with a smile. “How lovely to see you again. Allow me to introduce my daughter, Phoebe.”

“Hello, Finley,” the girl said. She was about the same age as Finley. At the oldest she might be seventeen. She was about the same height, with a similar build, but her hair was auburn and her skin as pale as milk, with just a hint of pink along her cheeks. “How do you do?”

Finley was prevented from curtsying, as she had been brought up to do, by the girl offering her hand. Was she to be treated as an equal then? She closed her fingers around Phoebe’s and tried not to squeeze too hard. The girl’s grip was firm.

“I’m well, thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Phoebe.”

“Just Phoebe,” she was told. “We’re to be friends after all. Please, sit. Tea?”

“Yes, please.” Finley sat on the edge of the sofa beside Phoebe and watched as the girl fixed a cup for her. She even placed a couple of biscuits on the saucer.

“We’re to a party tonight, Miss Jayne,” Lady Morton informed her. “You will accompany us. I assume you haven’t an evening gown?”

“You assume right, my lady.” Embarrassed, Finley took a sip of tea to hide her flush. Would the lady think twice now about hiring her?

“No worries,” Phoebe said with a wave of her hand. “I have plenty. You may borrow mine until we can get you some of your own. We’ll go to the dressmaker’s tomorrow.”

Finley paled. If the cost of gowns came out of her salary she’d still be poor next year.

Phoebe chuckled. “It won’t be that horrible, trust me. I’ll make certain they don’t put you in anything horrendous, and Papa will pay for it. You don’t have to do a thing but stand there and hope they don’t stick you with a pin.”

Any minute she was going to wake up from this amazing dream and find herself in a workhouse or something equally awful.

“You’re too generous.”

Phoebe laughed again and flashed a smile at her mother, who also looked amused. “You won’t think that this evening when you’re bored out of your skull.”

She’d never been to an aristocratic function before. What if she made a fool of herself? Or worse—of Phoebe? The thought made her biscuit taste like ash in her mouth. “What sort of party is it?”