Free Blind Trust by Susannah Bamford Page A

tends to disappear at the oddest times. I suspect she is conducting a flirtation with the newspaperman two doors down.”
    Columbine wondered how long she would need to chatter before her visitor felt at all at ease. She had barely been successful at concealing her surprise when Mrs. Claude Statton had shown up at her door. “Did you have trouble finding my house? The willow tree weeps over the door, I know.”
    â€œI asked my cousin for the address. I haven’t been to this part of Twenty-third Street before,” Darcy said. Then she blushed furiously. “It’s charming,” she said confusedly.
    Columbine laughed. “How charming of you to say so. My friend Mr. Van Cormandt thinks it appalling. But it suits me. It is near my work. And I have such interesting neighbors. Oh, Bell, here you are, tea at last. Thank you. Please tell Mrs. Hudson that I am again not at home for callers. Now you can go back to Mr. Fresham, who is hanging over the garden gate waiting for you, I’m sure.”
    The pretty maid grinned, curtsied, and left. Darcy tried to conceal her surprise at Columbine’s tone. It wasn’t ignorance that made her speak to her servant in such a strange—such a personal— manner. As a daughter of an English peer—was her father a duke, had Adelle told her that?—Columbine must be used to servants.
    â€œBell has been with me forever. She’s followed me over hill and dale … oh, dear, I do manage to spill so often. Thank heavens my mother isn’t here. Perhaps you should pour, such heresy—no, how terrible of me, there we are. Wasn’t it a wonderful ball at Delmonico’s? So much to see and to say, wasn’t there?”
    â€œI—I don’t know,” Darcy admitted. “The season has barely begun, and I find I’ve had all the conversations I’m going to have already. I seem to have the same ones over and over again.”
    â€œWell, you must say the same things yourself, over and over,” Columbine said practically. She took any possible sting out of her words as she handed Darcy her cup. “I know just what you mean, of course. Back in England, after I came out, and then when I was married to Mr. Nash, of course we went to the same places, saw the same faces, day after day after day … Of course things are a bit better in England. They don’t treat women quite so much like dolls. New York society, of course, hasn’t learned to take women seriously. Or perhaps it did once, and now it’s forgotten. I’ve been flirted with and complimented and flattered delightfully—yes, I’m not immune to it; I rather enjoy it, I must say—but I’ve never been conversed with. Now in England, there’s the grand tradition of the brilliant London hostess, you know, who stimulates her guests and encourages talk. And we’re allowed to talk of politics and art at the dinner table, which is so much nicer. And of course we allow writers and actors in our drawing rooms. So things are a bit more interesting. But just a bit.” Columbine sipped her tea. “Oh,” she burst out, “try as I might, I cannot decipher this New York society! I fumble along—”
    Darcy put down her teacup. “No, Mrs. Nash, I don’t believe you do.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    Darcy smiled thinly. “You don’t fumble, I think, except when nervous ladies intrude on your drawing room and perch on the edge of their chairs. You’ve never spilled a drop of tea in your life. And you don’t natter on like this normally, do you?”
    A slow smile spread over Columbine’s face. “Oh, my,” she said.
    â€œI appreciate your kindness. You’re trying to put me at ease. But I don’t think it’s possible to put me at my ease today, Mrs. Nash. I’m afraid I… I’m not supposed to be here, you know.” To cover the admission, Darcy reached