Page 35 of A Rare Find

“There are two kinds of fashionable.” Georgie stopped fiddling with their hair. “The fashionable everyone agrees on, and the fashionable everyone disagrees on.”

“She didn’t say which.” Agnes looked troubled. “What’s the difference?”

“The former guarantees acceptance, and the latter guarantees attention.”

“And what is the Titus?”

“The latter.”

Agnes pondered with observable vehemence.

“I long for attention,” she said, fervently. “I keep my mother’s pocket mirror in my bedchamber, and some days I stare into my own eyes for hours.”

“Ah.” Georgie rubbed the back of their neck, struggling to hold Agnes’s gaze, which was decidedly hungry.

“Beatrice and I used to stare into each other’s eyes.” She sagged against the doorframe. “Could she have forgotten me? I haven’t received a letter.”

“How long has it been?”

“Twenty hours.” She thrust out her chin. “It feels longer.”

“I’m sure it does,” said Georgie, with sympathy. “Twenty hours can feel like a million years. I’ve felt my heart fossilize while waiting for letters.”

“So have I!” Agnes drew a sharp breath. “You understand me. No one understands me.” She paused. “Except Beatrice. But she’s in London.”

“Beatrice Parker?” Georgie had once spent a lovely evening kissing her older sister on one of the dark walks that wound through Vauxhall Gardens.

“Beatrice Eliza Parker. We were both born in February, but she was born on the first, and I was born on leap day.”

“I doubt she has forgotten you.” Georgie hid a smile. “And I hope the next knock is the post boy.”

“Do you know what?” Agnes lowered her voice. “Neither Beatrice nor I have ever thought you were terrible. When Elfreda says you are the worst person who ever lived, I remind her of Richard III and Caligula.”

Georgie frowned.

“I appreciate that,” they said, their voice a bit too dry.

Agnes nodded. “You fed Rowena rose petals when you came to dinner that time at the Parkers’. That was very kind.” She paused. “How did you know that rabbits like roses?”

Georgie tried to peer around her into the house. “Everyone likes roses.”

“I mean to eat,” she said.

Georgie gave up. “Lucky guess. Is Rowena well? Nibbling spring violets?”

Agnes’s eyes filled with tears, and she threw herself into Georgie’s arms. She was still a worrisomely enthusiastic hugger. Georgie grunted as the pressure on their ribs increased.

“There, there,” they said. “I can come back another day.”

“Will you?” Agnes sniffled into Georgie’s spencer. “No one ever calls now that Beatrice is gone. I’m ever so lonely. Elfreda is always occupied, and the twins aren’t any good for conversation. Yesterday they decided they’re spoonicorns and all they do is gallop down the halls and whinny.”

“Spoonicorn is like unicorn?” Georgie was beginning to feel damp and out of their depth.

“But with a spoon instead of a horn.” Agnes finally ended the hug, stepping back, nose red. “Would you like to attend a concert? If you come up to the music room, I will play my lute.”

Her hopeful expression gave Georgie a pang. You could forget the misery of adolescence until a member of that suffering tribe stood before you, spotty, weepy, and a little bit crazed.

“I’d love to,” they lied. “But I should speak with Elfreda first.”