Faces of the Wind

Chapter 2

"People in London have been talking and I brushed it all off as malicious gossip!" Lady Valerie Longfeather, Irene's grandmother, ranted from between tight lips decorated with wrinkles as she angrily fluttered her ostrich feather fan.

"You exaggerate, granny," Irene replied in a cool tone, cuddling her beige pug, "if they talk, they are jealous."

Lady Longfeather shrieked, "Jealous?" Her glare grew wider and she shot Irene's mother, who sat to her left, one of her accusatory glares.

"Would you care for some tea, Mama?" Edith asked, reaching for the brass tea bell and gently holding it.

"So long as you mix your tea with brandy!" The old lady snapped. She turned to look at Irene and said, "You are not to ever see that rascal nor acknowledge him anywhere he is present. He has a foul reputation and you are the only daughter of Lord Charles Longfeather; you may not disgrace this family with your childish, rash whims."

A shallow, offhand smile curled Irene's lips. "Whatever you say, granny," she said, effortlessly maintaining her cool tone, "he merely asked me to pose for him. He's an artist as you may already know. Besides, why are we to condemn him for his father's doing? It was Jeffery Blackford that got involved in a scandalous, adulterous affair with some French dancer, not his son Adrian."

"The lad is hardly a painter!" Lady Longfeather said, her nose wrinkled, "And when did you start talking back?" She grimaced.

The old lady leaned back on the sofa and took a brief break from scolding her granddaughter. "His fault or not, our family's name cannot be the topic of any gossip that involves Jeffery Blackford's household. He had been as stiff-necked as ever and lost his reputable wife and legitimate son because he would not leave the crossbreed in France after he learnt of his mother's passing."

Edith rang the tea bell.

Irene got up, carrying her prized pet, and walked leisurely to her grandmother, bent and kissed her on the cheek. "Good night, granny," she said and gracefully left the room, leaving her grandmother with a pair of thinner lips and her mother with a suppressed giggle.

***

Adrian's words hit Arden like a bullet in the head. She stopped walking then turned to look at him, heart thumping. He flashed her a toothy, mischievous grin.

Half-irritated, she asked, "Napoleon?"

He swaggered towards her, knowing he was set to get what he wanted. "One of your billets-doux found its way to my hands instead of your Napoleon's and I took the liberty of reading it."

"How dare you!" Her voice a vicious whisper, "Now give back what you've stolen!"

The breeze got colder and the mud covering most of Adrian's hair, skin and clothes was starting to dry. He had no intention to return home looking like he joined the pigs in their mud bath.

"How can I press the lever and stand under the water at the same time?"

Arden glared at him a long moment. The leaves around them softly rustled in the breeze.

"My lips are sealed," he said, slowly waving a hand in front of his mouth, "I won't tell a soul, I promise," he paused, "but I must intrude and say George isn't the man for you."

Her face was blank as she responded in a cool, provocative tone, "Give me one reason to take the advice of a gal-sneaker."

"Gal-sneaker?" He furrowed his brows. "I merely want to clean this mud off and go home."

Arden grinned like the devil and replied, "Permission granted." She turned and began to make her way back to the house that hid behind a crowd of maple trees.