It was Christmas Eve, after all, and though the ballroom had been turned into the epitome of Christmas for the ball the night before, the rest of the house maintained the usual tradition of not being properly decorated as yet. That was the task of the day, and though Deilingh had servants aplenty to assist them, it was a long-held family tradition that all be involved in the project.

There were some adjustments to be made, especially once her cousin Lucinda had decided to take up a rare interest in cooking, and thus would spend the entire day in the kitchens with Mrs. Larpenteur, but, for the most part, the day was set before them. There would be light music and dancing this evening, and a relatively simple evening meal, given that the feast was to occur on the morrow. And, if tradition was kept, there would be a play put on.

An improvised pantomime, as it were. Of sorts, anyway.

They’d never been very good about such things. That, too, was tradition, and one of her favorites, actually.

The sound of voices brought her attention back around, and she rose quickly, grinning with excitement and hope. She moved quickly out the door of the room, brushing at her skirts and fussing at her hair in a sudden fit of nerves.

One should look her best when she’s faced with the man she loves, once she knows that she loves him.

Surely, that was in the Spinster Chronicles somewhere.

If it was not, she would be sure to add it in the next article that she wrote.

She rounded the corner of the foyer, bright smile ready on her face, only to find Great-Aunt Julie and Great-Aunt Beatrice sitting in chairs and instructing a few footmen on the hanging of some greenery.

“No, no, you simple lad,” Aunt Beatrice barked, thumping her walking stick against the floor. “What do you think it means when I say to your left?”

Aunt Julie squawked a laugh. “He is going left, you hussy. You mean to the right.”

“Don’t tell me what I mean, I know what I mean,” Aunt Beatrice returned. “If I wanted him to go right, I would have told him so. Now, dear boy, if you will take that end to the left, please.”

The poor footman, knowing what was really needed, moved the end of the bough to the right, and looked at Aunt Beatrice for confirmation.

“Exactly so, lad,” came the pleased response. “Clearly, your handsome face is not all the quality you possess.”

“Aunt!” Elinor protested as the footman’s face heated.

The great-aunts looked at her without surprise or concern. “What?” Aunt Beatrice replied. “Should I not give him the compliment of honesty?”

Elinor covered her face with one hand. “Oh lord.”