She stared up at the ceiling, slightly startled at herself. She ought to be thinking Lucky Miss Carruth. Jimmy was a decent fellow who would one day be an earl, and whose estates might be suffering financially—there were notably fewer staff on view than Pat would expect for a house this size—but were not to be sneezed at. He was steady, too, the sort of man who would probably be a good father and a faithful, or at least discreet, husband. In fact, he was an excellent match, and Pat couldn’t for the life of her see why Miss Carruth would want any of it. The thrice-engaged Miss Carruth who jilted men ought to have a husband who danced with her at balls, or covered her in jewels, or...or took her to Monte Carlo, possibly? This was outside Pat’s experience. In any case, a man who’d kiss her hand and adore her, much as Jonty adored Olivia, patting her hand and telling her, inaccurately, that he’d take care of everything.

Pat would have loathed that, but she wasn’t soft or helpless or delicious. She was plain in looks and manner, and had never regretted that because she had never particularly wanted to attract a husband. And yet, Miss Carruth undeniably made her think about soft curves and lushness and pretty, frivolous primping, and why those things were so very desirable to see, or to have.

Pat been looking forward to the shooting party precisely because she could be as mannish as she pleased with Jimmy and Bill. She hadn’t expected to feel undermined by her lack of feminine graces because another woman was there, being different. And it wasn’t just “another woman”, either, because she was unconcerned by the sylphlike, fashionable Lady Anna or the poised, elegant Miss Singh. It was Miss Carruth’s presence that bothered her, and Pat’s irrational nonsense was hardly the girl’s fault.

The longer she lay in bed and thought, the worse she was making herself feel, so she got up and dressed. Pat did not corset. She had had no mother to train her waist to a span of eighteen inches or so; her father thought wasp-waists were for insects and preferred his daughter able to walk, climb trees, shoot, and run around the house. She had never learned to be laced, although she had eventually and reluctantly obtained a loose pair of stays for evening wear. It was one of many things about which she had rarely thought in her life at Stoke St. Milborough, and might have to consider when she moved to live elsewhere; she didn’t wish to be perceived as an eccentric. Or perhaps that would happen anyway, so she’d do as she pleased.