Salvation of Ignorance

Chapter 9: Can You Not Think For Yourself

Her distant--and hopefully, soon to be 'close'--relative lived in humble dwellings. 

The townhouse was dwarfed by the departed home and the confined rooms only spacious by minimal furniture. Silk curtains danced, defying minor restrictions by drapery swags, before an open window to the right. The outdoor scenery illuminated the enclosed room with a soft, pale-yellow glow.

 Breathing was done invitingly. 

Emotions could not restrain her to the sofa's confinements; she relied upon mid-morning air to aid in their settling. A clash of Phoebe's belief that her hostess would be as inviting as her windows and fear of how to handle the situation should she be wrong sent a tornado through her stomach. 

On the opposing end, of the square container, the eggshell-colored door rotated on its hinges. Phoebe rose hastily, the fabric of her petticoat wrinkling beneath her white knuckles. Vein-pumpingly glacial, the obstructer-of-entry came to the agreement of finally allowing survey of their host. 

Lucrecia Danielle Barrettmore--or so Phoebe hoped it to be--was dwarfed in the open space between her and the doorway. Her girth was exemplary of favorable income and (though the style favorable toward the late Antoinette) fitted beneath unmended silk. Half of her silver locks were pulled back in a mild-pompadour while the remainder pooled at the nape of her neck. But more note-worthy was the woman's incumbent approaching. 

Phoebe extended the corners of her closed lips. 

The English woman gandered at her guest and remained beneath the cross-bridge between the room and hall. Her gaze went from the excessive, lengthy end of Phoebe's gown to her sea-salt, crusted hair. All of this done without pronouncing any wrinkles in her cheeks. Even going so far as to tuck in a cheek at one point. 

"Olivia," The host called in a tone commonly used amongst the deaf. 

"Actually, it's Pho--." 

"Yes, ma'am?" A maid scurried in from the hall. 

"My old bones ache. Shut the window," Lucrecia said without batting a grey eye. 

Phoebe watched as the yellow glow slowly disappeared from the corner of the room. Her skin puckered in the absence of the cool air. 

"Do you intend to leave?" Lucrecia said from the opposing sofa she took while her guest was distracted. Olivia had closed the door behind her. 

Phoebe's lips parted and the stability of her joints were tested. Certainly Phoebe required more time to offend. 

"No...?" Phoebe begged to stay, considering she'd just arrived. 

"Then won't you sit?" Lucrecia raised an open palm to the opposing settee. 

The loss of friction chilled Phoebe's interior. Phoebe's head continued to nod concurrence until she sat. 

"I trust your trip was pleasant?" 

An involuntary introduction of air started her reply, "Very pleasant, thank you for the inquiry." Phoebe neglected to release said breath, which complicated the statement's completion. 

Lucrecia briefly pursed her lips, but offered no additional statements or inquiries. 

Suspecting it her turn to propagate a new subject of conversation, Phoebe found herself in a worse predicament than the wood encounter with Mrs. Emmons. At least, in that confrontation, she knew Emmons was a widow. 

"I suppose," Lucrecia thankfully began again, "your father is displeased with the risk my request placed you in." 

Phoebe's sucked in her lips. 'Yes' was the answer she wanted to give, but honesty and her conscious conspired against her. "Well, I found the--uh--potential risk...pleasant."