Juliana frowned. Memorize was the wrong word; it couldn't sound rehearsed. It needed to sound like the truth — which shouldn't have been that hard, really, because it was the truth. Or, at least, it was part of the truth. She'd left out some of the more incriminating details, like her ripped dress or the fact that in the immediate aftermath they'd both used she was dying a moment ago as their only defense. The idea was that she'd put in enough for people to believe the account, but left out anything that might discredit Mrs. Finch's story of its own accord. No one was going to believe that Lachlan MacFusty actually tore her dress open in a garden at a society function, because without the context that was patently ridiculous. People who were having affairs didn't literally tear each other's clothing off — and now, if Mrs. Finch said anything about it, that sort of comment would only seem like a desperate attention grab. Something to distract from what the article had said about her and her daughters.
(She did feel a little bad for bringing Dorothy Finch into things, but it had been necessary; it was the avenue in which Marianne Finch had the most to lose, and she needed to be reminded of her vulnerability in that area).
"What would you have said if someone asked you about it before the article?" she asked. "You ought to do the same thing now. Change the subject, dodge questions, let your cheeks flush. Eventually, if they press, tell the truth. Or part of it, anyway." Hopefully he'd know which parts to leave out. She considered listing them off, but he'd just said he wasn't daft, so she didn't want to insult him. She thought what was appropriate for public consumption and what wasn't was rather obvious, and if he needed a reference there was the article.
She sipped her tea. It was good, but not sweet enough for her liking. "May I?" she asked, which a gesture towards the tea tray, but waited only a second for an answer before getting into the sugar bowl herself. This tea set was strange. Nothing about it was strange, save the fact of its existence. He was a bachelor living alone in the Hebrides. Did he often have company? The sort of company for whom he would serve tea?
"Whoever talks now loses," she said, sitting back with her newly sweetened cup of tea. "If we're lucky, Marianne Finch will do a lot of talking. She'll try to get her side of the story out in front of everyone. Compared to the article, her account will seem ludicrous, and she'll seem desperate."
Jules
(She did feel a little bad for bringing Dorothy Finch into things, but it had been necessary; it was the avenue in which Marianne Finch had the most to lose, and she needed to be reminded of her vulnerability in that area).
"What would you have said if someone asked you about it before the article?" she asked. "You ought to do the same thing now. Change the subject, dodge questions, let your cheeks flush. Eventually, if they press, tell the truth. Or part of it, anyway." Hopefully he'd know which parts to leave out. She considered listing them off, but he'd just said he wasn't daft, so she didn't want to insult him. She thought what was appropriate for public consumption and what wasn't was rather obvious, and if he needed a reference there was the article.
She sipped her tea. It was good, but not sweet enough for her liking. "May I?" she asked, which a gesture towards the tea tray, but waited only a second for an answer before getting into the sugar bowl herself. This tea set was strange. Nothing about it was strange, save the fact of its existence. He was a bachelor living alone in the Hebrides. Did he often have company? The sort of company for whom he would serve tea?
"Whoever talks now loses," she said, sitting back with her newly sweetened cup of tea. "If we're lucky, Marianne Finch will do a lot of talking. She'll try to get her side of the story out in front of everyone. Compared to the article, her account will seem ludicrous, and she'll seem desperate."
Prof. Marlowe Forfang
Jules