Ginevra said nothing as I took her hand, pulled her through the family portion of the house and out of it, through the Conservatory. I hurried her to the carriage house, gave a hurried explanation to one of the groomsmen—I couldn't remember his name, I don't now—for why I needed a buggy.
“My dear friend is ill,” I said climbing on the sidebars and onto the driver's seat, thrusting my head for Ginevra to sit beside me. I grabbed the tasseled snapper and the reins from his hand before he could gain a tighter hold on them. “Pull up the top, would you, good man?”
I used my father's pleasant authority. The young man did as I instructed. Ginevra and I were now faceless bodies, the folding canvas of the buggy covering our heads, sheltering us, at least on the back and the sides.
“Thank you. Yo
