The Debutante's Ruse

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“What ever is the matter, dear?” Mrs. Wilkinson asked, already comfortably settled into the palanquin with her husband.

With gloved fists perched on her hips, Miss Wilkinson was all but throwing a childish tantrum. She pointed to the sedan chair.

“These stupid coolies have brought up a bamboo chair,” she declared, stamping a booted foot, “A bamboo chair. I can’t be seen arriving in this! Where is the black lacquer chair we normally use?” She paused to cover her breast with her hands. “What if he sees me in this?”

“He, dear?” Her mother looked heavenward. “Oh never mind,” she said sharply, “Just get in the chair, and let’s be off. We’re already late for the governor’s summer ball.”

With a huff and a sulk, Miss Wilkinson climbed into the chair and crossed her arms. And finally—oh, finally—the porters were carrying them up the narrow, winding paths to the Mountain Lodge at the summit of Victoria Peak. Isabella breathed a sigh of relief, and then pivoted to inspect the window above her. With a deft flick of her wrist, she produced a short, sharp knife. Carefully sliding the blade in between the wooden window frame and its stone casing, she began to whittle away at the rotting wood. It was a minor miracle in her favor that the Wilkinsons did not know to keep up with the effects of tropical humidity on Victorian houses. Within minutes, she had carved out just enough to begin levering it open. With the barest of creaks, the window turned on its hinges and swung open. Quick and silent as a shadow, Isabella slipped into the house.

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