//CLARA//
The morning of the picnic, I stood in front of the mirror and assessed the situation like a campaign manager the day before election night.
The target audience was one possessive railroad magnate with jealousy issues. The objective was to make him suffer just enough to be entertaining, but not enough that he'd actually commit arson. My strategy? A gown of palest lavender that made my eyes look almost violet, with a neckline that walked the line between demure and I know exactly what you're thinking and you're right.
Hattie fastened the last button with trembling fingers. "You look beautiful, Miss Eleanor. Like a painting."
"I look like trouble," I corrected, examining my reflection. "The best kind."
The picnic itself was exactly as tedious as I'd anticipated. Bartholomew had clearly outsourced the planning to someone with actual taste, then taken full credit.
