Young ladies—especially young widowed ladies—were serene, gracious, pleasant, and boring as hell. “Also bored as hell,” Psyche murmured. She took another breath and let it out slowly. “Mustn’t curse. Mustn’t grumble.”
The model—Mr. Smith, as all the male models were Mr. Smith—remained lounging about in her imagination, and that made dropping Henderson’s habits harder. Mr. Smith had the most interesting hair and lots of it, though his demeanor otherwise was the next thing to effete. His physical attributes, with the exception of his hair, were relentlessly perfect on a generous, masculine scale. That, Psyche suspected, had been Monsieur Berthold’s point in choosing such a specimen.
Did Mr. Smith have a brain in his pretty head? Did passion stir in his muscular chest? To make physical monotony interesting, even exquisitely proportioned monotony, was an artistic challenge.
“Ponder later.” Psyche summoned a smile as she let herself through the door. “Now it’s gloves, bonnets, and parasols for you, Mrs. Fremont.”
The boot-boy noticed her slipping past the pantries. She put a finger to her lips, winked, and he grinned and saluted. Kevin was such a good lad, and his ears had the most charming asymmetry. One higher than the other, like an owl. Did that asymmetry mean he could identify the source of a sound more readily?
Aunt Hazel bided in her private parlor, pretending to read while doubtless watching the time. The room was supposed to be a cozy, feminine space, a private retreat, but Hazel Buckthorn stood nearly six feet in her slippers and preferred high ceilings, gilt-framed mirrors, and full-sized sofas.
“Psyche Fremont, I thought the Corsairs had taken you up. When did you get in?”
“Some time ago, and I’m quite ready to leave. Remind me again whose table we grace this evening?” A surreptitious glance in the pier glass confirmed that Psyche’s chignon was tidy, and nothing of her underlinen showed around the bodice.
Hazel rose and peered down at her. “You know quite well with whom we dine. You are trying to distract me, and without success, I might add. Did you overspend on a new shawl or a pair of riding boots?”
Hazel brought far less means to the household than Psyche did. Aunt was nonetheless bigger, six years older, and she had been widowed two years longer than Psyche. Moreover, dear Aunt was of a managing disposition.
She would have made a very competent inquisitor, but for the subtle twinkle in her green eyes.
“I was the personification of restraint,” Psyche said, “though I do believe one should order next year’s winter gloves this year, and to blazes with being au courant. I arranged for two pair from Mrs. Patterson.” A fifteen-minute stop on the way to the academy.
The less dishonesty, the better. Jacob had taught her that.
“What I want to know,” Hazel said, picking up a reticule from the sideboard, “is why we can’t have fur-lined evening gloves. Perhaps I’ll order a pair and start a new rage. Fur would take some of the chill off those early spring balls. Promise you won’t curse tonight, Psyche. The company will be polite.”
“I rarely curse.”
“But when you do, the occasion is lamentably memorable.”
“When I do, the occasion warrants forceful language. When men curse, they are witty, articulate, plainspoken, and forthright. A simple apology for the slip makes the incident of no moment. A wink and an apology make it dashing.”
“When men curse, they are usually not in the company of ladies. Dorcas MacKay is a vicar’s daughter, and she’s married to some dour Scotsman. He’ll doubtless have recruited two of his elderly uncles to balance the numbers. I vow, if one them tells me he’s always fancied a braw, bonnie lady with red hair, I will plead a severe megrim and summon the coach on the instant.”
“And I will be the soul of devoted concern, so please don’t consign me to finishing the evening without you.” Which had happened on more than one occasion.
Aunt had met Mrs. MacKay on some committee or other, committees being the fate of widows who had any means at all. Psyche wasn’t about to sacrifice hours of good light for weak tea and rummage sales that took on the complexity of grand operas, at least as Aunt described them.
“Away with us,” Hazel said, sailing forth. “My braw, bonnie self is hungry.”
The coach was waiting for them at the foot of the steps, and the journey to the MacKay residence was short.
“I keep telling myself,” Hazel said as the footman knocked on the front door, “that spring is just around the corner.”
“We’re weeks away from decent weather.” Which meant weeks away from the inanity that was the social Season, thank God. Psyche had to participate, lest anybody get to wondering what occupied her time, but the whole business was an enormous bother.
The days grew longer in spring, the light more abundant and the world more vivid.
Polite dinners were also a bother, but necessary if one wanted to be perceived as a genteel and unassuming widow. Psyche took care to dress plainly, to style her hair unremarkably, and to speak softly on such occasions. Invariably before the soup was removed, her fingers were itching to hold a paintbrush, a stick of charcoal, even a pencil.
A youngish butler admitted them, and Psyche was introduced to Mrs. Dorcas MacKay, a dark-haired lady with a brisk air entirely belied by the smiles she and Mr. MacKay shared across the parlor. Mr. MacKay—Major MacKay, to be more accurate—was dark-haired, tallish, and spoke with a burr. He was not in the least dour, and he clearly chaired the committee devoted to admiration of his wife.
Aunt’s apparent partner for the evening was one Colonel Sir Orion Goddard, a cousin to Major MacKay. Goddard’s features were slightly weathered, and a subtle pattern of scars radiated from one eye. His looks suggested an interesting history, and when he switched to speaking French, Aunt replied in the same language with a rhapsody over chocolate drops.
No megrim tonight, alas.
“Here’s our final guest,” Mrs. MacKay said, striding to the dimmer recesses near the parlor door and kissing the cheek of a sable-haired man who turned out to be her brother. Mr. Michael Delancey had brought with him an air of quiet reserve, a calm that suggested he would never rhapsodize about anything. But then, a vicar’s son might have had all the rhapsodies preached and prayed out of him.
Psyche crossed the parlor to make her curtsey to the fellow who’d be her partner for the evening, and as he bowed over her hand, a shiver skittered over her nape. His manner was so bland, so lifeless, that for a moment Psyche doubted the evidence of her own eyes.
“Mr. Delancey, a pleasure.”
“Mrs. Fremont, likewise, I’m sure. A chilly evening, though one hopes for an early spring.” He ran a hand through his hair while exchanging polite nods with Goddard and MacKay, and that slight disarrangement confirmed Psyche’s suspicions.
This staid, proper, churchly cipher regularly lolled about in the altogether for hours at a time in front of a whole class of aspiring artists. And in Mr. Delancey’s case, the Almighty had apparently been as parsimonious with personality as He had been generous with masculine pulchritude.
Psyche came to that conclusion—a disappointment, though a relief too—when the entire meal passed, and Mr. Delancey gave not one hint that he recognized the woman upon whose breast he’d had his hand barely three hours earlier.