Aunty was wide awake and opinionated during the brief walk from the galleries’ side entrance to the Randolph, where they had rented rooms during term time.
“Young Lord Skeffington is rather forward,” she said loudly enough to make Hattie wince. “I saw him distract you from your work with chitchat.”
She slowed their pace by hooking her thin arm through Hattie’s and dizzied her with the heavy scent of her French perfume. Now they made a formidable obstacle for other passersby on the narrow pavement.
“He was just making conversation about the painting, Aunt.”
Aunty cupped her ear with her hand. “Your pardon?”
“He was just making conversation,” Hattie bellowed. Mr. Graves, her spurned protection officer, trailing behind with his bland face and gray coat, was overhearing every word whether he wanted to or not. Aunty’s hearing was mysterious, it seemed to wax and wane depending on whether she actually wanted to hear something, and Hattie had caught her speaking in perfectly hushed tones with her lady friends.
“Ah,” said Aunty, and forced a gentleman who tried to stride past onto the road with a wave of her cane. “They always started with just a conversation, in my day they did. Next, they demand to accompany you for a walk.”
“Mama would be delighted if he started something.”
“What?”
“I said: Mother would be delighted!”
“Ah. Would she now? He’s a bit reedy, isn’t he?”
Reedy? Lord Skeffington had the perfectly pleasant, nonthreatening build of a young gentleman who enjoyed the fine arts. Besides, his looks would hardly matter—ever since Papa had married Flossie to a ham-fisted Dutch textile tycoon, her mother had her eye on someone titled for her remaining daughters. And since Mina was expecting a proposal from a mere knight before the end of the summer, the task of securing a blue-blooded match fell onto Hattie’s shoulders. On a normal day, she absolutely fancied a nobleman for herself. She found Lord Skeffington’s appearance ideal: golden, noble, and only a little older than herself. They would have many years left for him to sit for her paintings as Knight in Shining Armor ….
“Watch out.” Her aunt tugged at her arm with enough strength to stop her in her tracks.
They had reached the crossing to the Randolph, but the next approaching carriage was still a long way away.
“This head of yours,” Aunty muttered. “Always away with the fairies. It will get you into trouble one day.”
Hattie patted the frail hand clutching her arm. “You’re watching me, so I shall be fine.”
“Hmph. Then why have you been limping?”
Because her turned ankle continued to be a painful reminder of her foolish bid for an hour of experiences in London.
“I took the stairs too hastily.” Having to yell the lie made it much worse.
“That should teach you not to hurry,” Aunty said. “I suppose his lordship should be invited to dinner, then. Tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow is terribly short notice, Aunt—and it’s the family dinner.”
“Very well. Then we shall prevail on your mother tomorrow night to extend an invitation to Lord Skeffington for a more formal occasion, and soon.”
Aunty waited until they had crossed the street and entered the cool, resounding lobby of the Randolph to ask, “You do know his Christian name is Clotworthy?”
She had known. Now the hotel staff manning the reception desks, Mr. Graves, and some wide-eyed guests who had been in conversation on the settees near the fireplace knew it, too.
“Yes,” Aunty boomed as she took course toward the lift, “Clotworthy, like his late father—come to think of it, his grandfather was a Clotworthy, too.”
“Right—”
“I thought you should know before we extend an invite. A woman must give it due consideration whether she should like to be eternalized in the annals in a long line of Clotworthy Skeffingtons. They would name your son Clotworthy, too—a mouthful for a small child. I suggest you could call him Clotty.”
Hattie cringed and cast a covert look around. This—this was how rumors began. Such rumors could get a young woman into terrible trouble, and she liked to think that she wasn’t skirting trouble for the sake of it. In fact, after her latest excursion had ended with her mouth glued to that of a scoundrel, she had decided to behave impeccably for the foreseeable future. Mr. Graves would appreciate this, too, she thought as her protection officer brushed past her into the apartment to do his usual round of checking whether any potential kidnappers had stolen inside during their absence. For now, Graves chose to keep his employ with the Greenfields rather than report her absence three days ago, but he would not do so forever.
In the drawing room, she dropped her heavy satchel onto one of the divans surrounding the fireplace and stretched with a sigh. Aunty disappeared to the side chamber, and so she moved to the nearest window for some respite. Her apartment faced busy Magdalen Street, and from the lofty height of the second floor she could indulge in watching snippets of strangers’ lives drift by without being caught staring. Today, her gaze meandered restlessly over the pavement below. She still felt subdued from her Persephone fiasco. Painting was the discipline where she had set her sights on “outstanding” rather than “passable,” a dream born from ambition as much as necessity. Painting required none of the usual skills required for excellence, such as writing or arithmetic. She couldn’t write a line without making spelling mistakes and she couldn’t copy a row of numbers without switching figures around. Today had been a harsh reminder of the fact. It is not the eyes, but one could call it a word blindness of sorts, the last of many doctors had concluded years ago, when she had failed to improve despite rigorous schooling. Her father had been aghast. If it’s not her eyes, is it … her brain? Something wrong with her brain? A stupid Greenfield, hopeless at investments, and from his loins! His disappointment had cut deeper than her tutor’s ruler, which used to crack across her palms over and over, punishing her for writing with her left hand and for writing wrongly with whichever hand. A life of sore fingers and bruised spirits, until she had found her talent in a colorful paint palette. Still, she had heard her father’s words loud and clear in the gallery earlier.
“Harriet,” came her aunt’s voice from the adjacent room. “I’d like to play bridge.”
Bridge. Please, no, not again. “I’ll be a moment, Aunt,” she said without turning.
Across the street, the sun-kissed sandstone wall of Balliol College radiated stoic, golden tranquility. If walls could look wise, the walls of Oxford would win first prize.
She pulled back her shoulders and took a deep breath. She had come so far. Her place at Oxford was the culmination of hard work, and this held special weight for someone who was usually given things before she even knew she needed them. Her paintbrush used to be awkward and slick with her fear in her right hand; she had practiced for a thousand hours with gritted teeth until she had wielded her tools as competently with her right as with her left. She had battled through all of Ruskin’s wordy books, including The Laws of Fésole. Word blind or not, she was currently learning from the best. Fine, Oxford was not Paris, where she, like any artistically inclined, fashionable young woman would have preferred to go—but it was as far as they had let her go, and she would not give it up because of a crisis over a kiss ….