“Father thinks he might consider selling some shares that are of great interest to us,” Zach added. “We are keen to exploit the man’s potential desire for some social elevation.”
“Sometimes, a man’s own lips become a strong snare to him,” Adele remarked.
“We shall find out soon enough,” Papa said, and the purr in his tone raised the hair on Hattie’s nape. “Blackstone has sent word,” he continued. “And I invited him to the matinée next week. He has accepted.”
She gasped. It went unnoticed; everyone was preoccupied with their own surprise.
“Have you now?” came her mother’s cool voice. “For the matinée, you say?”
It is because of me. Ice-cold heat poured over her. Was he coming to tattle on her?
“Yes, the matinée,” her father said. “And I’m expecting each of you to act perfectly natural around him. The fish may be hooked, but has not yet been reeled in.”
Blackstone. Blackstone was to prowl around in the sanctity of their home.
“Mr. Greenfield, this is ridiculous,” said her mother. “Whether he has changed his ways or not, he isn’t Good Society. If he attends the matinée, I shall have to introduce him to respectable people, and how can I possibly do so when we know nothing about him?”
“My dear, where is your charity?”
“Well, it certainly ends where our reputation begins!”
“The matinée!” Across the table, Aunty’s head had jerked up as though she had napped with her eyes wide open until now. She picked up her ear trumpet, a bejeweled accessory, which she kept on her lap, raised it to her right ear, and turned to the foot of the table. “Adele, we must extend an invite for another guest: the young viscount Lord Skeffington.”
“No.” The word was out of Hattie’s mouth before she could stop it.
“No?” Aunty’s wizened face was bewildered. “Why, you were adamant that he join us.”
Mina, Benny, and Flossie were smirking, intrigued.
“Adamant, was she?” her father said. “Do we know the young man? Skeffington—Lord Clotworthy Skeffington?”
The walls of the dining room were not quite steady. “We must invite Lord Skeffington some other time, Mama,” she said, her voice tinny like cheap brass. “I shan’t be in attendance during the matinée.”
Her mother’s expression was at once alarmed. “Whyever not?”
“I . . . shall be indisposed.”
“How do you know? Are you not well?”
She wasn’t. And it would likely get worse.
Chapter 5
There seemed to be no suitable moment to speak to her friends after Harriet returned to Oxford on Sunday. On Monday, they all gathered in Lucie’s drawing room in Norham Gardens for the weekly Oxford suffrage chapter meeting. But Lucie greeted her at the door with her blond hair flying around her pointy face and sparks shooting from her eyes—apparently, the Manchester Guardian was in trouble for publishing their latest suffrage report. This had been expected, for few things were more outrageous than women loudly demanding to be treated as people before the law. Naturally, the entire meeting revolved around how the suffrage chapters across Britain should proceed amid the public outcry, and it seemed inappropriate to raise her hand and say: “I ran from my protection officer—again— and kissed Mr. Blackstone, and now he is coming to visit my parents’ house.”
She spent Tuesday in a panic over which painting to pick in place of Dull Persephone, because of course Mama had insisted she be present on Saturday since she had already told all her friends that Hattie would exhibit a piece. She finally settled on an old watercolor still life depicting fruit and vegetables in a wooden bowl, an exceedingly safe and boring choice.
On Wednesday, she had a headache and stayed in.
On Thursday, Lucie announced that Lord Ballentine had offered to take her to Italy because it would be more amusing to weather the storm raging around the suffrage report on a southerly beach, and quite unlike herself, Lucie had agreed. As Hattie counseled her on which hats and dresses to pack and where to best purchase fabrics in Naples, her confession kept surging up her throat like heartburn, but she couldn’t seem to form the words.
On Friday, she broke. She convinced Aunty to write a pretty invitation, then she went to the residential wing of St. John’s College to call on Catriona.
Her friend sat at her father’s desk, as usual wrapped in her battered Clan Campbell tartan shawl, her glossy black hair tied in a loose bun. She was studying an old tome through a magnifying glass.
The weight of a boulder rolled off Hattie’s chest. “Thank goodness you are home.”
Catriona turned to her and blinked, confused like an owl rudely woken from a snooze. “Hattie.” Her voice was scratchy, as though she hadn’t yet spoken to anyone today. “Apologies. I forgot you were coming to call.” She rose and put on her glasses. “Is your officer being attended to?”
“Your housekeeper took him to the kitchen, so I assume he is currently drinking tea. And you haven’t forgotten a thing—I’m calling unannounced.” She opened her reticule and fished for the small envelope as Catriona approached. “I’m delivering an invitation to a matinée tomorrow. In our residence in St. James’s. It’s a little short notice, but they are playing Chopin—you adore Chopin, don’t you?”
Catriona was still holding the magnifying glass, which she appeared to notice only now. She looked at it blankly for a moment, then she returned her attentions to the envelope Hattie was holding under her nose. “Thank you? But I’m afraid tomorrow—”
“And you must tell me all about your research on Tunis,” Hattie said. “I’m so intrigued.”
Catriona dipped her chin and stared at her over the metal frame of her glasses. “The research is on Tyrus. A city in the Levant.” Her Scottish lilt was a little stern.
“Even more intriguing,” Hattie said quickly.
The stare did not waver. “What is it, Hattie?”
Hattie made a pout. “Whyever would you sound so suspicious?”
Catriona’s eyes were a stunning cerulean blue, a formidable contrast to her straight black lashes. She usually hid their charm behind her spectacles or a faraway look that said she was sifting through an old parchment on Tunis or Tyrus rather than seeing the person in front of her. Now her gaze was alert with intimidatingly sharp intelligence. “You’re in trouble, and you think I can help,” she said. She nodded at the Chesterfield wing chairs to either side of the cold fireplace. “Have a seat. I shall fetch us some tea.”