She left for the kitchen rather than use the bell pull, and Hattie settled in the creaking leather chair and arranged her skirts. Her pulse gradually slowed to a normal pace for the first time in a week. The quiet in Professor Campbell’s study was absolute, not even disturbed by the tick of a clock, and the low ceiling and thick old walls shielded against all outside sound. Only the scent of inked paper and Catriona’s lavender soap permeated the air. The stained-glass windows faced a walled garden, and the sun streaming in painted red and blue vignettes onto worn floorboards. This was a room of timeless calm, promising that one could safely weather a storm here. It wasn’t an abode befitting a Scottish earl and his heiress, but it suited their scholarly minds: one could picture them in these armchairs when the fire crackled, immersed in their reading, occasionally adjusting their glasses or glancing up to say something clever. Catriona was to Professor Campbell what Flossie was to Julien Greenfield, Hattie supposed: an admirer of her father’s interests from the cradle. She would find Hattie’s current woes frivolous at best. By the time Catriona returned, carefully balancing a small tray, she had steeled herself.
“You are right,” she said once her friend had poured the tea and taken a seat. “I’m in trouble, and I need your help. I need you to be at the matinée because Mr. Blackstone shall be there, and I cannot face him alone and Mother forbids me to be indisposed.”
“Blackstone?” Catriona lowered her cup again, intrigued. “The industrialist who loaned Lord Ballentine money for London Print?”
“The very same.”
“Why would you rather not face him alone?”
She stared at her tightly laced fingers in her lap. “We kissed,” she said. “Each other.”
A soft intake of breath came from the direction of the other armchair. “Perhaps,” Catriona then said, “you can explain.”
So she did. She explained about shaking off Mr. Graves, her hope to see the Ophelia, and the kiss. Then the shock of learning he was coming to the matinée.
Catriona was silent for a rather endless minute. “Och aye,” she finally said. “That is a situation.”
Luckily, Catriona had the rare habit of studying a situation, any situation, free from the distorting influence of sensibilities or judgment, quite as though she were looking at an archaeological artifact. Hattie should have spoken to her much sooner.
“Where was your aunt throughout this excursion?” Catriona asked.
Hmm. She glanced away. “I left her under the impression that I was painting in my studio with Mr. Graves manning the door so she could attend a tea-and-bridge session. She usually naps afterward. I had planned to return before long.”
Catriona’s expression was equal parts disapproval and disappointment. “You might get yourself into terrible trouble one day.”
“Yes—in fact, that day is tomorrow.” She unleashed her most pleading look. “Please say you shall come. I should feel less nervous with a dear friend by my side.”
“Mr. Blackstone will hardly try to ravish you in your parents’ drawing room,” Catriona said. “Especially since the first time appears to have been a misunderstanding.”
The thought of being ravished by Mr. Blackstone in any one location made heat rise to the surface of her skin. She was thinking about his kiss far too often as it was.
“I cannot rationally explain it,” she said. “I’m aware I’m being silly, but I feel my stomach flutter and my hands tremble when I think of seeing him again, and I know my nerves should be much calmer if you were there.”
Catriona gave her a long, unreadable look. “I suppose it would be better if one of us were there,” she finally said. “However, as I meant to explain earlier, I have an appointment at the Royal Society with my father tomorrow. Have you considered asking Annabelle?”
“She is preparing to leave for France for the summer. Besides, Mama would never allow me to invite a duchess to the event—it’s a luncheon, quite informal.”
“Hmm.” Catriona made to bite her thumbnail before sheepishly lowering her hand again. “Burlington House is perhaps half a mile from your parents’ residence—”
“It is,” Hattie said quickly.
“—so it should be possible for me to be there on time for my appointment if I left promptly after the concert.”
“Yes!”
“For the luncheon, I’m afraid you are on your own.”
* * *
He had not shown before or during the concert. She had sat tense and perspiring through forty dramatic minutes of Chopin and Brahms, and Mr. Blackstone was glaringly absent.
“I don’t understand,” she said to Catriona as they followed the throng of guests down the corridor toward the lunchroom. “Why would he snub my mother on the day of the event after first accepting the invitation?”
“Perhaps he has fallen ill,” Catriona murmured.
“He looked in perfectly robust health to me.”
“Why not ask your mother? She would know any excuse he gave.”
“And risk looking interested in the subject?”
She was certainly glad he hadn’t come. Her mother had selected the linden-green gown for her to wear, and while for once the color suited, the style was dreadful: the sleeves were too wide on top, the hem was heavy with not one but two rows of pleats, and there was a startling excess of lace foaming at the front of her bodice—each feature on its own, very well; their combination: an atrocity. And of course, it was too tight. Sometimes, she wondered whether her mother was simply oblivious or consciously intending for her to look like a frump. Even Catriona was more elegant in plain navy-blue velvet, and Catriona lacked all fashion sense.
A light melody of string instruments filtered into the room from the side chamber, and the guests had formed groups and were selecting beverages from the trays carried by quietly circling waiters. Since the luncheon was informal, no escorts for the women were required. Her mother, flanked by Aunty, was making conversation with young Mrs. Astorp and Mrs. Hewitt-Cook, an American. Right next to the easel that hosted Hattie’s very large, very unimpressive still life of fruit and vegetables in a bowl.
She cringed and took Catriona’s hand. “Have you time for a refreshment? A glass of cider or champagne? And let’s look at the food.”
Catriona’s gaze went across the room to the pendulum clock between the sideboards that presently served as tables for the buffet. “One glass of cider,” she said.
Hattie’s cheeks slowly cooled as she sipped the cold, tart drink from the long-stemmed glass. The savory scent wafting from the nearest sideboard should have made her stomach growl, and the food did look tempting: the steaming silver tureens and plates with cold cuts of meat and golden-brown pies were set handsomely between hothouse flower arrangements. Mina must have had a hand in the décor. Even more intriguing were the tiered platters on the other table: filled with small pots containing boiled fruit, buttery pastries, and glazed chocolates . . .