Chapter Ten
Hattie hadn’t been fitted for one of Monica’s costumes in a decade, and yet somehow, standing on this little platform again had returned her to exactly the same dreamy, distracted state of mind in which she’d always found herself during this ritual.
Today, while things were pinned and tucked and measured, she drifted beyond the chatter of the other women as she’d always done, past Libba quoting the stack of newspapers she’d finally gotten in the post from London, past Ruby examining fabrics and staking claims on the prettiest ones, past Monica muttering about a pincushion she’d lost when she had been thirteen and was convinced was still hiding somewhere in this very room.
She was thinking about Elias Selwyn.
“If you want to learn this silent language you so covet,” he had said to her as they’d left the master suite, some days ago, “you may observe me at any time, make your guesses, and then ask me if your translations were correct. Perhaps you may find you can build the skill if it is not inherent.”
And so she had been. Watching, that is.
She had not yet gotten the courage to approach him with any hypothetical interpretations. She imagined she needed time to hone her skill first, anyhow.
It was odd. She had never felt abashed about having an accent in a new tongue or getting a turn of phrase grammatically incorrect whilst learning something new, even when her teacher was already fluent in English. It had always been a bit of fun.
But she knew she would be far too embarrassed to reveal her stumbles to Elias. She wanted to find her feet first.
He was the most intriguing to watch at dinner.
The way he held his utensils. The way he cut his food.
The slow way he lifted things to his lips and the way he listened and tilted his head while he chewed and tasted things.
He always ran his fingers over the little crystal spikes at the base of the wineglasses before he took a sip of what was inside, and afterward, he stroked the stem or traced the circle of the base.
Why did he do that?
She could see him now, could see his lips on the rim of the crystal.
“Hattie!” Libba exclaimed. “Gracious, girl. Share your reverie with the class.”
“I … Pardon?” Hattie said, sounding rather hoarse. “What?”
Libba was grinning at her over the top of a copy of London’s Morning Chronicle, dated ten days past, while Ruby was frowning at the sketch Monica was referencing in her folio.
“That’s for Hattie?” she asked tartly. “You’ve never made me anything like that.”
“Well, it’s about words,” Monica said defensively, curling the page to hide it and hunching her shoulders. “And it’s just a concept. Velvet is too heavy for summertime, anyhow. I was thinking perhaps suede.”
“What is it?” Hattie asked, forcing herself to swallow, to amass some moisture in her throat.
“A duochrome medieval bonbon,” Ruby snapped.
“It is a recreation,” Monica corrected, before the other woman had even gotten the words out. “Of Jadwiga of Poland’s famous split gown, royal blue and gold on one side, creamy ivory and orange on the other. She was a king.”
“A … what?” Libba said, already flipping her paper back up over her face. “‘Queen,’ you meant to say.”
Monica shook her head. “No, she styled herself king. I thought it the type of thing Hattie might play with. Do you speak any Polish, Hattie? I think you’d need to, if we made this?”
“A woman king?” Ruby said, her dark eyebrows climbing. “Have there been others?”
“Hatshepsut,” Hattie murmured, leaning forward to peer at the sketch. “She was a pharaoh. She wore a fake gold beard.”
“There, you see?” said Ruby. “Make Hattie wear the beard and give me the gown.”
“Anne Boleyn was a marquess,” Libba put in idly. “Christ, but I’m missing so much in London! It hasn’t even been a month. Can you imagine what I’ll miss if a whole year goes by?”
“What’s happened?” Ruby demanded, immediately distracted. “Scandal?”
“Of course,” said Libba with a sigh. “Someone broke the bollocks off a Biblical statue at my parish picnic and then got caught with the vicar’s hand up her skirt. I should have been there!”
“Your parish?” Monica repeated, sounding amused. “Are you a churchgoer, Libba?”
Libba pulled a face. “Of course I am. The clergy are the best showmen in Europe. You get stuck with a single book of stories and try to keep a crowd engaged and entertained with retellings for the whole of your life, hm? Besides, you should see my vicar. He’s delicious.”
“Sounds like he’s not going to be your vicar much longer, if that’s in the paper,” Monica pointed out.
Libba shrugged. “We shall see. He could always marry the statue gelder. Damn! I should have been there.”
“Who got gelded, then?” Ruby asked, throwing herself on the sofa next to Libba. “Moses? Abraham?”
“It doesn’t say,” Libba noted, squinting at the gossip column. “Let’s hope it was Lot.”
“Not Lucifer?” Hattie asked curiously, unable to stop herself from imagining exactly how one might snap just the genitals off a marble statue.
“Never Lucifer,” Libba said immediately, with Ruby echoing, “Absolutely not.”
The two exchanged glances and broke into giggles, winning looks of confusion from both Monica and Hattie.
“Ah,” said Libba, resting her head on Ruby’s shoulder. “They’ve never seen a good Lucifer statue, obviously.”
“Always so beautiful.” Ruby sighed, shaping the general form of a man with her hands in front of her. “Always so well built.”
And they collapsed into giggles again.
“There was a story,” Libba said, wicking a tear from her eye, “of a statue of Lucifer that was too seductive, so the church hired the sculptor’s brother to make another one, and unfortunately, the second one was even more devastating. What a pity!”
Ruby nodded, hiccupping. “I’ve seen them both. I would put them in my bedroom and apologize to God in the mornings.”
“Well!” said Monica, pink and gaping. “Goodness!”
Hattie touched her cheeks, which felt rather pink as well. She was thinking of the feeling of Elias Selwyn’s muscled bicep under the fine linen of his coat as they’d walked into the master suite. He wasn’t made of marble. He could move. He was warm.
“Hattie!” Libba cried again, staring at what must have been a look of true distraction on her face.
“I could pick up enough Polish for the showcase, I think,” Hattie immediately announced, clearing her throat and shaking her head to dispel thoughts of her husband-to-be.
She told herself to instead focus on the upcoming performance she must give and sent her mind reaching out to feel the bumps over interconnected Slavic tongues.
“Are there any local Poles about? Perhaps one might practice with me?”
“There are always foreigners about during the summer season,” Monica answered, looking relieved to have turned back to the dress. “We can ask at the Cauldron. If not, the Travellers’ caravan sometimes has people from the Continent in their retinue.”
“Oh, that’s true!” said Libba, her eyes sparkling. “We should all go see Miss Persephone and beg an audience. Rhys’s hair will fall out and he’ll have to do his showcase bald.”
This time, all four women burst into giggles together.
*
Elias was late to dinner, leaving Hattie somewhat at a loss for how to occupy herself in the absence of her new course of study.
She found herself feeling a little restless, checking the archway that led to the dining room as often as she could without being conspicuous. Or at least, without being what she thought might come across as conspicuous.
As though to prove the point of her poor natural aptitude for silent communication, Malcolm immediately made note of it.
“I’m certain he’s just running a bit late,” he said, not unkindly, watching her as he stuck his fork into a green bean, one tine at a time. “I’m surprised you are so fussed.”
She frowned at him. “You are very good at reading body language, aren’t you?”
He gave her half a smile, a twinkle of self-satisfaction in his dark eyes. “I think so. It wouldn’t be fun at the tables if I weren’t.”
She considered this, turning her chair a bit toward him and her plate and cup with it, putting her back to the entry as a means of resisting further inspection.
“Tell me,” she said, leaning close so they would not be overheard, “if you observed another gambler, touching their wineglass just so, how might you interpret it?”
Mal blinked at her, watching her stroke the crystal details at the base of the glass, then run her pinched fingers up and down the stem. He cleared his throat, coloring. “I … erm. Really shouldn’t say.”
“I’ll say it,” Rhys volunteered, getting an immediate snap of the head and glare from Malcolm.
Hattie gave a helpless little shake of the head, frustrating burning in her jaw. “I wish someone would,” she confessed, dropping her hand away from the glass. “Why do people not just say what they are thinking at all times? I do.”
“We know,” said Rhys, reaching across the table and patting her hand. “We know.”
“It is blue on one side, and white on the other,” Ruby’s voice suddenly exclaimed, shrill as she described the Jadwiga dress to Errol. “It was obviously made to be worn by me. Hattie favors fire colors, anyhow. I wear the jewel tones.”
Hattie gave a small smile across the table at Rhys. “See? Ruby says what she’s thinking too.”
He chuckled, releasing her hand and swiping a bean off her plate to pop into his mouth. “Sometimes. She’s sneaky, though.”
“Agreed,” said Malcolm. “She is inconsistent. Dangerous in a game.”
“And don’t you forget it,” Ruby announced, clearly eavesdropping, even whilst ranting to her favorite open ear.
Errol chuckled into his napkin.
“Apologies,” Elias’s voice announced, bringing Hattie back up to sudden, perfect posture. “I got waylaid at the post office. Have I missed serving?”
“You’ve a plate,” Libba said, gesturing with her fork to his place. “Might be a bit tepid.”
Elias nodded in thanks, sighing and crossing the room, still in his riding boots and kit.
Hattie did not stare.