“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.