Catriona looked taken aback. “I would never think you feebleminded. But a husband could stop my research—the expectations are that I serve him how he sees fit.”
“Expectations are also that he protect you with his life,” Hattie said with a frivolous little wave. “At least there’s no grand expectation that you die for him if required.”
“Death is but an instant,” Catriona said softly. “You, however, would be asked to live your one life for him.”
“Well, drat,” Hattie said. “And here I thought a little silliness would lighten the mood.”
“Oh. Of course.” Catriona’s cheeks flushed—sometimes sarcasm eluded her. It was probably why her own words rarely had a double meaning. This is where we differ greatly, Hattie thought. I blurt out words and half the time I still don’t mean them. Her medium for truth was supposed to be paint. Her words, they came from a place desiring to please or appease, to appear normal or silly, which were usually considered the same in a girl. It was a malaise afflicting most women in Britain, this compulsion to say one thing while thinking another, to agree to things one disliked, to laugh about jokes that were dull—most women, but not Catriona. When Catriona wished to conceal her thoughts, she was silent. Quite sensible, actually, but when all suffered the same ill, the healthy ones appeared abnormal.
Hattie slumped back into the pillows. “Never mind, my dear. I cannot fault your reasoning. But what life have I now? Look at me. Under my parents’ roof, I can’t even choose my gown or the style of my hair in the morning, nor how much I eat at dinner or whose company I keep. Why do you think I so often try to dress vicariously through you with fashion advice? As a wife, I would at least reign over my own household.”
Catriona nodded. “But do you wish for independence from your parents, or for marriage?”
“Is there a difference, for a woman in my position?” she snipped. “I’m not in possession of a trust fund like Lucie. I don’t have a father like yours, who is content to remain a bachelor and to employ you as his assistant. I do know that I’m not suited for living as a spinster.”
“I shouldn’t have brought my own worries to this conversation,” Catriona murmured, already shrinking back into her shawl quite as though she had only now become aware how far she had ventured from her shell.
A pang of remorse went through Hattie like an electric jolt. “I adore our conversations,” she said quickly. “And I will miss them badly. It’s why I’m irritable today. What are you worrying about, will you tell me?”
Catriona smoothed her shawl with ink-stained fingers. “It’s nothing.”
“I’m chatty,” Hattie said, “but I can keep secrets.”
“I know,” Catriona replied, smiling now. “Why don’t you tell me the first thing you should do if you ruled your own household?”
Clearly, Catriona wished to keep her own counsel, so she said, “First I’d give my entire wardrobe to charity. Then I shall live my dream: I shall travel across France with only my watercolors and my dearest friends—you must come. Paris has the best bars and the most scandalous literary salons, and in the South, you can look across a sapphire-blue sea.”
“Have you ever been to a bar?” Catriona asked curiously.
“No. But I hear the best ones are in Paris, and all of them are frequented by renowned artists.”
“I should join you,” Catriona agreed, “but wouldn’t you want to travel alone?”
“Alone?” Hattie made a face. “What would I do on the Montmartre or in Marseille by myself? I would feel lonely and then I would get myself into trouble when accepting unsuitable company. Also, I loathe being in charge of the logistics. Loathe it.”
“Well, we are taking Lucie along,” Catriona said. “She excels at logistics.”
Their sisterly conversation ended when Aunty emerged from her chambers, well rested after a nap and adamant that it was time to oversee the packing for London.
Hattie put her cheek next to Catriona’s during the good-bye. “Would there be any harm in joining the gallery tour, you think?” she whispered.
“Not if you stay by your mother’s side,” Catriona whispered back.
“Why am I not surprised?” her mother muttered when they spotted Mrs. Hewitt-Cook at the center of the small crowd that had gathered in Mr. Blackstone’s entrance hall. “However, I had not expected to see Oaksey here.”