Cora reaches for a fork.
Alice swats it away. “With yourfingers.”
“You’re joking.”
“That’s what the finger bowl is for.” Alice nods to the crystal dish with lemon water beside Cora.
“I thought it was for drinking,” Cora deadpans.
“Feel free.” Alice shrugs. “But I prefer this.”
She hoists a bottle of Roper Frères Brut. Dagmar, seated across the table, rises, impatient with Alice’s efforts to uncork it. With a triumphantpop, it fizzes loose from the bottle. Béa hastens to dab the mess with a napkin and pours for them.
Cora’s eyes widen as she reaches for her own sparkling drink. “I’ve never had real champagne before.”
“Oh, another rule,” Alice adds, offhand. “Never fully empty your glass.”
Cora blinks. “Even if it’s champagne?”
“Especially if it’s champagne.” Alice nods for Béatrice to pour herself a glass too. “But as this is Thanksgiving, I think we can bend the rules a bit.”
They all raise their glasses to clink above the turkey crown.
Lesson Thirty-Eight: General Comportment ~ November 30
Cora sits pinioned between Béatrice and Dagmar on the settee, half of which is consumed by Dagmar’s derriere.
Cora continues smiling blandly at Béatrice. “The opera is rather diverting, isn’t it? Which is your favorite composer? I’m partial—”
“You’ve not given her time to answer before proffering your own opinion,” Alice drones from the doorway. “Which would be seen as inordinately boorish. Never mind the fact that you’ve publicly slighted poor Miss Dagmar by not directing that question to her as well. When in the company of two people, whether at a table, a drawing room, or an opera box, one must always divide one’s time equally.”
Cora huffs, exasperated. “Any other critiques?”
Alice smirks. “Since you’ve asked, you might practice modulating your volume. A low murmur forces one’s companion to lean in closer in order to hear, and we want young Harold Peyton to draw very close to you. Remember, a lady always projects quiet decorum.”
It takes immense quiet decorum to keep Cora from bursting into expletives—German ones, learned by eavesdropping on Dagmar when something’s gone wrong in the kitchen.
Lesson Forty-Two: Dancing ~ December 2
Cora partners with Dagmar, Alice with Béatrice, the parlor furniture pushed to the far walls to afford them more room for their waltzes and quadrilles. Béatrice sings various popular tunes for them to keep time to in a sweetly lilting alto.
This is the easiest lesson for Cora by far. She could do these dances in her sleep, though Alice doesn’t seem to notice, or give any credit (perish the thought). She’s barely even looked Cora’s way since they swapped to the polka.
If Cora didn’t know any better, she could swear Alice is too busy actually enjoying herself.
“You are very graceful,” Dagmar grunts grudgingly down at Cora.
“This is nothing,” Cora crows, twirling herself away, the stress of the past three weeks of relentless instruction finally coming to a head, the desire to let loose, just for a moment, proving too much to bear. She hoists her skirt and launches into a lilt jig, feet flying with expert precision, movements she hasn’t made in years coming on like a fever dream.
Béatrice claps, but Alice wearily shakes her head. “Never show—”
“Your ankles, I know. It’s impossibly vulgar, far too Irish, but also ever so fun,” Cora breathlessly argues. “You should give it a try sometime!”
Dagmar, to Cora’s shock, does just that, pulling up her own thick skirts and having a go.
And Alice lets out the most wonderful laugh.
It’s enough to shock Cora into stillness once again.
