“It’s only a small farewell tea,” said Hortensia with a smile. “Each one of us has contributed something. Emma baked a lemon sponge and the cheesecake whose recipe she refuses to give anyone. Herminia made the foie gras and apple sandwiches and the roast-beef canapés. Virginia brought her Krasnodar tea; and the carrot cake and toast, butter and honey are my contributions. It’s a shame we don’t have one of your wonderful birthday tarts.”
“It’s Mrs. Rouan’s tart now, too,” said Miss Prim as she sat down by the fire. “It’s a shared secret.”
“Really? Mrs. Rouan is a good woman, if a little stubborn,” said her hostess, placing the teapot on the table.
“As am I.”
As they chatted, the other guests began arriving at the flower shop: first, Emma Giovanacci, out of breath; then, Virginia Pille, so well wrapped up in her thick camel coat that she was almost unrecognizable; and last, Herminia Treaumont, as delicate and exquisite as a flower.
“Any second thoughts, Prudencia?” asked the editor of San Ireneo’s newspaper a few minutes later as the five women were enjoying the food and merry conversation around the fire.
They all looked expectantly at the librarian as she swallowed her mouthful of roast-beef canapé before answering.
“You were right, Herminia, as always. Now that I’m sure of it, I can’t stay.”
“I wish I hadn’t been,” replied Herminia, with a pained expression. “I know I wasn’t very tactful that evening. I’ve thought it over a lot since then, and I realize I should have taken you aside and told you sooner. I’d like to apologize now, in front of everyone, and I hope you believe me when I say I never wanted to hurt you.”
Miss Prim smiled and, moving nearer to the table, tenderly laid her hand on her friend’s.
“I never thought you did. Now that we’re being open, I have to confess that I would have preferred to have been told in private, but I never doubted you meant well. Of course,” she said with a wink, “I have felt very jealous of you.”
“Really? There was absolutely no reason to, I can assure you. He’s very fond of me, but not in any way that might trouble you.”
Hortensia rose from the table and went to refill the pot. The aroma of Krasnodar tea again pervaded the room.
“Well, now that that’s all over,” said Emma cheerfully, “and just in case anyone hasn’t noticed, we’ve clearly got a real heartbreaker here in San Ireneo de Arnois. And the most interesting thing is that he has no idea he’s doing it.”
They all laughed and refilled their cups.
“Oh, I’m sure he knows,” said Virginia. “How could he not? I’m not saying he does it on purpose—he’s an absolute gentleman in the sense westillgive the word here—but how could you be unaware of something like that?”
Prudencia seemed to ponder the question as she dithered over whether to have a slice of carrot cake or a piece of buttered toast with honey.
“All I can say,” she said, opting for the cake, “is that he’s never consciously toyed with my feelings or tried to take advantage of the situation. He’s always behaved with perfect courtesy.”
“Of course, Prudencia. Of course he has. But that’s thepoint, isn’t it?” said Hortensia.
“What do you mean?”
“The attraction of courtesy, of course. Is anything more powerful?”
“Do you think so?” asked Miss Prim, interested. “I had the impression it was the other way around, that women were supposed to be attracted to cads.”
The florist and the other guests shook their heads vehemently.
“That’s not true, Prudencia, at least not if we’re talking about adult, emotionally balanced women,” said Virginia, swallowing a mouthful of lemon cake. “Of course, we know what you mean. All young girls experience the kind of obscure attraction you refer to, but things change when they grow up.”
“I’m not sure that’s right, Virginia,” said Miss Prim. “It would speak well of our intelligence and good sense, but I fear it’s not so. The world is full of grown women who are in dreadful relationships with deeply dishonest men.”
“It’s not a matter of chronological maturity, Prudencia. And those women aren’t the majority, in any case,” insisted the bookseller.
Herminia topped up her teacup before settling back in her chair.
“I expect it seems a little obsessive, always returning to the same source, but what about the duel between Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham? Or the confrontation between Mr. Knightley and Frank Churchill? I’m convinced Jane Austen is the touchstone here. I don’t think you’d find a single woman who, on readingPride and Prejudice, would choose Mr. Wickham rather than Mr. Darcy, or afterEmmawould pine for Frank Churchill and despise Mr. Knightley. Do you remember I once said to you that men hate Mr. Darcy because they feel dull by comparison? And women adore him because, once he’s repented of his pride, he’s the ideal man—strong, sincere, and honest.”
“And rich, you’re forgetting that. Ten thousand pounds a year would make anyone attractive,” Emma pointed out wickedly.
“This is all true,” said the librarian, eyes shining. “But unfortunately the modern world thinks otherwise. Very few women nowadays read nineteenth-century English novels.”
