Oddly, she was certain she could still feel the ocean waves moving under her feet, even here, on perfectly solid land and in the embrace of a place meant for holding people still besides. She closed her eyes and pressed her feet firmly to the uneven stone floor beneath her boots, reminding herself that she was ashore again, that she was home again.
England, she told herself. English. The King’s English? Or the Regent’s? Had it changed because of the Regency?
She would have to ask someone who might know.
When Mary and then Elizabeth Tudor had reigned, after all, it had been the Queen’s English.
Clerkwas a funny sort of word, wasn’t it? Why was it pronounced as though the vowel were anarather than ane? When English had shifted, and the ligaments had been replaced with single letters, most had retained their phonetic vowel. This particular word, it seemed, was a matter of contention. Hattie preferred a lack of contention in matters of phonics, and often thought English was perhaps the most unfortunate language to have been born into, with its many roots and borrowings and eras.Clerk, she thought again.
“I’m not leaving without Lem,” came Libba’s voice from the hall, shrill and animated and entirely familiar. “You’ll bail him out too or I’ll sleep here for another week.”
Hattie smiled, her eyes still closed.
She couldn’t make out exactly what Mr. Harcourt said in response, but she supposed that Libba won the argument, because a few moments later, in the darkness behind her eyelids,she felt the bench creak and smelled Libba’s favorite jasmine hair oil as it sprinkled into the air.
She didn’t speak. Instead, Liberty Lennox just reached out and took Hattie’s hand, linking her fingers through the other woman’s.
Hattie sighed and opened her eyes then, turning to look upon a face she had missed very much. “You changed your name,” she said by way of greeting. “The new one is a little ironic, given the venue of our reunion.”
Libba grinned, the constellation of beauty marks on her face dancing along her lip and cheek. “I knew you’d say something like that,” she said. “By way of greeting.”
Hattie gave half a smile and a shrug, admiring this version of Libba, who appeared to still be partially in costume from some performance she’d given before arrest. There was white talc in her dark, tight-coiled hair and her gown was more of a toga than respectable dress. Her skin, dark as oiled beechwood, sparkled with a layer of glittering cosmetics that caught in the light.
“Who is Lem?” Hattie asked, tilting her head curiously. “Did you marry?”
“Marry Lem? Absolutely not,” Libba said with a laugh. “He’s my muscle.”
Hattie blinked, reaching forward instinctively and poking at Libba’s bicep, which made the other woman snort and slap at her hand.
“Stop being so queer.”
“I can’t,” said Hattie with a lazy smile. “Smuggling?”
Libba scoffed. “All the best things are French. You know that as well as anyone. Wine, silk, cheese, shoes, men. Where were you this time, by the by?”
“Russia,” said Hattie. “They have very nice shoes as well.”
“Russia,” Libba repeated with a wistful little sigh. “Living with a king again?”
“A tsar,” Hattie said. “And tsarina. Or empress, depending on who you ask. Her, you would have liked.”
“And him?” Libba pressed.
“Pious,” said Hattie with a shrug. “Or blessed, depending on whom you ask. I thought I was there to teach or to translate, but I think I was primarily something like a centerpiece for dinners.”
“Put you right on the tablecloth, did they?” Libba asked with a grin as Hattie immediately shook her head. “I know. I do that to Lem sometimes, though. We oil him up and surround him with fruit as the patrons file in. It does draw a particular crowd.”
“Because of his muscle?” Hattie asked, blinking.
“Because of his muscle,” Libba agreed. “Ah, here he is.”
Both women stood as Mr. Harcourt emerged with an extremely tall, extremely muscled bald man, dressed in a costume like some manner of sultan or pasha. He was even darker than Libba, gleaming closer to ebonwood and wearing the same layer of sparkle as he trudged out. “Lem, meet Hattie,” Libba said. “Hattie, Lem.”
“It is a pleasure,” Hattie said, drawing nearer, offering her hand to shake. “Is ‘Lem’ short for ‘Lemuel’?”
“Short for ‘Lem,’” he said, each word clipped at the end.
Mr. Harcourt sighed. “Why don’t we go to the inn presently?” he suggested. “I can get an extra room for Mister… Lem here. I’m sorry, sir, do you have a surname?”
