Delilah counted out a few coins and Frances beamed. She had all of her teeth, which was probably quite an accomplishment here at the docks.
And then Delilah and Dot tore into their meal like caged beasts.
The pie wasn’t terrible—whatever the meat was, perhaps offal and a shred or two from some animal’s flank, it was liberally spiced and churned up with potato. It filled the pit of her poor stomach and she felt immediately better.
The coffee arrived a moment later. Other than its color it bore little resemblance to the brew she’d become accustomed to. But it was hot and wet and she drank it.
It helped to have begun life in a certain genteel poverty. She had a feeling flexibility was going to figure largely in her future.
“Oh, Lady Derring,” Dot said suddenly. “There’s a lady sitting alone over there. Perhaps we ought to ask her to join us.”
Delilah doubted the wordladyapplied, but she looked.
The woman in question was dressed all in black and sitting very, very still. Which could be why they hadn’t noticed her at all.
“Dot, ladies sittingalonein pubs are usually looking for...”
Then she saw the hat resting on the chair opposite the woman.
A black one, with a jaunty feather.
Something about the cant of her head...
The color of her hair...
Delilah’s heart lurched.
She stared.
“Please wait for me here, Dot.”
She scarcely noted that she’d risen from her chair. But she was moving across the room, slowly, toward the woman as though some external force impelled her.
She stopped at the table where the lone woman sat staring at what appeared to be a small, nearly full glass of sherry.
A somewhat haunted, hunted expression fled from Mrs. Angelique Breedlove’s face when she looked up. She looked as weary as Delilah felt. As though she were beyond surprise.
They stared at each other.
“Are you going to toss a drink into my face? Or do you have an absurd, tiny pistol in that tiny, absurd little reticule?”
Mrs. Breedlove said it lightly. But her eyes were cool and there was something of the coiled spring about her posture.
Delilah matched her tone. “What a waste of a drink that would be. And you appear to be wearing silk. Did my husband buy it for you?”
This was the person she was, apparently, when nobody was around to tell her who she was or who she ought to be. An ironic person. Someone who came out with questions just like that.
It was as liberating as loosening her stays.
“Yes,” the other woman said.
They regarded each other with less hostility than one might imagine. More in the manner of two people who’d just discovered they’re not alone on a previously deserted island, and who are uncertain as to whether this new person is a cannibal or not.
“May I sit down?” Delilah surprised herself by asking.
Surprise flared in the other woman’s face.
After a hesitation, she gave a slow, wary nod.
