“I think a distinction can be made, Mr. Delacorte, between words that are used to expostulate and words that are used to elucidate,” Mrs. Pariseau suggested, carefully.
Mr. Delacorte’s expression made it clear he thought “expostulate” and “elucidate” should be jar words, too.
“Perhaps at the next Epithet Jar Congress you can further clarify the parameters,” Lord Kirke suggested, and Catherine laughed, then coughed when Mr. Delacorte and Mrs. Pariseau swiveled their heads toward her.
It was no laughing matter, the Epithet Jar.
“While both of you have made excellent points,” Delilah finally said, diplomatically, “if you feel overcome by the urge to mention anatomy, or if it seems critical to the discussion, I would like to suggest that a certain discretion ought to be employed. I feel we have gotten a bit too, ah, anatomical, in this room this week, andsurelythere are other topics we can explore.”
Angelique looked relieved by this answer, as though she concurred.
Mrs. Pariseau could usually be counted on to graciously do the right thing after she’d inadvertently done the wrong thing, which had been more than once.
She sighed. “Yes. You’re right of course. I understand. I’m terribly sorry. I do get carried away. You see, I attended a lecture called ‘The Flora of the Indonesian Forest’ and I found it all so fascinating that I just did not even think before I opened my mouth. I thought the flower’s magnificent singularity was a good fit for Mr. Delacorte. He is one of a kind, is he not? I did not mean to imply that Mr. Delacorte has a... that his... ah, is...” She cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Mr. Delacorte?”
“Of course,” he said graciously. “We all make the odd mistake, now and again. And my... well, it’s not, by the way. Misshapen,” he said with great dignity.
Everyone winced.
Since Mr. Delacorte was usually the one making mistakes, and Mrs. Pariseau was known for being right about everything, and she did not precisely feel she’d made a mistake, a minute little tension ensued.
But then she gamely went up to her room to fetch a penny to drop into the jar, and Catherine admiredagain the play of light over her skirts as she, with dignity, swished by.
“What sort of flowers would Mrs. Hardy or Mrs. Durand be?” Delacorte wondered. As if comparing people to flowers hadn’t already proved to be a risky endeavor.
“Delilah’s favorites are daisies,” Captain Hardy said.
This earned him a melting look from his wife, who had told him this only once and he had never forgotten it. He had, in fact, remembered it on one of the most memorable days of both of their lives. “But I think pansies, too,” he added a moment later, surprising her, judging from Delilah’s questioning glance.
“Later,” he promised her under his breath.
Captain Hardy would never be comfortable effusing in front of other people.
“Angelique is a rose.” Lucien said this as if he’d decided this long ago. “A golden yellow rose, very soft with layers of ruffled petals, gone blush at the tips.” Lord Bolt was a great reader of poetry and an unabashed user of metaphors.
Angelique smiled at him, and when she blushed, Catherine could see how easily he had come to this conclusion.
Her heart twinged, sweetly and painfully. How lovely it would be for someone to see and know her so well that he could compare her at once to a specific flower. Or know her favorites. She hadn’t a favorite, unless, perhaps it was poppies because that shade of red stole her breath. She liked all of the flowers she saw, especially wildflowers, especially when they sprang up in unexpected places. Every year when things began to bloom after a winter, it never ceased feeling like a miracle.
“Dot would be bluebells, I think,” Delilah suggested.
“Oh!” Dot breathed and clasped her hands, as though she’d been anointed.
“Or dandelions after they’ve puffed out and are ready to float away,” Delacorte mused.
“Because you can wish on them?” Dot wanted to know.
“Yes, that’s why,” Delacorte said, after intercepting a warning glance from Delilah.
“What about you, Lord Kirke?” Mrs. Pariseau turned to him.
“I’m a horse chestnut,” he said at once, without looking up from the chessboard. “Prickly and dangerous on the outside, hard on the inside. Sometimes poisonous.”
He winked at the audience at large, so they would feel free to chuckle. Which they did, albeit a trifle uneasily.
“But chestnuts are rather nice when they’re toasted in the fire, as you nearly were,” Catherine said.
He lifted his head and turned it slowly toward her. Once again, she had the pleasure of watching his face go brilliant with glee before his lips curved.
