“Ah. But that’s only when they’re looking at you, my love,” she whispered.
In the kitchen early the following morning, Delilah found Angelique and Dot sitting across from each other at their floured worktable. This wasn’t unusual.
But Angelique’s expression was as grave as a solicitor delivering bad news about a will. Her hands were clasped in front of her on the table.
Dot’s expression was haunted and abstracted. Her eyes were lowered.
They both sported hot pink spots high on their cheekbones.
Delilah’s head swiveled with alarm toward Helga, their cook, who was hovering behind Dot.
Helga’s face was scarlet and her eyes were watering with what looked like suppressed hilarity. She held a finger to her lips.
“...but... does that mean... that is... so they’re not always misshapen?” Dot asked very quietly.
After a moment, Angelique shook her head slowly.
Dot took this in for a long moment. “Just the enormous ones, then?” So quietly it was nearly a (somewhat horrified) whisper.
A long, tortured silence ensued.
“Possibly,” Angelique finally decided to say. It sounded somewhat strangled. “Sometimes.”
“But... does that mean they all areusuallythe same shape and size?” Dot’s brow was furrowed.
Behind Dot’s back, Helga lifted a rolling pin, wagged her brows and pointed at it by way of asking whether Angelique wanted to use it as an illustrative prop.
Angelique cast her eyes up to Delilah with a “help me” expression.
“Dot, I think the flowers in the reception room vase need to be replaced. Will you go and do it at once, please?” Delilah said brightly.
Dot rose gingerly, as if her body was now unfamiliar to her, and progressed rapidly from the room, carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes.
She had been given a good deal to ponder. They just prayed it didn’t result in a dropped tea tray.
Angelique slumped. “Dear God. It was like quicksand. I felt we needed to answer her, ah, request for clarification from last night before she got her answer from someone else. Or inadvertently used the word incorrectly. And somehow, I just got sucked deeper and deeper in.” She shivered. “I may never be the same.”
Helga plunked a cup of tea in front of Angelique as though it was whiskey and Angelique gulped it gratefully.
“Thank you for undertaking that noble task. But surely she’s not that naive about those things,” Delilah said. “She’s always seemed sensible about men.”
“No, not entirely naive, as it turns out. It was the fancy word for it that caused the turmoil,” Angelique said. “Phallus,” she muttered darkly, under her breath.
“I’m sure you handled it well, Angelique,” Delilah said. “Women are smarter than men, after all.”
They all laughed.
“It’s a risky game we play, all that discourse in the sitting room at night,” Delilah said, with a happy sigh.
Helga placed a cup of tea in front of Delilah, too.
“Thank you, Helga.”
The cook turned to begin delegating tasks to the kitchen maids and Angelique and Delilah sipped their tea.
“Angelique... the little gossip item about Lord Kirke in the newspaper the other morning...” Delilah lowered her voice. “I meant to mention this to you. But it occurred to me that it might be about our Miss Keating.”
Angelique had been stung by the gossip sheets before she’d married Lucien (who had featured in them frequently when he was younger), and while Dot, for instance, was captivated by the glamorous life they captured, she remained cynical about them. “I considered that, too. She wore a green dress the other night. But would Lady Wisterberg allow her to dance with Lord Kirke? And surely that bit about him not dancing for a decade is an exaggeration?”
