“Not eighty-two,” Dot told Mrs. Cuthbert patiently. “Ten. Ten pence.”
Mrs. Cuthbert opened her mouth to correct her, then intercepted a somewhat quelling look from Angelique and apparently thought better of it.
“How did you enjoy the donkey race, Dot?” Delilah wanted to know. “It sounds as though Shillelagh won. How exciting!”
Delilah had lolled in bed after a decadent evening with her husband. Which meant she was awake by six, instead of five. She had not yet heard reviews of the donkey race.
Dot nodded, a little subdued. “I had a wonderful time.” Her tone confusingly suggested otherwise. “Thank you for letting me go.”
Angelique and Delilah exchanged swift glances. Of the many things Dot was, subdued was seldom one of them.
“I suppose itwasfate, then,” Angelique prompted.
“Perhaps it was,” Dot reflected driftily. “Perhaps it was. But I don’t know anymore if fate is always a good thing.”
Bemused glances ricocheted between Angelique and Delilah and Captain Hardy and Lord Bolt. A philosophical Dot was a bit worrisome, too.
“Perhaps fate is a thing like—oh, the sky, or apond or a tree—it isn’t fundamentally good or bad. It just is,” Alexandra suggested, delicately.
“Very wise, dear,” Mrs. Pariseau approved.
“I learned it in prison,” Alexandra lied, mischievously.
She had discovered that every time Mrs. Cuthbert disapproved of something, her bosom heaved a bit and her pearl necklace glinted in the light.
Perversely, Alexandra was actually going to miss her, and this room, when she was gone. She loved the odd balance of people—the give-and-take, the kindness and patience and exasperation and humor and clumsiness. It felt so warm, and so alive.
She thought Magnus would enjoy this evening, too. And a little cloud moved over her mood, because what that really meant was that she thoughtshewould enjoy this even more if he was here. She missed him, and she suspected this meant she was a fool.
The somewhat queasy suspicion that Magnus was staying out late deliberately so that he wouldn’t need to face her when he returned had begun to settle in.
So be it, if so. But even if she was already in bed when he returned, if, like her, he’d been engaged in his own somewhat torturous inner dialogue today about making love to his wife... she intended to extend to him an invitation so subtle that even if he refused it, or failed to notice, it would still leave her with her pride.
But thinking about it now sped her heart.
“What are you going to buy with your ten pence, Dot? New handkerchiefs? Save up to buy your own donkey?” Delilah wondered.
Mr. Delacorte’s head shot up from the chessboard as if he’d just heard a brilliant idea.
“I bought a little journal today at the stationer’s when I went out to get the newspapers. I’m going to write my most important thoughts in it. I’m going to call it ‘Dot’s Thoughts.’”
A polite silence ensued, during which everyone silently congratulated themselves on not saying aloud what they were thinking about Dot’s thoughts.
“I’d never considered ranking my thoughts from most important to least,” Lucien said. “You’ll be busy, Dot.”
Dot nodded somberly in agreement.
“Speaking of written things, Dot, I can’t seem to find our copy ofThe Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. Do you know where it might be?” Mrs. Pariseau asked.
Dot’s eyebrows assumed a distressed position. “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry. I left it upstairs. I wanted to write the word ‘Scheherazade’ in my journal and I didn’t know how to spell it.”
“Perhaps you can go and fetch it for Mrs. Pariseau,” Delilah suggested.
“I’m sorry... I’m very sorry... but I don’t think I can.” Her voice was low and tormented.
They stared at her. Speechless. Not in their wildest dreams had Delilah or Angelique anticipated insubordination from Dot. Perhaps the ten pence she’d won was giving her notions.
“You don’t think you can?” Delilah repeated gingerly.
