Delacorte’s smile faded and he pivoted away again.
“Mama, may I smell what’s in Mr. Delacorte’s case?” Claire asked.
“Certainly not, Claire,” the countess said absently and rather shortly. She was absorbed in Mrs. Pariseau’s story.
Claire shrugged with one shoulder, clearly accustomed to hearing, “Certainly not,” a good deal. She shot a quick little smile at her sister, who flashed the tiniest smile back.
The unexpected, fleeting sweetness of this exchange stopped his breath with a jolt of homesickness: for his sister, Maeve, for New York, for people he’d lost, for things that would never be the same, for the simple pleasure of sharing sly mischievous smiles with people who knew and loved him.
It left him briefly winded.
He wondered if she’d noticed.
“Interestingly, the epithet jar didn’t prevent Mr. Delacorte from sharing a new word with all of us,” Lillias said suddenly.
“Oh? What did you say, Delacorte?” Hugh turned to him.
“Oh, I said boll... ha. I’m not falling for that again, Cassidy.”
Hugh laughed. “I’ll take responsibility for the first syllable.” He flipped a half pence into the jar with such accurate vigor that Lillias gave a little jump. It clinked loudly, because it landed on a little metallic bed of already present pence.
The heads of the knitting ladies came up abruptly at the sound.
“You might be curious to learn, Mr. Cassidy, that a half pence is the exact cost of a scone,” Mrs. Hardy said very sweetly, yet significantly.
Hugh looked toward her sharply. Shecouldbe making that up on the spot, though one never knew—but then, Angelique and Delilah knew their budgets down to the last pence. She was clearly making a point, and he suspected what it was.
“Well, that is interesting information, indeed. The scones are worth their weight in gold, of course,” he said carefully. “Suppose a man had innocently eaten more than his fair share of scones and wished to compensate for... ah... succumbing to their divine qualities?”
There was a little pause while she studied him.
“Innocently?” She wrinkled her nose skeptically.
Hugh grinned.
“The man in question could assist with completing the construction of the stage in the Annex as the crew, and be paid with scones and gratitude,” she said briskly.
“He’d be willing to do that.” He’d actually love to do the work; he loathed having nothing constructive to do while he waited for letters that might never arrive. “I wonder what became of the men doing the work?”
“So do we,” Angelique said darkly.
“It’s so difficult to get good help,” the countess said brightly, as though delivering a line in a play.
Dot had gotten hold of her knight and was making little clopping sounds against the roof of her mouth as she pretended to gallop it across the board. She claimed this helped her concentrate.
Delacorte lifted pleading, deeply regretful eyes to Delilah and Angelique. He was as sturdy as a Welsh pony and his hair tended to tuft out above his ears when it got a little long, which made him look a bit like a squirrel. And his eyes were lovely. Large and misty blue, the eyes of a dreamer.
They shrugged and smiled back at him with limpid, impish gratitude. The truth was, thanks to him, Dot already played a creditable, if unorthodox, game of chess. One day Dot was going to win a game. With somebody. Most likely with herself.
“I should say it’s so lovely to have you back, Mr. Cassidy, as we’re reading stories about gods and goddesses,” Mrs. Pariseau, a dashing, worldly widow whose dark hair was streaked in striking white and whose sense of humor was bawdy, said. “Would you like to take a turn with the voices? You’ve such a fine baritone you ought tobe on stage. I should think you’d make awonderfulHades.”
Mrs. Pariseau thought everyone who possessed a gift she appreciated ought to share it with the world via the stage.
She patted an empty chair near her. Hugh, contentedly, pulled it out and settled. He rather savored knowing Lady Lillias couldn’t help but note that he, and his fine baritone and carpentry skills, was so welcome and appreciated.
“Tell me, Mrs. Pariseau...” All the ladies turned abruptly, eyes wide, when Lillias spoke, as it was the first time she’d voluntarily addressed them in the little sitting room since she’d arrived. “Isn’t the myth of Hades and Persephone about a woman compelled to be, or shall we say,trapped,where she doesn’t want to be? Thanks to the perfidy of a man?”
Her innocence was entirely feigned.