She had never been anobsession.
And this made her feel like a heroine in a story.
And she’d thought: Surely such things added up to love?
She’d once watched as a spider wrapped a fly round and round in gossamer-sticky silk and wondered—at what point does the fly realize they can no longer move?
With Brundage, it had happened in silky increments, just like that.
Heat flooded into her cheeks.
She stared down at her delicious fish stew. Suddenly she couldn’t eat another bite.
After dinner everyone collected in the cozy sitting room opposite the reception room in which she had been interviewed. None of the furniture quite matched in size or color or provenance, but the glow of the fire and the lamps scattered about cast everything in the room, including its occupants, in a flattering light, sothat the result was a sort of picturesque harmony. A pianoforte at one end of the room somehow managed to look poised and alert, as though it hoped someone would come along to play it.
Mr. Delacorte and Lord Bolt faced each other across a chessboard, Captain Hardy had a book and a table to himself, and the ladies embarked on a discussion of whether to play spillikins or perhaps whist while one of them read aloud.
Aurelie still felt cautious, but undaunted. Pulled between the desire for anonymity and the pleasure of being a part of something, of being both wanted and expected by everyone here.
Thankfully, nothing specific seemed required of her apart from her presence, which was novel and lovely, too. Everyone seemed to have taken for granted that she belonged.
“Oh!” Mrs. Pariseau exclaimed suddenly. “Mrs. Durand, you ought to read to Mrs. Gallagher the part of Mr. Bellingham’s letter about how Eleanor the chicken can play noughts-and-crosses,” Mrs. Pariseau urged.
“Noughts-and-crosses?” Aurelie was astonished. “But she hasn’t any fingers!”
When everyone laughed, she blushed with pleasure. It hadn’t quite ceased feeling new and delightful, the notion that people might like her or find her amusing.
But she was conscious now of a hesitancy that preceded anything she said. A tension in the pit of her stomach, a bracing, that followed in the wake of laughter she’d inspired. Brundage had at first seemed to revel in her charm. He’d claimed to love her laugh.
And then came the night she’d laughed at something his footman had said about the weather.
Aurelie took a steadying breath.
“With her beak, if you can believe it, Mrs. Gallagher,” Mrs. Pariseau told her. She mimicked pecking, complete with flapping arms.
Aurelie, and everyone else, laughed.
“I wonder if she can play chess that way,” Delacorte mused. “I wonder if she would take as long to make a move as Lord Bolt here.”
“You know you can’t intimidate me, Delacorte,” Bolt said absently. “But your efforts amuse me, so carry on.”
Mr. Delacorte was the resident chess champion, but Bolt won with respectable frequency.
“All three of us are due at White’s for drinks with the chaps from Lloyd’s in an hour, so I’d be obliged if you’d lose faster, Bolt,” Captain Hardy contributed.
Mr. Delacorte grinned. Lord Bolt shot Hardy a wry glance.
“Do you play chess, Mrs. Gallagher?” Dot asked her.
“Oh, yes. In fact, very well, indeed.” She smiled across at Mr. Delacorte.
He said nothing, but blushed a rather adorable shade of pale strawberry.
Angelique cleared her throat.
“Let’s see... I’ve found the part of Mr. Bellingham’s letter, Mrs. Gallagher... Mr. Bellingham writes, ‘...and one day I drew a grid of noughts-and-crosses, just for fun, in the dust in the yard of the vicarage. And I aver Eleanor pecked so decisively at a square, I drew a cross there for her. Then I drew a naught in another square. We carried on like this until she won the game!’”
Everyone laughed again.