He did not return his gaze to her.
“Oh, I’d want to be a fountain, too,” Mr. Delacorte concluded. “One of those statues that everyone knows about and which gives them a right laugh. Squirting water in a funny way, perhaps. Leaning back and shooting it out my mouth. Or I’d be standing there, with my trousers down, you know, having a—”
“DON’T SAY HAVING A PISS,” Mrs. Cuthbert implored.
A silence dropped like a dome.
Clearly Mr. Delacorte had slowly eroded Mrs. Cuthbert’s being fibers over a period of days, and they had finally snapped.
The Epithet Jar seemed to pulse.
Everyone stared at Mrs. Cuthbert with varyingdegrees of sympathy, suppressed glee, and smug satisfaction.
Mrs. Cuthbert’s eyes grew and grew in size when she realized what she’d done.
“You... you were going to say having a p-piss,” she said weakly to Mr. Delacorte and the company at large. “I know you were.”
“I might have done,” Mr. Delacorte agreed gently, “butyousaid it instead.” He paused eloquently. “Twice.”
No one spoke. The rules were clear. The Epithet Jar performed an important function in maintaining a civilized atmosphere, and everyone took it seriously. It was also often how The Grand Palace on the Thames paid for the morning newspapers.
“Here,” Mr. Delacorte said kindly. He fished a penny from his pocket and brought it over to Mrs. Cuthbert. “I’ll walk with you to the jar, if you like, so you won’t feel alone. I know the way.”
She stood, and, like an abbess escorting a novitiate nun to have her head shaved, Mr. Delacorte escorted Mrs. Cuthbert to the Epithet Jar.
She dropped her penny in.
“We’ve all had to do it,” Mrs. Pariseau said more gently to her old friend. Whose lower lip was wobbling.
“Really?” Mrs. Cuthbert said tremulously.
Everyone nodded supportively, even though this wasn’t true.
“Perhaps we should have some music? Would you like that, Mrs. Cuthbert?” Delilah shot a warning glance at Mr. Delacorte. He had a fondness forone particular song which was somewhat naughty and featured clapping, and he tended to advocate vigorously for it when they decided upon a musical evening. “Would you like to sing?”
“Yes, I would like that,” Mrs. Cuthbert managed with dignity. “Do you know ‘Black-Eyed Susan’?”
“We do!” Angelique and Delilah enthused in unison.
Angelique settled in at the pianoforte, and Delilah went to turn the pages of the score.
As it turned out Mrs. Cuthbert had a decent, and startlingly emotional, soprano singing voice.
People will always surprise you, Alexandra thought.
And as it soon became clear that the rest of the evening would be devoted to playing and singing sentimental ballads, Alexandra decided to take her leave. She played and sang passably well, but that pitiful sailor poetically pining for his black-eyed Susan made her feel jaded, and reminded her that she would be on the ocean soon and, unlike Susan, leaving behind a man who didn’t want her.
“I’ll just bid everyone good-night, shall I?” she whispered to Dot, who was nearest.
And when she rose, Magnus rose, too, to escort her out.
In silence, they traveled back to their suite in the annex. He had offered her his arm on the way into the sitting room, for appearance’s sake.
He did not do that now.
“Surprisingly, I enjoyed every bit of that,” she said finally, as they scaled the stairs. “I wouldn’t mind having an evening like that every night.”
“I did, rather, as well,” he admitted, after a hesitation. “Except for the ballads. I would rather gouge out my eye with a rook or a bishop than listen to Mrs. Cuthbert sing about yearning.”