Portrait of a Scotsman (A League of Extraordinary Women #3)(13)
On Friday, she broke. She convinced Aunty to write a pretty invitation, then she went to the residential wing of St. John’s College to call on Catriona.
Her friend sat at her father’s desk, as usual wrapped in her battered Clan Campbell tartan shawl, her glossy black hair tied in a loose bun. She was studying an old tome through a magnifying glass.
The weight of a boulder rolled off Hattie’s chest. “Thank goodness you are home.”
Catriona turned to her and blinked, confused like an owl rudely woken from a snooze. “Hattie.” Her voice was scratchy, as though she hadn’t yet spoken to anyone today. “Apologies. I forgot you were coming to call.” She rose and put on her glasses. “Is your officer being attended to?”
“Your housekeeper took him to the kitchen, so I assume he is currently drinking tea. And you haven’t forgotten a thing—I’m calling unannounced.” She opened her reticule and fished for the small envelope as Catriona approached. “I’m delivering an invitation to a matinée tomorrow. In our residence in St. James’s. It’s a little short notice, but they are playing Chopin—you adore Chopin, don’t you?”
Catriona was still holding the magnifying glass, which she appeared to notice only now. She looked at it blankly for a moment, then she returned her attentions to the envelope Hattie was holding under her nose. “Thank you? But I’m afraid tomorrow—”
“And you must tell me all about your research on Tunis,” Hattie said. “I’m so intrigued.”
Catriona dipped her chin and stared at her over the metal frame of her glasses. “The research is on Tyrus. A city in the Levant.” Her Scottish lilt was a little stern.
“Even more intriguing,” Hattie said quickly.
The stare did not waver. “What is it, Hattie?”
Hattie made a pout. “Whyever would you sound so suspicious?”
Catriona’s eyes were a stunning cerulean blue, a formidable contrast to her straight black lashes. She usually hid their charm behind her spectacles or a faraway look that said she was sifting through an old parchment on Tunis or Tyrus rather than seeing the person in front of her. Now her gaze was alert with intimidatingly sharp intelligence. “You’re in trouble, and you think I can help,” she said. She nodded at the Chesterfield wing chairs to either side of the cold fireplace. “Have a seat. I shall fetch us some tea.”
She left for the kitchen rather than use the bell pull, and Hattie settled in the creaking leather chair and arranged her skirts. Her pulse gradually slowed to a normal pace for the first time in a week. The quiet in Professor Campbell’s study was absolute, not even disturbed by the tick of a clock, and the low ceiling and thick old walls shielded against all outside sound. Only the scent of inked paper and Catriona’s lavender soap permeated the air. The stained-glass windows faced a walled garden, and the sun streaming in painted red and blue vignettes onto worn floorboards. This was a room of timeless calm, promising that one could safely weather a storm here. It wasn’t an abode befitting a Scottish earl and his heiress, but it suited their scholarly minds: one could picture them in these armchairs when the fire crackled, immersed in their reading, occasionally adjusting their glasses or glancing up to say something clever. Catriona was to Professor Campbell what Flossie was to Julien Greenfield, Hattie supposed: an admirer of her father’s interests from the cradle. She would find Hattie’s current woes frivolous at best. By the time Catriona returned, carefully balancing a small tray, she had steeled herself.
“You are right,” she said once her friend had poured the tea and taken a seat. “I’m in trouble, and I need your help. I need you to be at the matinée because Mr. Blackstone shall be there, and I cannot face him alone and Mother forbids me to be indisposed.”
“Blackstone?” Catriona lowered her cup again, intrigued. “The industrialist who loaned Lord Ballentine money for London Print?”
“The very same.”
“Why would you rather not face him alone?”
She stared at her tightly laced fingers in her lap. “We kissed,” she said. “Each other.”
A soft intake of breath came from the direction of the other armchair. “Perhaps,” Catriona then said, “you can explain.”
So she did. She explained about shaking off Mr. Graves, her hope to see the Ophelia, and the kiss. Then the shock of learning he was coming to the matinée.
Catriona was silent for a rather endless minute. “Och aye,” she finally said. “That is a situation.”
Luckily, Catriona had the rare habit of studying a situation, any situation, free from the distorting influence of sensibilities or judgment, quite as though she were looking at an archaeological artifact. Hattie should have spoken to her much sooner.
“Where was your aunt throughout this excursion?” Catriona asked.
Hmm. She glanced away. “I left her under the impression that I was painting in my studio with Mr. Graves manning the door so she could attend a tea-and-bridge session. She usually naps afterward. I had planned to return before long.”
Catriona’s expression was equal parts disapproval and disappointment. “You might get yourself into terrible trouble one day.”
“Yes—in fact, that day is tomorrow.” She unleashed her most pleading look. “Please say you shall come. I should feel less nervous with a dear friend by my side.”