At which Pillover gave every outward appearance of intending to ignore them all for the duration of the journey, although he did sneak a few glances in Agatha’s direction.
Bumbersnoot, who had some minor appreciation for Latin verse, sat on one of Pillover’s feet. Pillover fed him bits of brown paper from the sweets wrapper.
“The ladies seem to like him.” Sophronia spoke simply to see whether Pillover would react.
Pillover flinched.
“One of the great mysteries of the universe. Like why anyone would eat cucumber.” Dimity had firm opinions on cucumber, which she felt was nothing more than slimy, embarrassingly shaped water and should never, under any circumstances, be presented at table.
Sophronia moved the conversation on to young men of Dimity’s acquaintance, and which of them might prove a suitable beau. Lord Dingleproops having been long since discarded, there were other prospects to discuss.
Pillover muttered translations down at Bumbersnoot. The mechanimal paid rapt attention.
Sophronia did not mention Soap. She kept silent about his kisses, even knowing the others might benefit from her experience, but she was both mortified and exhilarated by the memory. She did not want her friends to know, fearing their disgust or worse, pity. Her own feelings were conflicted enough—no need to add theirs to the mix. I have a secret lover, she thought. She experienced no little relish over the secrecy part, it must be admitted. It made her feel wise and bold, and better able to advise Dimity on her romantic choices.
Fortunately, Dimity could talk about her beaux, or lack thereof, for the entirety of a carriage ride. The Picklemen and the flywaymen and their valves were only briefly addressed. Pillover bestirred himself to participate in that part of the conversation. But even an insider from Bunson’s couldn’t add to their knowledge. Perhaps because it was Pillover—as insiders went, he never got very far in, as it were.
“We really must wait for the Picklemen to move first.” Sophronia was not happy about this.
Dimity steered them quickly back to boys, for who could be bothered trying to save the nation from an amorphous threat when flirting was on the line?
A Christmas card addressed to Miss Temminnick, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, and Miss Woosmoss was waiting in their shared parlor at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s. In and of itself that was rather charming, as so few people thought—or even knew—of them as a collective. However, this particular card was from Sidheag, which made it all the more delightful. Not that Sidheag was a great wit, or a particularly talented correspondent, but it was nice to hear from her. Once the staunch fourth member of their little band, Lady Kingair was home in Scotland, with her pack and her affianced, preparing to leave the country on what looked to be a protracted campaign in the Crimea. The card said nothing of consequence—mainly pleasant banalities. It also had little of import encoded. After all, Sidheag knew the teachers read their mail, the same teachers who had taught them how to code. But it was nice to know she was well, and her acerbic nature translated into an aggressive script, for all her prose stuck to the strictures of politeness. Sidheag hadn’t stayed long at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, but she had taken some lessons to heart, in the arena of letter writing at least.
“She’s happier there.” Agatha’s tone was sad. Sidheag had been her closest friend.
“How do you think things are with Captain Niall?” Dimity wondered.
“Difficult to tell. It’s not as if she would write that down.” Sophronia and Sidheag shared a dislike of discussing romance.
She gave Dimity a glance of inquiry over Agatha’s bowed head.
Dimity inclined her chin in approval.
“Agatha, would you like to keep the letter?” said Sophronia.
“Oh, may I? You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” Dimity’s smile was warm. Then she glanced down at her necklace timepiece. “Oh, goodness, we have to be in the kitchens in five minutes!”
They had various new lessons, but by far the oddest was, of all things, cooking. Why a respectable female of good standing might need to cook, aside from the occasional poison, was a great mystery. But one did not question Professor Lefoux’s orders. Chopping onions was the worst part, until Dimity discovered one could use floating goggles to good effect. Professor Lefoux was surprised out of her customary dour expression upon finding them attentive to the onions, garbed as if for a flywayman attack.
“Innovative” was her only comment.