“Oh, do go away. I’m not up to dalliance this morning.”
He pouted at her. “Is that all I am to you? A plaything, a speck of dust on a sunbeam, a bit of dandelion fluff on the breeze?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.” Sophronia hid a smile at such silliness. No sense encouraging the blighter.
“Hard-hearted, that’s what you are.”
“You’re an imbecile, you do realize?”
Any further conversation was interrupted, as it was surely meant to be, by a squeal from Monique. It was emitted upon reading a gold-embossed letter and caught even Mademoiselle Geraldine’s attention from the head table.
Felix moved hastily out of indiscreet proximity to Sophronia.
“Miss Pelouse, have you something of note to share with the assembly?” wondered the headmistress.
The blonde girl stood gracefully, glancing over the entire room with a beneficent smile. She looked like a queen addressing her subjects, holding her gold missive in one hand as though an award received from on high. Her dress that morning was of royal blue with butter-lemon stripes, a row of gold pom-poms down the front in increasing size. It was almost as though it were intended to match the letter.
“Nothing of any consequence, Headmistress,” she said, blushing prettily. “It’s only that my dear mama has informed me that she intends to hold my coming-out ball when we arrive in town!”
Pandemonium reigned. The announcement of a trip to London had been one thing, and the presence of boys another, but this was the Thing to End All Things—a ball!
A breakfast selection of German sausage, broiled kidney, dried salmon, and muttonchops arrived, but few registered it. Some of the young ladies even ate the salmon without concern to vital humors—when everyone knew colored fish flesh could bring on an attack of hysteria.
Sophronia refused to be ruffled. She ate the same thing every morning: porridge.
Girls began to find excuses to call at Monique’s table to compliment the horrid girl on the cut of her dress or the size of her pom-poms, angling for an invitation.
“What lovely earrings, Monique.”
“Yes, aren’t they pretty? My father purchased them in Spain. Such an expense for little me!”
“Did you do your hair differently this morning, Monique?”
“No, but it is looking quite shiny, isn’t it?”
Pillover glanced up from his plate of sausage. “What a revolting spectacle.”
Sophronia privately agreed and contemplated breaking from her normal dietary routine and eating a sausage in order to cope.
Monique, mistress of the British Empire at that moment, seemed willing to gratify all sycophants. Most of the older girls, cronies of hers, were told right off that of course, she could not do without them in attendance. A few of the middle girls were told they might be allowed in, but the debuts—who shared her table and chambers—were left in suspense.
Preshea, at Monique’s right hand, smirked, anticipating an invite. “Can I pass you the butter, Monique? Would you care for a little more tea, Monique?”
Agatha looked terrified and Sidheag indifferent; they’d rather not be invited. Dimity kept glancing in Sophronia’s direction as if she wished they were on speaking terms so they could discuss this new kink in the workings of life.
Lord Dingleproops, Monique’s dining companion, paid her marked attention—to her evident enjoyment. Sophronia felt sorry for Dimity. Whatever false hopes he had once given her must now be crushed.
The ordeal of breakfast eventually ended. As they rose and made their way toward the exit, Sophronia snaked up behind her erstwhile best friend and whispered, “I shouldn’t be too upset. Lady Dimity Dingleproops sounds quite ridiculous, anyway.”
Dimity smothered a giggle and turned, eyes animated, prepared for a bit of a gossip—in that instant all ill feelings were forgotten. But Agatha, of all people, swooped in and linked arms with Dimity, practically dragging her away down the hall.