She freshened up over the washbowl. Her reflection looked very young and very old in turn as it contorted on the moving surface of the water. Time had been acting strange since Elias Khoury’s arrival. Time did in fact not provide a solid barrier between haunting past events and present day; it could crumble or turn to glass. All it took was a particular disturbance. First, the arrival of Mr. Khoury, who had reminded her that her desire wasn’t dead. Add Hattie’s remark earlier that Peregrin had spurned her only after he no longer needed her, and the lid on her personal little crypt had cracked open. Hattie was right. When the Duke of Montgomery had tried to impress Peregrin into the Royal Navy several years ago, she, Catriona, had helped Peregrin hide. She had conspired against an English duke without giving it much thought, because it had been the right thing to do; she would have assisted Peregrin regardless of his feelings for her. Peregrin, however, had gone on his merry way later, thinking he had her spinsterly crush to thank for her care. It added insult to injury to have her intentions misjudged so severely.
She patted her chest dry in front of the age-speckled mirror. Soon, she could at least leave Elias Khoury to his own devices. When he was gone, the past would go back where it belonged, too. As she picked up her hairbrush, her eye caught on the reflection of her smallpox vaccine scar, a penny-sized white circle with uneven edges, forever marking her upper arm. She touched it with her fingertip. If only one could inoculate against stupid emotions as one could inoculate against a virus. Her brows pulled together. She scraped her nail over the scar, then pressed it slightly. Perhaps one could do that. Could she temper her erratic reactions to nerve-racking encounters with small, deliberate doses of exposure? Because acting like a thunderstruck cow was costing her both her nerves and her dignity.
A sudden knock on the door made her jump. Caught in the act, was she. MacKenzie stuck her head into the room. “Will ye be having dinner?”
Catriona slipped her arms into a fresh chemise. “Give me a moment.”
In the corridor, on her way to Hall, she noticed the envelope on the mail tray.
“What’s this?”
“This,” MacKenzie said in a slightly sour tone. “Our Turkish visitor called and left it for you.”
“His name,” Catriona said absently, “is Mr. Khoury. Why am I only seeing this now?”
“I forgot it in my apron pocket earlier.”
Shaking her head, Catriona opened the folded note.
His handwriting was beautiful; fluid and sweeping, imbued with the memory of the Arabic script.
To the Lady Catriona,
May I challenge you to a game of chess—I shall set up the board every day at 1 o’clock, in St. John’s Common Room.
Always your faithful servant,
Elias Khoury
Chapter 7
She had burned his invitation. Not immediately, mind you; it had lingered on her desk until midnight. Hence, she had barely managed to convince MacKenzie to stay home for the matutinal fire drill. MacKenzie had perceived her holding on to the letter, and her chaperoning sensibilities were on high alert. But, the morning was cool and rainy, and anyone with a stiff limb should stay in. On her way to St. John’s main gate, Catriona passed several dons holding glistening black umbrellas. Too late to turn around and fetch her own; Hattie was already waiting in the college archway, her voluminous purple velvet cape announcing her from a distance. A large picnic valise stood at her feet. Oddly, she had her arms crossed over her chest and was in the company of an equally stiff-looking Lucie.
“You all seem rather cheerful this morning,” Catriona said, glancing from one to the other as she rubbed her spectacles dry on her plaid.
“Catriona, you’re a rational, impartial person,” Hattie said, her face serious under her pink hat. “Tell Lucie that wearing white on her wedding day if her groom wants it so is perfectly fine, even if the queen made it popular?”
“Och.” Only a small cup of tea was sloshing in her empty stomach, not enough sustenance to enter a quarrel over fashion with Hattie. Or with Lucie over weddings.
“Ballentine has an opinion on your dress?” she asked Lucie.
Lucie raised a fine straight brow. “Astonishing, isn’t it,” she said pointedly.
“I should have been so lucky,” Hattie said. “My mother chose my wedding gown, a beastly thing, and my groom didn’t know me and couldn’t have cared less. He has made up for it quite nicely ever since, of course,” she added with a pleased little smile.
Lucie gave a snort.
Catriona stepped aside to let two dons pass on their way out of the college.
“Is something else the matter,” she tried, “because both of you are a wee bit too sensible to squabble over something as petty as a dress at such an early hour.”
Hattie paused. She gave Lucie a wary look. “Is there?” she prodded. “Something else?”
Lucie’s gray eyes narrowed. “We’re late. Let’s stop a cab.”
Hattie gasped. “So there is. Lucie, what is it? Tell us.”
Lucie had made to walk out onto St. Giles. Both Hattie and Catriona stayed put. Lucie glanced back, and with an annoyed sniff, she returned to them.
“Fine,” she said in a low voice.
Hattie stuck her head closer.
Lucie furtively looked left and right. “It’s Ballentine.”
“Oh no,” Hattie said, and put a hand on Lucie’s elbow. “If he’s mean to you, we’ll have a word with him.”
This was a puzzling development. Ballentine, Lucie’s fiancé, was known for two things: looking too beautiful for his own good and offering fierce support to Lucie in all that she did.
Lucie brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “Remember I agreed to marry him as soon as the Married Women’s Property Act is amended?”
Catriona nodded.
“He has been taunting me about it lately.”
“Goodness,” Hattie said, frowning. “Why would he do that? What does he do?”
“Well. Ever since Montgomery pushed the bill through the House of Lords, I catch him looking at me. Smirking.”
“That sounds sinister,” Catriona remarked.
“It gets worse,” Lucie hissed. “He hums—he is humming the Bridal March. And then he pretends that he didn’t when I . . . What?”
“Nothing.”
Hattie’s shoulders had begun to shake beneath her cape.
“You’re laughing.”
Hattie put the back of her hand against her brow and raised her gaze toward the vaulted ceiling. “Woe is me,” she cried softly. “My terribly, terribly handsome, titled, and charming fiancé, whom I love, is greatly looking forward to marrying me.”
Lucie gave her a brooding stare. “I might actually have to marry him now,” she said. “I might be a married woman, and soon. So many laws still need amending, abolishing . . .”
“Ooh,” Catriona said, understanding dawning, “is that why you’re so keen on having this writ for restitution crushed all of a sudden?”
“Of course not,” Lucie snipped. “That writ should have never existed in the first place.”
“Good grief,” said Hattie. “Lucie, you can’t wait for the world to be perfect before you commit to him. The law won’t protect you from having your heart broken by someone you love in any case—they have that power regardless.”
“That’s solved, then,” Catriona said with sudden impatience. “It’s not about the dress, it’s about Lucie’s cold feet. Shall we hail a cab?”
“Absolutely,” Lucie said.
Hattie looked put out. “But that’s worse,” she said. “Cold feet are serious.”
Catriona adjusted her plaid. “Has anyone here expected Lucie not to have cold feet? Raise your hand.”
No hands rose.
“Well, then,” Catriona said. “Anyone seriously expecting Lucie to not marry Lord Ballentine when the time comes, raise your hand.”
She looked closely; not even a twitch of a finger was in sight. Lucie’s fine lips had flattened into a hyphen. Hattie looked reluctantly impressed.
“There,” Catriona said. “Are we all ready to hail a cab now? What’s in this valise, anyway, Hattie?”
“Biscuits and scones for the firefighters, fresh from the Randolph kitchen.”