“That’s kind of you,” Lucie said, her frown easing.
Hattie smiled, mollified. “You know I like to feed people.”
Everyone’s mood seemed somewhat restored. If only she could reason her way out of her own situations as easily, thought Catriona.
They formed a cluster on the pavement with the biscuit valise between them, taking turns in trying to hail a cab. It was morning traffic, and, in this weather, all cabs seemed to have been snatched up by tutors spilling out of the colleges along St. Giles.
“Why don’t we walk,” Lucie suggested. “It’s better to arrive late rather than never.”
“I can’t carry this for a mile,” Hattie said, and pointed at her valise. “It’s a lot of biscuits.”
The doors to St. John’s opened and released another man with a flipped-up collar and an umbrella onto the pavement. Catriona’s body recognized the outline of his shoulders before her brain did. By the time his cursory glance became a double take, her belly burned as if it had been jabbed with a hot poker.
Elias Khoury stopped and tipped his hat. “Lady Catriona. Good morning.”
His friendly smile beamed like a small sun on this dreich day; it nearly cleared the fog off her glasses. The heat spread up her throat into her cheeks. Lucie and Hattie had gone curiously still. They wore their polite, public faces while they took him in with eagle eyes. She supposed he looked dashing in his austerely cut camel’s-hair coat. His scent had taken on an earthy note in the damp.
“Erm,” she said. “May I introduce Mr. Khoury—he is a visiting scholar and an esteemed guest of Wester Ross.”
“You certainly may,” Hattie said with a meaningful little undertone.
Catriona glared at her, furtively. “Mr. Khoury,” she said. “Lady Lucinda. Mrs. Blackstone.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Khoury,” Hattie chirped, pronouncing his name Cowree. “Shame about the weather this morning.”
“We say it’s good for the land, ma’am,” he replied, a wink in his voice.
“Oh, so do we,” Hattie said, looking far too pleased.
Elias Khoury relaxed his stance, one knee slightly bent; it seemed he was settling in for a chat. Just great. Catriona watched him from under her lashes, how easily he conversed with her friends, smiling with his eyes as though he had known Hattie and Lucie much longer than two minutes. Would he mention his chess invitation? Her stomach dropped. A gentleman wouldn’t mention it. Had she contemplated last night to go to the Common Room today at one o’clock? Possibly. Beating a man at chess was a straightforward social interaction. A decent game could be as short as ten minutes and one didn’t even have to hold a conversation.
“You’re catching us on our way to the fire drill,” Hattie said with a regretful glance. “It isn’t a full drill, actually, because those happen unannounced just before dawn . . .”
Elias’s dark brows expressed alarm. “A fire? Where?”
“Not a fire,” Lucie explained. “A drill to fight the fire.”
Hattie nodded. “At Lady Margaret Hall. A women’s college. We are a few women short, but Catriona is coming to our rescue. She handles the hose like an actual fireman.”
Catriona cut her friend a look of disbelief.
Mr. Khoury’s eyes had gone wide for a moment. “Ah,” he said. “Why aren’t actual firemen handling . . . the, erm, equipment?”
“Women students have the candles, the open fires, the gas lamps in their rooms,” Hattie said. “We must know how to respond to a fire because before the town brigade arrives, the dormitories would be burned to a crisp.”
And everyone in them were the unspoken words. Mr. Khoury’s frown deepened.
“The women’s halls are built too far from the town center,” Lucie explained. “To preserve propriety. It’s usually impossible for the town brigade to reach a women’s college on time.”
Hattie gave him a winsome smile. “If one must perish, it’s best to do so with one’s reputation intact, wouldn’t you agree?”
His bewildered expression turned thoughtful. “Is there a handbook?” he asked. “About your drill.”
Hattie and Catriona exchanged a glance. I haven’t a clue, said Hattie’s small shrug.
“Perhaps we can help if you tell us what you need it for,” she remarked.
Mr. Khoury’s posture was more formal now. “My family is in the silk business. Many young girls work in the factories, and their accommodations aren’t easily accessible, either. I’d like to see your practices; perhaps I notice something that could help improve the safety at their dormitories.”
“We will find you the handbook,” Lucie said at once. “Right after the drill.”
Catriona’s shoulders softened. It sounded as though they would now all take their leave; the Good mornings were already in reach, and then she would be able to breathe again . . .
“I have an idea,” said Hattie. “Why don’t you join us, Mr. Khoury, and see for yourself?”
Oh no she didn’t.
“I’m certain Mr. Khoury is busy,” Catriona said to Hattie.
His expression was unreadable. “Will there be another drill? I was on my way to the museum just now.”
“Not anytime soon,” Hattie said. “The museum, however, will be there this afternoon.”
It was decided—Mr. Khoury would attend the drill and take any lessons back to Mount Lebanon, and Catriona couldn’t say a word against it because only a monster would deprive working girls of improved fire safety.
Hattie was on a rampage. “I own a camera,” she said, her cheeks glowing with enthusiasm. “I could document everything for you, sir. Why don’t we fetch it?”
“You do that,” Lucie said. “Catriona and I will go ahead, if we ever manage to stop a cab.”
“Allow me,” Mr. Khoury said, and he stepped onto the street, blithely maneuvered traffic, and hailed a closed brougham carriage over.
“I hadn’t seen that one,” Lucie muttered.
“It’s easy for him, he’s taller than we are,” Catriona muttered back.
Through the small back window of the coach, Catriona watched Hattie and Elias Khoury cross the street to the Randolph Hotel. He carried the valise, and his gaze was focused attentively on Hattie’s face as though he was riveted by their conversation. Hattie was a married woman; she could walk and ride alone with men with impunity. One of the few perks of married life.
The brougham joined the stream of vehicles moving toward Summertown. Catriona and Lucie sat next to each other, both forward facing and steeped in brooding silence. The interior of the coach smelled like an old carpet. At least it was spacious and quiet.
“She said hose in front of a man,” Catriona finally said, “didn’t she.”
“She did,” Lucie confirmed. “When she described how well you handle the hose.”