Hattie eyed her with fox-like cunning. “So you agree that he is terribly handsome?”
“Hattie, it’s an objectively verifiable observation that he is handsome, nothing to get silly about.”
“He cares about working girls’ safety,” Hattie said, and sighed. “His eyes are like gemstones. His facial structure makes me want to paint in the classic style again.”
“Dear oh dear.”
“I shall ask him to sit for me,” Hattie said. “As a young Apollo.”
“You do that,” Catriona said, “if you want him to think you’re properly unhinged.”
“Hmph. He had no objections to being photographed.”
Elias Khoury’s face, eternalized on a bromide plate. A memento that would remain long after he had returned to the East. Hattie was very skilled; she would capture the confident tilt of his head and the expressive eyes . . . She hardly needed photographs to remind her. Her memories tended to be as sharp as any picture. Her blessing and her curse.
“Do what you must,” she told Hattie. “I don’t mind either way.”
“I invited him to the dinner,” Hattie said. “May I write you down as his table partner?”
She stopped in her tracks, instantly dizzy. “You have what?”
The enthusiasm slipped off Hattie’s face. “I . . . invited him to the dinner on Friday. I know it was rather too ad hoc, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
Some of the students were approaching them, so Catriona swallowed her reply, but she must have made a face of abject horror.
Hattie looked distraught. “It appears I made a gaffe,” she said. “I thought that since he’s an acquaintance of your father’s, and you know how Blackstone is invested in the arts and used to deal in antiques . . . so Mr. Khoury would fit in very well. It hadn’t occurred to me that you have reason to object. I do apologize.”
Catriona grabbed her hand. “It’s all right.”
“I shall uninvite him.”
“You can’t—and there’s no need.”
Hattie always meant well, and her reasoning was sound—Blackstone was indeed knowledgeable on antiques thanks to his past life as an arts dealer, and it also wasn’t fair to deprive Elias Khoury of stimulating company. The man’s one crime to date was catching her with nothing but a volume of Virgil shielding her privates, something he couldn’t undo if he tried.
The brougham driver glanced down from his seat, looking as pleased as a wet cat. “We’d be ready, then, ma’am.”
Three of the students crowded the open carriage door, their damp, upturned faces hopeful. “Are you headed toward town? May we come along?”
Ratchet Girl was among them, still looking exhaustingly cheerful under her frizzy fringe.
“I’m afraid we’re at full capacity,” Catriona replied, and they laughed and climbed aboard, thinking she was joking because it was a four-wheel carriage that could take four girls, five if they squeezed together. Squeeze they did. The carriage lurched forward. Catriona stared out the rapidly fogging window. Someone’s knees were touching hers. Deep breaths. Hattie was chattering with the others about nothing of consequence, and so a lot of meaningless words quickly filled up the small space. She pulled her shawl as tight as it would go, compressing her body underneath.
Relief was fleeting. Halfway down Norham Gardens, it became clear that one of the girls had a returning cough. Cough cough cough. Persistent, dry, erratic. Catriona moved jerkily on her seat. Just as bad as the ratchet, it pulled her out of her skin. The krrrr had whittled her noise tolerance for the day to the bone. Cough cough cough. She swallowed around the tightness in her throat. It wasn’t far to St. John’s. She could last. Just to the end of this road, then they’d take a left onto Banbury Road, and then it was barely half a mile. They overtook a man who was striding along on the pavement. A wheel hit a pothole, and Hattie’s elbow bumped against hers. She wanted to melt into the carriage wall. Dissolve. Disappear. It was the brunette girl on the opposite bench, the cougher. Criminal, to leave a house with a cough and without lozenges. Noisy and inconsiderate. There she went again. Breathe. The air was thick and wet like liquid. They turned the corner onto Banbury Road . . . salvation was near . . . Cough! Loathing burned through her, hot like hell. At the next cough, she would scream. She stood up and hit the coach roof. A collective gasp . . . The carriage slowed . . .
Hattie cried, “Catriona?”
She pushed the door open, causing screams of surprise. One, two, three long seconds, and finally the vehicle ground to a halt. She took the plunge, and pain twinged in her knees when her boots hit the street. Air. A cool spray of rain on her face.
“Catriona? What is it?”
Hattie was in the carriage door, gathering up her skirts. Catriona raised her hand and shook her head.
“I’m all right,” she said.
She stepped onto the pavement, unbalanced as if caught in a bout of vertigo.
The coach stayed put, as did Hattie in the door, still contemplating whether to lower the ladder.
“I’ll walk,” Catriona called at her, and waved, a little desperate. “Just go.”
Her breath was a solid block in her throat.
“Demoiselle?”
The male voice cut through the cotton wool in her head. No. Not him. Not now.
Elias approached from the direction from which the carriage had come. His dark brows swooped.
“Shou?” he asked, and spun his hand in an inquisitive gesture. “Are you all right?”
His concerned gaze glided over her like fingers searching for an injury. He’d find nothing, and even if she explained, he wouldn’t understand.
Hattie was still hovering in the open carriage door, concern plain on her face.
“Just go, please,” Catriona said through her teeth.
“Are you certain?”
“Very, very certain.”
“Very well,” Hattie relented. “Call on me.”
Thump! The door closed and the carriage joined the traffic again.
Catriona’s lips felt swollen and sore like one big insect bite.
“I’m taking some air,” she told Elias, who stood rather close. “It’s a fine day for a walk.”
The expression in his eyes became oddly gentle, and she realized he was holding his umbrella over her. A lazy rainy rhythm drummed on the protective shell.
“I’m wet anyway,” she said. “Look.”
“May I walk with you,” he said, politely, but something in his posture made clear that it wasn’t a question. His steady gaze was an anchor in surroundings that still felt flat and inanimate like paper cuts. She nodded.
They walked slowly, or perhaps the earth was just rotating away under their moving feet. The leaves of the trees glistened with a harsh luster.
“Forgive me,” came his voice, faintly amused. “Are you breathing?”
She wasn’t. She gave him an aggrieved sideways glance. “How would you know?”
“I can sense it.”
She was trying. Her breath kept stopping in her throat. It would resolve itself eventually.