Page 33 of Apt to be Suspicious
She pursed her lips. “That will do for the moment.” Again, he was not sure at all how to read her tone or mood. But then she nodded, once. “All right. Tell me where to write about the frock.” She seemed to be treating it with a dubious acquiescence, as if it’d turn from fairy gold into leaves in the morning.
“As you wish.” He’d let Aunt Cassie know that was coming, but he was certain it wouldn’t be a problem. “Shall we head back?”
That got him another nod. She leaned back against the back of her seat while he put the various dishes away and took up the pole again. Once they were moving back towards the boathouse, she talked a little about the town where she’d grown up. Nothing personal, though she turned out to have a good eye for the birds and plants of the landscape.
Chapter 22
Saturday, May 8th
It was entirely and utterly unfair that Edmund Carillon looked like he did. He’d come round to escort her, which meant a good third of Somerville had got an excellent look at him. He was in black tie, not white, and he probably looked truly superb in white tie and tails. Pen had not bothered a great deal about men’s clothing. But watching him come down the path toward her, she could see the difference between something made to fit a particular person and something that wasn’t.
Mind, she was wearing the equivalent. On Monday morning, Pen had received a note, asking if she could spare an hour to come for a fitting. She’d suggested a time, and mentioned scheduling was tricky. Tuesday morning, before lunch, she had walked through the Academy portal to Trellech and been met by a young woman who guided her to a shop on a main street. There were three other women there, all waiting for her to arrive.
The oldest was Mistress Castalia, owner of the establishment. The others were introduced as her apprentices. There was no one else in the shop, and so Pen had held up under the combined attention of four women set on finding her a dress. They’d whisked her into a changing room and checked she had her appropriate underthings. Then one or the other had helped her in and out of something like a dozen gowns. She lost count somewhere in the middle.
In the end, it had come down to two. The eventual choice was a cool violet, neither the purple of Fox House nor of Albion’s Council. Instead, the colour was near enough a perfect match for liturgical vestments, the seasons of waiting in Advent and Lent. It was a colour Pen had never thought of wearing, and it looked stunning on her even while it made her contemplate that particular symbology.
Certainly, the shade did things to her hair and eyes she’d never thought cloth might reasonably be asked to do. It had a tight bodice, not immodest, but showing off her figure, and a skirt that angled out, giving her effortless movement, most suitable for a dance. She couldn’t stop touching it with her fingers. Mistress Castalia had laughed and mentioned it was made from well-preserved silk out of someone’s attic from before the Great War.
Once they’d settled on the frock, there were measurements, to fit it to her perfectly, and the promise it would be delivered no later than Thursday afternoon. Mistress Castalia had checked she had suitable shoes and gave a suggestion or three about her hair. Then one of the apprentices had walked her back to the portal, handed over a token that meant she got to go right through, no waiting, and Pen had found herself back in Oxford. She felt entirely like she’d gone through some looking glass full of fabrics and beads and sharp-eyed mistresses of their art. She didn’t know how she felt about that, either.
Edmund had not gone in for florid compliments about the frock. But his eyes had widened slightly when he got a good look at her, then he pressed an entirely cordial kiss onto her cheek. “I hope the frock wasn’t too much bother, but you look entrancing. You shall have every eye at the dance.” She noticed only then that his buttonhole had a flower the same shade of purple. He must have had warning of it. She wasn’t sure the rest of her did justice to the frock, but Audrey and Vesta had done a great deal with her hair. The plain black wool half cloak over it— it wasn’t particularly chilly— didn’t insult the frock, at least.
Once they were on the street, not too near anyone else, she managed to thank him. “The dress is— I didn’t expect that. Won’t everyone be looking at me?” They had talked through the journals about how to approach the dance, but Pen wasn’t at all sure she could manage.
“Your role is to enjoy yourself and notice what you notice. I shall be handy if you find someone’s company unpleasant. If you wish me to disappear, you have only to say so. It’s a beautiful night, so there should be people both in the hall and out in the courtyard.” It was not the sort of dance Pen would have gone to on her own. She could see people coming in, obviously paired up, mostly people she didn’t know well. The sorts who did not spend all their time in a library or their own sitting rooms.
The dance itself was about as chaotic as she’d expected. However, it was not, it turned out, more chaotic than such gatherings had been at Bletchley. She could hear the amiable burble of chatter as people greeted each other, made introductions, or caught up. Edmund introduced her around, though to more men than women, and most of the men called him Bells. The women with those men had all been entirely lovely, their cosmetics and frocks absolutely perfect for the evening.
The first dance struck up, and she let Edmund lead her out onto the floor. It was not complex. Everyone was still settling into the party. They’d agreed an early dance would be easier for them both. It was not a surprise he was an excellent dancer, or a considerate one. She’d heard the comments at Schola that bohort helped with that sort of thing, knowing where one’s feet were, or elbows. He made it easy for her to follow his lead, though. His gestures were clear to her, but not in a way that might suggest her lack of competence to anyone watching. When the song ended, he made a slight bow. “Shall we circulate separately? Would you care for a drink?”
“In another song or three. Perhaps you might come find me?” The suggestion was a strategic one he’d offered in their planning, that it would give him an excuse.
He nodded, and once she returned the agreement, he slipped off into the horde of people. Pen expected to be on her own, but she promptly had someone— also reading maths— ask her for a dance. When that finished, another young man she didn’t know asked for one. Neither of them was as well-kept as Edmund, nor were they as good at dancing. But they were competent enough. Biggs, the second man, had a good ear for music. Biggs asked if she’d like to sit the next one out. He had some friends over in a corner.
That, now, turned out to be a wise decision. The eight people there were in the middle of a conversation about someone having a rough time. Not enough money, in the sort of way people with a lot of it talked about not having enough money, as if the lack were some sort of utter mystery. She didn’t know the names they mentioned, but she made mental notes about what she heard. It wasn’t clear exactly what the trouble was, and his friends were concerned about him, not just gossiping for the sake of it. Maybe Edmund could get more out of one of them later.
As the conversation went on and the band took a break, Pen caught sight of Cecily Styles. She was with someone Pen had seen before, William Darcy. He was definitely non-magical, wealthy, posh, and not, perhaps, gifted with sufficient common sense. She’d heard stories of all sorts of pranks or mishaps or just the relatively ordinary sort of having to climb back into his college after the gates closed. Styles was hanging on his arm, and Pen was almost sure she was using an enchantment. Not that Pen could figure out what it was.
They moved off, and Pen lost track of them in the crowd. It really was rather a crush— a good couple of hundred people, perhaps. Just as the conversation was turning toward asking Pen questions she didn’t really want to have to answer, Edmund reappeared, holding a glass. “Perhaps a breath of fresh air, Pen?” Somehow, he made the one syllable of her name have a space to it that was like opening a door. Pen promptly made brief polite replies to the people she’d been sitting with, took his arm, and let Edmund escort her out to the courtyard.
That was also rather full of people, and Pen heard some less than optimal noises from the darker corners, the sort that suggested some intimacies. Edmund considered the situation and steered her to a well-lit area away from the hall doors, far enough that it was quiet. “Did you see Miss Styles?” That was his first question.
“Yes, she’s with Walter Darcy. I don’t know if you know him.” Pen considered. “There is something odd there. And I heard some more gossip.” She blinked at Edmund, who had a moment of some passing ferocious concentration on his face, as if there was nothing else in the world but what he was thinking. Pen hadn’t seen that sort of thing since Bletchley, and she knew better than to disturb him.
Twenty seconds later, he coughed. “Pardon. Trying to figure out the patterns. I don’t think I’ve enough information yet. Would you mind another dance and repeat the sequence?”
“No, that would be fine.” This time, when they got back inside, the dancing was rather faster, moving into a swing dance. Edmund was annoyingly good at that, too. Where some people might lose track of hand or foot, he knew exactly what he was doing, smooth controlled gestures that made her want to follow his every movement. She did her best to match him, but was rather glad the frock obscured at least some of her own more clumsy footwork. Whoever had designed knees had earned a certain amount of blame.
As soon as they were done, she found herself again with multiple men interested in a dance. She passed from one to another, asking questions as the dancing allowed, and getting more little tidbits of connections.
She saw Edmund several times when he danced with a few other women. But every time she saw him, she noticed Cecily Styles made sure to have the entire dance floor between them. Once might have been chance, even two or three times, but she kept moving whenever Edmund was near her for more than thirty seconds or so.
They did not manage a second breather outside— far too many couples kissing or doing whatever it was they did under the eye of others. Pen did not have a taste for voyeurism, and honestly, she didn’t want to know that set of secrets about her classmates. Edmund took her back onto the dance floor once she’d finished her drink, and this time ventured to try a few twirls and spins, after checking that she was willing. She was, and she found herself enjoying it, letting herself fall into the patterns of it in a way she hadn’t done in ages. If Pen had to put words on it, it was that she didn’t have to guard herself.
That did not last. Oh, the dancing was fantastic, but Edmund went off again, as they’d agreed. Two dances later, her partner was more than a bit handsy. It wasn’t so much that Pen was afraid of what he’d do, but it was unpleasant. He’d had too much to drink, she was sure. The problem was that she didn’t know how to get out of it without causing comment. While she was trying to take a step back, Edmund stepped up beside her. He called the man Tibbs and nudged him on the shoulder with two fingers. Then he said something else, and Tibbs went away. Without complaint.
“Beg pardon. I was finishing a conversation when it became clear that— well.” Edmund looked honestly a little embarrassed and flushed in the cheeks.
