“It was a jest, darling!” Queenie said. “As if you’d ever be forced into labor.”
Flora and Queenie laughed with Hattie sitting right there, obviously forced into labor. Flora was the one who came to her senses first and apparently remembered Hattie’s lot in life. “Not that I would mind,” she hastened to assure her.
“Oh, I think you would,” Hattie said. “Work is not for everyone.”
Flora’s cheeks flushed and she looked around the room, as if trying to find something to speak about that would lead away from this uncomfortable part of the conversation. Queenie did it for her by asking what she intended to wear to the Forsythe dinner and then reminding her whatever she chose must be stunning, because Christiana Porter would be in attendance.
This piece of news clearly unnerved Flora. Hattie suspected she knew why—Christiana Porter was a woman of considerable beauty, with hair the color of cotton and enticingly plump lips. It was a mystery to Hattie why she’d not secured a match before now—her name seemed to be on everyone’s lips. Flora would never admit it, but she was intimidated—she’d said enough over the last two years for Hattie to know that Flora didn’t consider herself to be in the same constellation as Miss Porter.
“Oh. How wonderful for her,” Flora said in an unusually high voice.
“Everyone assumes she will be the one to attract the viscount’s eye, of course,” Queenie continued, her gaze on Flora. Hattie didn’t like this side of Queenie—the needling, poking side. It was a game she played from time to time, trying to rile her friend. She was unkind for sport.
“I’m certain of it,” Flora said.
“It’s no wonder, really,” Queenie said. “She’s so beautiful.”
Hattie didn’t want to hear more and moved to Queenie’s dressing table.
Queenie’s nudging worked—Flora suddenly blurted, “I’m not saying it should beme, I’m truly not, but why must everyone always assume that Christiana Porter will be the most sought-after lady?”
Queenie giggled, delighted by Flora’s rare pique. “Darling! You are everything she is and more, dearest. As to why everyone always assumes her? Well...you’ll explain it to us after you’ve dined at the Forsythes’. Tell us everything that happens, and we’ll make sense of it.”
With her back to them, Hattie rolled her eyes.
When she and Flora finally took their leave of Queenie—and not a moment too soon as far as Hattie was concerned—she returned home to find her family was overly occupied with her position in the viscount’s office, too.
The subject came up at supper. While her brothers ate like demons, and her father nursed a whisky while he read the newspaper, Hattie’s mother stroked a cat in her lap and studied her daughter across the table, her eyes narrowed.
Hattie hated when her mother got like this, too observant, trying to find fault. She continued her meal, her gaze on her plate.
At last her mother made her announcement. “You’re smiling too much, Harriet.”
Hattie looked around, confused. “I’m smiling toomuch?”
“Yes. It makes you look overly eager.”
Hattie hadn’t even been aware she was smiling. She wasn’t overly eager about anything. Certainly not this meal.
“That’s because she’s very pleased with her occupation, Mama,” Perry said. “Everyone can see it.” He leaned over the arm of his chair, so that his face was directly in front of Hattie. “But it doesn’t make you better than everyone else.”
Hattie pushed him away. “I never said it did.”
“Because you’re not better than me,” Perry added.
“ButIam,” Peter said, and threw a piece of bread across the table at his twin.
“Lads!” Hattie’s father said without looking up from his newspaper.
“You shouldn’t be too eager to work,” Perry continued, as if, being nearly fourteen, he had even the slightest notion of how anything in this world worked. “It makes you seem desperate for attention. No one likes girls who want too much attention.”
“For the love of God,” Hattie muttered. “You know nothing, Perry. I’mnoteager. But even if I were, why shouldn’t I be enthusiastic about work?” Frankly, she couldn’t wait to leave this house and go to Grosvenor Square on those days she was expected. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand—you’re too young.” That would prick him. Peter and Perry hated to be reminded they were so much younger than Hattie and Daniel. “But some people are happy tohavework.”
“And thus I am reminded,” her father said, lowering his paper at the end of the table, “when will I see payment for theseservices rendered?” He said it as if she was a dance hall girl.
With a groan, Hattie rested her head against the chairback and looked to the ceiling. Her family was impossible in every conceivable way. “I’ve received my first week’s wages, Papa. I’ll have the second week’s wages tomorrow.”
“Oh?” There was a new lilt in her father’s voice. “You’ve received one week’s wages? Did you forget our agreement?”
