Manners & Mutiny
Page 46
The tea was very good—not to mention the champagne. Cook had truly excelled, for there were Scotch seedcake, grapes in brandy, glazed apples, orange biscuits with medlar jelly, almond torte—without cyanide, everyone hoped—and Charlotte pudding with Milanese cream. The boys gorged themselves, as was their wont, and even a few of the girls ate with more enthusiasm than delicacy.
Sophronia and Dimity glided through one of the staff entrances behind a clangermaid. Sophronia eyed a bowlful of glazed apples and plotted how to kidnap it for the sooties. The girls kept their fans up, covering most of their faces. They did not skulk, but instead acted as if they belonged, moving in behind the dancers as though observing the couples while engaged in a protracted private gossip.
“Do you see that?” Sophronia nudged Dimity to look at a table near the back corner, where Pillover and Agatha conversed. Pillover was almost animated as he relayed something to their friend.
“Do you think that is a declaration?” wondered Sophronia.
Dimity was disgusted. “My revolting brother has never declared anything, except perhaps an inexcusable love of Plutarch. This smooching of sooties has gone to your head.”
“Smooching werewolves, please, Dimity.” Sophronia took mock offense.
Dimity continued her affronted stance. “Pill is less firm in his commitments than calf’s head jelly.”
However, Pillover’s face held a softness that Sophronia had never seen there before.
Agatha glanced up.
Sophronia flipped down her bladed fan for a brief moment, so Agatha could recognize her.
Agatha’s eyes widened and she immediately raised her handkerchief to her face, drawing it across her lips. It was code, but not one Sophronia knew.
“What’s she trying to say?” she asked Dimity.
Couples swirled between them. The debut blonde with the purple eyes was dancing with Lord Dingleproops. Dimity was entirely unruffled by this. So much for poetry.
“I desire your acquaintance,” interpreted Dimity. “It’s not espionage, it’s everyday ordinary flirtation.”
Fancy that. Accessory manipulation for normal young ladies. “Why didn’t Lady Linette teach us that?”
Dimity gave her a funny look. “You’re supposed to arrive here knowing it, of course. Doesn’t everyone? I was practically weaned on handkerchief manipulation. Not to mention the language of flowers. How on earth do you know if a man is interested without it?”
“Conversation?”
Dimity shook her head at Agatha to indicate they didn’t understand what she wanted. “Why does she desire our acquaintance? She knows us already.”
The two girls linked arms and huddled in, so that anyone observing would think they were undertaking serious rumor-mongering.
“She probably has important information to impart. Wants us to go over,” suggested Sophronia.
“We can’t,” Dimity squeaked. “Sister Mattie is circulating.”
Agatha began winding her handkerchief around her third finger.
“What does that mean?” Sophronia asked Dimity.
“I am married.”
That was even more confusing. Sophronia lowered her fan again and shook her head at Agatha in an accusing way.
Agatha gave an obvious sigh and then said something firm to Pillover.
Pillover grabbed up Agatha’s handkerchief and began gesticulating at them with it.
“I am a… new bride?” Dimity tried.
Imagining Pillover dressed in white lace gave Sophronia a momentary attack of giggles.
Disgusted, Agatha and Pillover rose and moved through the tables. The settings were well conceived—tiered serving ware and low flower arrangements to encourage conversation. At the edge of the dance floor, Pillover took Agatha in his arms and began twirling her around, along with the other brave couples. Eventually, the set brought them close to Dimity and Sophronia. They swirled to a stop.
“Barred from attending, were you, Dim? How upsetting that must be. And how degrading to sneak into your own New Year’s party.” Pillover attacked his sister at her weakest point the moment they landed.
“Shut your cake hole, you revolting young blot,” responded Dimity affably.
Pillover did not look at all put out, but he did clamp his mouth shut.
“Now is not the time to rankle, you two.” Agatha sounded quite grown-up. “Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott was recently telling me something terribly important. There are strangers among the boys attending our festivities.”
They all turned to peruse the room, trying to spot enemies among them.
“Picklemen or their intelligencers.” Sophronia saw no one notably out of place.
Pillover scrunched up his face, upset that they already knew.
Agatha rolled her eyes. “How did you know? Goodness’ sake, you’ve been nannying a vampire. It’s really too bad. I thought I had the leg up for once.”
“I have been nannying a vampire.” Dimity wanted this to be quite clear. “Sophronia has been sneaking off kissing sooties.”
“Oh!” Pillover was almost cheerful. “Is Soap here? Bang-up chappy, that Soap.”
“No, he jolly well isn’t here. I sent him packing.” Sophronia frowned.
“Not for good, I hope? I rather like the blighter.” Pillover was remarkably egalitarian for a toff. This was possibly because he preferred Greek translations to evil inventions and had suffered under Piston recriminations as a result. Pillover, being disenfranchised, felt that the friendship of a dark-skinned member of the proletariat was solidarity, not stigma.
Sophronia and Dimity glided through one of the staff entrances behind a clangermaid. Sophronia eyed a bowlful of glazed apples and plotted how to kidnap it for the sooties. The girls kept their fans up, covering most of their faces. They did not skulk, but instead acted as if they belonged, moving in behind the dancers as though observing the couples while engaged in a protracted private gossip.
“Do you see that?” Sophronia nudged Dimity to look at a table near the back corner, where Pillover and Agatha conversed. Pillover was almost animated as he relayed something to their friend.
“Do you think that is a declaration?” wondered Sophronia.
Dimity was disgusted. “My revolting brother has never declared anything, except perhaps an inexcusable love of Plutarch. This smooching of sooties has gone to your head.”
“Smooching werewolves, please, Dimity.” Sophronia took mock offense.
Dimity continued her affronted stance. “Pill is less firm in his commitments than calf’s head jelly.”
However, Pillover’s face held a softness that Sophronia had never seen there before.
Agatha glanced up.
Sophronia flipped down her bladed fan for a brief moment, so Agatha could recognize her.
Agatha’s eyes widened and she immediately raised her handkerchief to her face, drawing it across her lips. It was code, but not one Sophronia knew.
“What’s she trying to say?” she asked Dimity.
Couples swirled between them. The debut blonde with the purple eyes was dancing with Lord Dingleproops. Dimity was entirely unruffled by this. So much for poetry.
“I desire your acquaintance,” interpreted Dimity. “It’s not espionage, it’s everyday ordinary flirtation.”
Fancy that. Accessory manipulation for normal young ladies. “Why didn’t Lady Linette teach us that?”
Dimity gave her a funny look. “You’re supposed to arrive here knowing it, of course. Doesn’t everyone? I was practically weaned on handkerchief manipulation. Not to mention the language of flowers. How on earth do you know if a man is interested without it?”
“Conversation?”
Dimity shook her head at Agatha to indicate they didn’t understand what she wanted. “Why does she desire our acquaintance? She knows us already.”
The two girls linked arms and huddled in, so that anyone observing would think they were undertaking serious rumor-mongering.
“She probably has important information to impart. Wants us to go over,” suggested Sophronia.
“We can’t,” Dimity squeaked. “Sister Mattie is circulating.”
Agatha began winding her handkerchief around her third finger.
“What does that mean?” Sophronia asked Dimity.
“I am married.”
That was even more confusing. Sophronia lowered her fan again and shook her head at Agatha in an accusing way.
Agatha gave an obvious sigh and then said something firm to Pillover.
Pillover grabbed up Agatha’s handkerchief and began gesticulating at them with it.
“I am a… new bride?” Dimity tried.
Imagining Pillover dressed in white lace gave Sophronia a momentary attack of giggles.
Disgusted, Agatha and Pillover rose and moved through the tables. The settings were well conceived—tiered serving ware and low flower arrangements to encourage conversation. At the edge of the dance floor, Pillover took Agatha in his arms and began twirling her around, along with the other brave couples. Eventually, the set brought them close to Dimity and Sophronia. They swirled to a stop.
“Barred from attending, were you, Dim? How upsetting that must be. And how degrading to sneak into your own New Year’s party.” Pillover attacked his sister at her weakest point the moment they landed.
“Shut your cake hole, you revolting young blot,” responded Dimity affably.
Pillover did not look at all put out, but he did clamp his mouth shut.
“Now is not the time to rankle, you two.” Agatha sounded quite grown-up. “Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott was recently telling me something terribly important. There are strangers among the boys attending our festivities.”
They all turned to peruse the room, trying to spot enemies among them.
“Picklemen or their intelligencers.” Sophronia saw no one notably out of place.
Pillover scrunched up his face, upset that they already knew.
Agatha rolled her eyes. “How did you know? Goodness’ sake, you’ve been nannying a vampire. It’s really too bad. I thought I had the leg up for once.”
“I have been nannying a vampire.” Dimity wanted this to be quite clear. “Sophronia has been sneaking off kissing sooties.”
“Oh!” Pillover was almost cheerful. “Is Soap here? Bang-up chappy, that Soap.”
“No, he jolly well isn’t here. I sent him packing.” Sophronia frowned.
“Not for good, I hope? I rather like the blighter.” Pillover was remarkably egalitarian for a toff. This was possibly because he preferred Greek translations to evil inventions and had suffered under Piston recriminations as a result. Pillover, being disenfranchised, felt that the friendship of a dark-skinned member of the proletariat was solidarity, not stigma.
