A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [16]
“Bonjour, Marie,” Veronica chirped merrily, and stepped forward in expectation of the door being opened, as indeed it was. The woman looked as if she wanted to shut it in my face but did not quite dare.
Margery Childe was holding court. At first glance, it seemed that she was having tea with a dozen or so women friends, but when the eye took in the sitting-at-her-feet attitude and the openmouthed smiles on the faces, waiting for the blessing of a word, tea was the very least of what these women were drinking in. She looked up at our entrance and a smile came over her face as her eyes raked me from head to feet with the thoroughness of the doorman but in a fraction of the time, and then she was greeting Veronica with genuine warmth and affection. Ronnie handed her the flower, laying it into her hand like an offering at an altar, and the tiny blonde woman held it to her nose for a moment before placing it with a tumble of other delicate blossoms that spilled from a low table at her side.
“I’m glad you came, Veronica,” she said, her voice sweeter than in public speech but still remarkably low and throaty. “We missed you on Saturday.”
“I know,” Veronica said eagerly. “I tried to get here, but one of my families—”
“Yes, your families. I was thinking just this morning about that problem you were having with the young girl, Emily was her name? Would you come and talk to me about how she’s doing?”
“Certainly, Margery. Anytime.”
“Find out from Marie when I’m free in the next day or two; she knows better than I. And you’ve brought a friend tonight?”
Veronica stood aside and held back her arm for me to come forward into the circle.
“This is Mary Russell, a friend of mine from Oxford.”
The eyes that looked up into mine were a curiously dark blue, almost violet, deep and calm and magnetic, and the only truly beautiful element in her face. She lacked the currently fashionable high bones, her lightly tanned skin was ever-so-slightly coarse beneath the professional makeup, her teeth, though not protuberant, were a fraction overlarge, and her nose had at some distant time been broken and inexpertly set. Her looks, however, served only to increase her appeal, to make her seem vital and interesting, where a conventional beauty would have seemed insipid. It was a face to watch and to live for, not one simply to adore. She was calm and sure and filled with a power beyond her years and, I had to admit, enormously compelling. The room waited for me to lay my rose at her feet and do my obeisance so it could get on with its courtly rituals.
Without taking my eyes from hers, I raised the flower with great deliberation and threaded it into a buttonhole, then stepped forward and extended my hand to her.
“How do you do?” I said, and smiled with noncommittal politeness.
There was the briefest fraction of a pause before she sat upright, and her eyes gleamed as she leant forward and put her neat, strong, manicured little hand into mine. Her shake was by nature of an experiment, marginally longer than was necessary, and she sat back with something that might have been amusement in her eye.
“Welcome, Mary Russell. Thank you for coming.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right,” I said blandly.
“I hope you enjoyed the service.”
“It was interesting.”
“Please help yourself to tea or one of the drinks, if you like.”
“Thank you, I will,” I said, not moving.
“I think we may be seeing something of you,” she said suddenly, a sort of pronouncement.
“Do you?” I said politely, making it not quite a denial. Our eyes held for a long moment, and suddenly hers crinkled, though her mouth