Aubrey went downstairs to linger on the front stoop just as Olivia arrived in a smart little phaeton that she drove herself. They headed up Kell Boulevard to the posh end of Shops; Olivia needed to fetch a hat from Madame Merviole; then she and Aubrey would visit Plimsoll’s bookshop (Aubrey’s request), followed by Suvaginney Perfumers. They would end their excursion at Geesee’s Sweets.
“How is your family?” Olivia said as they swept to a stop in front of Madame Merviole. The groom leapt smoothly down from the phaeton's high back seat and went to stand at the horse’s head.
Aubrey pondered her response. Olivia wasn’t precisely a gossip, wasn’t precisely not. She wasn’t malicious; she just couldn’t keep a secret. Anything Aubrey said would be repeated, in some form, at the next public venue.
“Lord Ives is taking Mother for a ride along the Boulevard.”
Mother would like people knowing about Lord Ives’s attentions and Olivia said, “How nice for her” in a tone that indicated that Olivia knew precisely what that ride meant in the hierarchy of suitable attachments. Lord Ives was slightly further up the social scale than Sir Promfret but not as far up as, say, Sir James.
Speaking of which—
“Did I meet policemen when I was bespelled?” Aubrey said.
“Police? I don’t think so. Sir James brought you to Braesmouth, didn’t he? He says you were under Academy protection the entire time, and he should know.” Olivia cocked her head. “Is someone saying you spent time with police?"
Her tone was speculative but also delighted. Olivia occupied exactly that position in high society for which a little bit of scandal was not automatically a block to social success--it could even help. Likely, that explained her continuing association with Aubrey, which was lucky for Aubrey. But the high society doyennes would never overlook such low behavior as associating with police.
"I don't know," Aubrey said.
"Have you heard anything, Bill?"
Olivia’s groom glanced over his shoulder, eyes flickering across Olivia’s face and form before resting on Aubrey. He finished looping the lead rope around a post and leaned against it.
“Karl, my friend at the Belemont Gentlemen’s Club--" he jerked his head towards that august building across the street from the hat shop "--he says one of the footman there saw her—uh, Miss St. Clair—going into a police station. Said he heard she attacked some slum rat.”
“I did?”
“Yes, Miss.” Bill’s voice was heavily significant but not unfriendly, and Olivia smoothed the lapels of his jacket before raising her brows at Aubrey.
“Well?”
Aubrey sighed, sounding like Richard. Olivia seemed convinced that Aubrey knew all kinds of exciting details about her lost months and only wouldn’t share them out of misguided prudishness.
“If I ever remember, I’ll tell you,” Aubrey said as she had several times before.
Not that Aubrey would--she hadn't told Olivia about her fangs and claws--but Olivia beamed contentment and swept into the shop.
Aubrey followed, noting the stands of bonnets, the starched assistants at the long counter, and a few customers. Those ladies greeted Olivia with almost as much obsequiousness as did the assistants—“Miss Clyndale, how well you look! How is your mother?”—then fell to whispering when they spotted Aubrey.
“The St. Clair girl—”
“Supposedly bespelled—”
“Sir James’s patronage—”
“The family certainly benefited—”
At least they didn’t cut Aubrey, giving her cool nods instead. Of course, Aubrey was with Olivia. The Clyndales--for all their social cache and relaxed attitudes--wouldn’t allow Olivia to spend time with a fallen lady. A touch of scandal was one thing; actual degeneracy another. As far as Aubrey understood her own position, the doyennes had determined that Aubrey, no longer a debutante, should be treated like an older, experienced girl.
How much experience?
Was Aubrey really as blameless as Mother claimed? Or were people like Sir James and the Clyndales la-la-la-ing their way past her possible indiscretions? Did their tolerance stem from the same guilt Aubrey had sensed in Lady Bradford, that Aubrey had been let down by people who should have protected her?
Aubrey couldn’t argue with their guilt—she would never voluntarily drink a magic potion—she just wished she knew if being a cat was the worst that would be said about her behavior afterwards. Did I really attack someone?
At the counter, Olivia gushed, “I adore that burgundy ribbon, but with my coloring—” and the assistants scrambled to offer more choices. Aubrey studied a hideous bonnet of garish feathers, eavesdropping on the whispers at her back.
“—spent days with Academy students—”
“—Lord Simon—”
Aubrey moved further into the stands and emitted a soft explusion of breath. Lord Simon was an aged rake, seldom seen in society. Rumors said he never left his house. Rumors also said that he was the only Roesia magician to produce effective, lasting potions. Like the one that changed me?
Editorials in support of expanding police authority mentioned men like Lord Simon—never directly of course but through deliberate insinuation: “We can only hope that titled gentlemen who practice such devious arts will not at some future date prove detrimental to the state.”
Strange to think that to the women in Madame Merviole, association with Lord Simon, though shocking, was still not as bad as involvement with the police. But then people were a little afraid of Lord Simon.
"And how is your dear brother's fiancé?" said a matron in Aubrey's ear. Aubrey started and met the eyes of Mrs. Fertaff.
Richard's fiancé, Gloria Cartwright, was the most unpleasant women that Aubrey had ever met.
"We enjoy her daily company," she said without a hint of snideness.
Still, Mrs. Fertaff narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips--as if Aubrey might go mad (start to yowl?) at any moment. An image rose to the front of Aubrey's mind of a lithe, furred body darting amongst the hat stands, leaping to the countertop, and shredding the shop assistants' pile of ribbons.
She smiled instead, close-mouthed, and followed the ladies to the counter where they completed their purchases and flounced out of the shop.
Olivia said, “Oh, there you are, Aubrey. What do you think of this scarlet trimming?”
Aubrey applauded the scarlet trimming. “I need some air,” she said.
“Oh, dear, you do look a trifle pallid.”
Do I? Aubrey could never decide if Olivia was easily suggestible or simply responded to appropriate verbal cues.
She went out. Bill lounged beside the phaeton, one hip cocked. He wasn’t precisely insolent, more like a natural reflection of Olivia’s personality.
"Did I really attack someone?" she asked him.
"Rumors, Miss."
"What else do the rumors say?"
"You visited the police at night, half- . . . that is, well--" he hesitated.
"You tell Miss Clyndale everything," Aubrey said in exasperation.
Bill grinned faintly. "She's more discreet than you'd think. But an item should measure as truthful before it's repeated."
Aubrey could interpret that: visiting the police at night half-drunk or half-clothed or half-human was supposition. That she had been in police custody was, according to Bill, fact.
"Where’s the nearest police station?” Aubrey said.
He pushed his cap up with one finger and eyed her. She kept her chin lifted. She didn’t ask again.
“End of the street,” he said finally. “Across from Belemont Park.”
“Thank you,” Aubrey said. “Tell Miss Clyndale I won’t be long.”