Page 100 of A Shore Thing

“In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-General!”

The woman spun on her heel, saw Griffith, and cut off her song.

22

Muriel expected Griffith to saunter forward and greet his old friends. Instead, he stood rooted in place, meeting the fixed stares with a fixed stare of his own. She realized in a flash that no one was prepared to break the silence. With every passing moment, the hesitancy on both sides deepened into an impasse.

Her mouth opened.

“I know our mythic history, King Arthur’s and Sir Caradoc’s!” The next lines of the song burst from her before she could think. “I answer hard acrostics, I’ve a pretty taste for paradox.”

She swung her gaze to Griffith, who looked frankly shocked.

She barreled on. “I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus.”

Dear Lord, it was a mouthful. What followed? Songs from Pirates of Penzance were ubiquitous, but she’d never consciously committed them to memory.

The woman in the guardsman’s jacket raised her voice. “In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous.” Her brown eyes twinkled.

Muriel took a step toward her. She could feel her heart beating in her throat, but it didn’t stop the words from emerging.

“I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies.” A beat, and she had the rhyme. “I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes!”

The woman in the guardsman’s jacket was grinning now. She picked up the song where Muriel left off, gesturing to the assembled ladies. They began to chorus. The frozen room exploded into warmth and motion. A whippet-thin girl with sleek brown hair darted forward and grabbed Muriel’s hands. Another girl, blond and cherubic, seized Griffith. Everyone was linking hands, forming a ragged circle, rushing as one toward the center, then hopping back, bumping the furniture. The song grew louder and faster as it raced to its conclusion. By the time the circle broke apart, Muriel’s sides were splitting. She accepted the whippet-thin brunette’s applause with an off-kilter curtsey and blushed as the woman in the guardsman’s jacket gave her a salute. She looked for Griffith. He’d ended up near the piano. His hair was wilder, and he was slouching slightly, the picture of insouciant grace. He glanced at her with a crooked smile, and then the ladies surrounded him, all speaking at once. Affectionate exclamations pattered between eager questions. The cherubic blonde dropped onto the piano stool and banged a jaunty tune. Some remark made Griffith laugh.

All was well.

Satisfied, and far too sweaty, Muriel headed for the terrace. Three of the women intercepted her, their perfume preceding them as they swarmed, abuzz with friendly introductions.

“Champagne?” The fair one in pearls pressed a glass into her hand.

Muriel murmured her thanks, trying to match the woman with one of the names. Amelia Clarkson, she thought. A darker woman with straight black brows skewered her with a gaze.

“Are you a Gemini?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.” Muriel blinked. This had to be Miranda Ellis. “I was born on the eighth of October.”

“Libra.” Miss Ellis and Miss Clarkson exchanged a speaking glance.

“Is that bad?” asked Muriel.

“Oh, no,” said Miss Ellis. “None of the signs are bad.”

A second speaking glance.

“None are wholly bad,” she amended. She looked toward Griffith, so Muriel did too. He was in conversation with Miss Swanwick—resplendent in low-cut, crimson silk—and a smaller, older woman, the silver streaks in her dark hair glittering under the lights like her diamond earbobs.

“Kate is a Leo,” said Miss Ellis.

“It could be worse,” added Miss Clarkson.

“Kit.” Muriel looked at Miss Ellis. “He goes by Kit.”

“Kit,” Miss Ellis agreed, easily. “Of course. Grace told us. Tonight, I used his natal chart to make a few calculations. You might find this interesting.” She allowed a pregnant pause. “Jupiter is transiting his seventh house.”

Muriel couldn’t help herself. She pounced on the bait. “What does that mean?”

“Marriage,” piped up Miss Clarkson.