“This cream is sinful, you’re right,” Lizzie said.
“I warned you,” Alison said.
The silence lengthened.
“When you’re with your friends,” Alison said, “do you talk about anything more intimate than cooking or sewing, or books and plays... do you enjoy theater, by the way?”
“Yes, I do. Whenever I’m in Boston, I try to see what’s on.”
“I shall have to give you a list of things to see here in London.”
“Rebecca is trying for The Gondoliers.”
“Bless D’Oyly Carte. He built the Savoy, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“She seems a clever sort, your Rebecca.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Your Felicity is a twit, though, isn’t she? Quite lovely, but oh, my!”
Lizzie said nothing.
“Now I’ve offended you,” Alison said.
“She is a friend,” Lizzie said.
“Forgive me, how rude of me. Do you ever discuss more meaningful things with her then?”
“More meaningful than what?”
“Sewing or cooking or...”
“Well, not with Felicity, no.”
“With some of your other friends then?”
“Yes, I would say we’re quite open and honest with each other.”
“As good friends should be,” Alison said.
“Yes,” Lizzie said.
“So I’m sure you discuss marriage and...”
“No, I don’t think I shall ever be married,” Lizzie said.
“Which, I assure you, is no great loss,” Alison said, and smiled. “Men are fun to discuss, but it becomes awfully tiresome when one has to live with them. Him, I should say. Singular rather than plural. Albert certainly is singular,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “You do discuss men, don’t you? With your close friends?”
“Hardly ever. We’re much beyond the age when such talk would seem appropriate.”
“Ah? Was it appropriate at one time?”
“When I was a girl, certainly. Oh, my, we discussed boys day and night.”
“Ah, didn’t we all?” Alison said, and again smiled. “What sort of talk, Lizzie?”
“The usual nonsense,” Lizzie said. “Gossip about beaux...”
“Have you had many beaux?”
“Not very many. And none for a long time now.”
“This gossip...”
“Oh, the usual sort. We talked about — mind you, this was when I was much younger...”
“Yes?”
“... their good looks or their homeliness... whether they were conceited or not... when they planned their next visit to Fall River... whether or not a suitor was serious or merely...”
“Were any of them serious?”
“One. That is...”
“Yes?”
“I’m not sure we should be discussing this.”
“Why not?”
“Well, we scarcely know each other, for one thing. And for another...”
“I feel I know you very well,” Alison said.
“Well, I do, too, of course. Feel I know you. But...”
“But you just said otherwise.”
“I meant... on such short acquaintance...”
“I had hoped we might become good friends, Lizzie.”
“I would hope so, too. But...”
“Then can’t you be as open and as honest with me as you are with your other good friends?”
“I’ve been nothing but, believe me,” Lizzie said. “I only meant to say that... well, surely you know this... talking about past romances is a matter more suitable for discussion by someone like Felicity.”
“Ah, then you do agree with me!” Alison said.
“Well, she is something of a twit, I suppose,” Lizzie said, and smiled.
“How old is she?” Alison asked.
“Twenty-four. Just twenty-four, I believe.”
“A lovely age,” Alison said. “And so beautiful. But, oh, so empty-headed.”
“Well, yes,” Lizzie said.
“She has a marvelous figure; she’ll be the envy of every woman on the Continent,” Alison said. “Just make sure she keeps her pretty mouth tightly shut and shows her breasts to good advantage.”
Lizzie raised her eyebrows.
“Well, surely,” Alison said, “breasts are a suitable topic of conversation for women, are they not? Morally acceptable, I’m certain, and — at least when hands are clasped over them in prayer — seriously pious.”
“She does have a good figure, yes,” Lizzie said, somewhat curtly.
“And who, after all, is better equipped — if you’ll forgive the pun — to discuss those lovely appendages of which we are the sole possessors? Although, I might add, when considering my own scant equipment, I sincerely and in all serious piety pray that ‘less is more’ may be more than idle supposition. I keep shocking you, Lizzie, I pray your forgiveness. I’m far too outspoken, I know, my worst failing. The Hastings Curse, actually, inherited by both my brother and me. Hastings was my maiden name — Alison Lydia Hastings, to be precise — and my father was quite the most outspoken man alive. I’m sure I’ll never be invited to Buckingham Palace, where our dear mourning monarch much resembles a pouter pigeon in Trafalgar Square. Moreover, I’m sure that if I were invited, I should politely decline. More tea?”
“Yes, thank you,” Lizzie said, and watched as she poured. “You think I’m terribly provincial, don’t you?” she asked, surprised when the words found voice.
“No,” Alison said.
“Then why do you mock me?”
“Mock you? No. But yes, I do admit to my feeble attempts at shocking you, Lord knows why. In the face of my incessant barrage, you’ve remained as unflappable as a cavalry captain. But you see, dear Lizzie, I am sick unto death of idle chatter...”
“If you think...”
“I could, if you prefer, advise you not to miss St. Stephen’s Crypt in Westminster Hall. Or I could offer a critique on The Sign of Four, if Mr. Doyle’s new novel is on your list of morally acceptable books...”
“That’s the mockery I spoke of,” Lizzie said.
“Is it? I’m sorry, it shan’t happen again. But, my dear, would you truly be interested in learning that a statue will be going up on the Thames Embankment this Thursday, in honor of the late Mr. W. E. Forster, and that Lord Cranbrook will do the unveiling? Shall we talk about the Lord Dunlo trial, and the interminably long time he’s been in court petitioning for a divorce from his wife? Shall we babble on about inconsequential matters as proper ladies are supposed to? I should sooner discuss the intensity of my most recent menstrual flow!”
And now Lizzie was shocked. Not only by the mention, from a virtual stranger, of a personal feminine matter best discussed between the closest of friends, but also by the fierceness with which Alison had spoken those last several words, as if the most natural of female occurrences was to her, in fact, abhorrent. Her green eyes were virtually blazing now, alarmingly so. For an instant, Lizzie suspected the woman would never have spoken so feverishly to anyone but a stranger lest a friend might consider her deranged. She decided she would make her apologies and leave. There was no telling what Alison Newbury might say, or do, next. And then, to her surprise, Alison’s green eyes softened so that they resembled jade now more than they did sparkling emerald. Her mouth and her features softened, too, as though a terrible summer storm had passed in an instant, leaving behind it a cascade of sunlight that illuminated her exquisite face. She reached across the table as if to pat Lizzie’s hand again. Instead, her fingers came to rest on Lizzie’s arm. Her voice, when she spoke again, was low and apologetic, almost beseeching.