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The tinkling, good-natured jabs saved the mood and encouraged an atmosphere of friendship. It was obvious why the professor and his wife had hosted so many dinner parties.
“Yes,” Margaret drawled. She’d taken a cigarette from her purse and was lighting it, looking pleased as a cat before it catches a mouse. “If your employment ends only when this man is in sorts, it’s safe to say you’ve got a pretty permanent job.”
“At the rate we’re moving, we’ll be finished in a fortnight,” I said breezily, casting off her comment. It was untrue. There were still at least two months of work with what remained of the filing and the annotations, but there was no need to make anyone believe I had plans of staying that long, especially not the professor.
“Ambitious,” Professor Hughes said, eying me with some suspicion.
A man dressed in a catering uniform entered from the kitchen and announced dinner, leading everyone to take their seats. It was strange to see other people in Willowfield’s intimate spaces. The professor sat at the head of the table, and I was seated with Mr. Terrance on my left and Florence on my right. The doctor sat across from his niece, and I assumed Mrs. Terrance would sit across from her husband, leaving Margaret as my table partner. But Mrs. Terrance took the chair hurriedly, leaving the silver-clad woman to sit in the remaining seat, farthest from me. I glanced around, gauging everyone’s reaction to Mrs. Terrance’s ouster of Margaret to the edges of the group. A few tight smiles, a laugh, then Dr. Hannigan was boisterously telling one of his old stories that had everyone roaring in moments.
The meal was dreamy and the conversation lively. Margaret was suspiciously quiet except to make a droll remark between cigarettes. I sipped wine from my glass, only to find the professor’s eyes on me. I took another spiteful drink, much bigger than I wanted, and winked at him. His expression altered, turning severe and reproving. I’d rankled him, but I didn’t care. There was no insubordination I wouldn’t consider tonight. If he wished to terminate our agreement for it, then I’d kindly remind him of his offer to let me leave, ask for my wages, and run away like the sensible woman I was.
Despite my earlier stunt, I didn’t touch the wine again. It was too heavy in my stomach.
The conversation continued to flow when dinner had passed and desserts were eaten. There were so many questions, and I answered them all with as much honesty as I thought prudent. They were simple enough. Where had I gone to school, where had I grown up, more curiosity about my interest in the professor’s work. The discussion moved fluidly on to each of their lives. They all had so much history with one another and I basked in their comfortable familiarity.
I pointedly ignored Professor Hughes unless it was required to keep the conversation moving and avoid any suspicion of our conflict.
Eventually, the table became restless, and Florence suggested a game of the Minister’s Cat, leading Professor Hughes to recommend moving to the sitting room. This piqued my interest.
In the hall, one of the locked doors had been opened to a gentleman’s parlor, all brown leather and dark green fabrics, though even this room had not escaped the Willowfield touch and the large mahogany mantel of the fireplace had been carved with the face of a man made of leaves and brambles, blossoms tucked in his wooded beard. There was a phonograph in here too, already playing, sending a crooner’s dulcet voice curling through the air. The furniture had been arranged in a way conducive to group games, circling a low coffee table, and a sideboard had been set with coffee. As the others entered, I excused myself back to the dining room on the grounds that I’d left something behind. I needed a moment to arrange my thoughts. The hour was late, and though the company was mostly charming, I was becoming increasingly bitter. This life was not mine. While these shining people would always be a central point in my own story, I was merely a guest in theirs.
I requested a glass of water from one of the caterers cleaning the table. When it was in hand, I drank it down in three gulps.
“So, Millie,” Margaret said, having trailed my escape and appeared in the dining room, sidling to me and reaching for a chocolate roll that hadn’t been cleared away. She took a bite and grinned, friendly as a snake. “How does it feel to be in Willowfield?”
I assumed she was asking how it felt to be a girllike mein Willowfield, and I considered exploiting my upbringing in a wealthy New York neighborhood but couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“What do you mean?”
“The house. Doesn’t it give you the creeps?”
I furrowed my brows, not liking where this line of questioning was headed.
“And how about Callum?” she continued, not allowing me to answer her first query. “How’re you two getting along?”
“The professor?” I refused to use his name, hoping to make it clear our relationship was a professional one. “Well enough. He’s intelligent, a little off-color, but I manage. I enjoy the work.”
“I’m sure.”
That was enough. I set the glass down with a harsh hand, rattling the remaining silverware.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Listen, dove.” She put the pastry down and offered the sad eyes of a friend prepared to deliver hard news. “Just keep your wits. Callum has a way with women like you.”
“Like me?” I grew hot.
“Sure.” She smiled indulgently. “The kind that takes strange secretarial assignments for recluses in practically empty mansions. In a word, mad.”
“Sounds right,” I replied evenly, so angry that white stars began dancing in my periphery. How I managed to keep my voice steady will be a mystery for future scholars to determine. “Now let me read you. You married rich, but it’s not a love match, so you spend your time and your husband’s money dressing yourself up like a fortune teller and going about to make a fool of him in some perverse form of retaliation for the bleak lack of passion.”
I was making mean guesses, not caring if they were correct, only that they were insulting, but the new crimson cast to her cheeks revealed that I’d hit the mark.
“You little…” she sputtered. “You don’t have a clue what you’re dealing with. Callum sucks dames like you dry then spits out their husks. You don’t even know—”
“Margaret, there you are,” the professor rumbled, strolling into the dining room with a sense of casual cordiality. “Your husband mentioned you had a tendency to wander, especially after too much to drink.”
The double entendre was noted. Her nostrils flared.
