Aftermath ~ come into the garden
"You're being horribly boorish, you know."
Colin shrugs half-heartedly at the barb, because he doesn't much care if he's being boorish at all, and he doesn't move from where he's leaning over the high stonework in which a variety of leafy, tropical plants are flourishing, despite the early autumn chill outside. Conservatories are, by far, most useful inventions. He loves them, if he can't be in a real garden.
"She won't dare come in here, she loathes gardens, and you know it! That's why you're doing this. You can't fool me, Colin."
He smiles at the second comment aimed for his ears, for it is only the truth. Maud Dorset won't come in here, which is exactly why he is here.
"Mr. Harvey thinks you've left early."
At this, he finally speaks. "Mr. Harvey knows perfectly well where I am. He's given me explicit permission to come here during parties, because it's always closed off to the other guests. He knows I don't like Maud."
He doesn't need to see the smirk of satisfaction upon the speaker's lips, pleased that she has finally managed to induce a remark from him. After a moment or so, she leans against the decorative stonework as well, her body quite close to his. Their arms actually brush together, from wrists to elbows to shoulders. He stiffens slightly – a reaction that seems to be occurring more and more frequently whenever they are physically close to each other. It's better then acting on his instincts, though. He'd lose their friendship if he acted on instinct.
Sympathetically, she bumps his shoulder lightly with hers, and chides, "You needn't be so sullen. How on earth did Mary ever put up with you? I should write and ask her."
Colin turns away and moves to another portion of the large glass room, further from the oaken entrance archway that leads back to the rest of the Harveys' mansion. He isn't in a mood to think about Mary right now. "If you desire someone who isn't sullen," he says darkly, "then you'd best go back to the party, Clara."
She giggles. "That isn't it, either."
He mutters mutinously, reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a small notepad, opens it, and crosses a line through Clara. He's been trying desperately to guess the girl's initials for the past bloody week, but without any success. Or, at least, any success that he's aware of. Cece seems to be intent on keeping him in the dark as to her real name, as if it's a good joke.
To her.
He wonders why he's suddenly so obsessed with it, when three weeks ago he didn't care one way or the other. It seems the idea of figuring it out has just wormed its way into his head, because it's a mystery, and because she refuses to indulge him.
"I could just write Randolph," he threatens under his breath. He hates that name, to tell the truth, when three weeks ago he didn't care much about Randolph, either. What the hell is wrong with him, lately?
She giggles. "He's too busy to answer you unless you have an investment prospect for him. That, he might like, however."
"Charlotte?"
"Absolutely not!"
He opens his mouth to make another guess, but she forestalls him.
"Should I tell Mr. Harvey you intend to remain in his conservatory for the remainder of the party, because you're avoiding Maud?"
Colin becomes sullen again. Maud is several years his senior, and quite unmarried. She's not at all pretty, and at twenty-seven, she's quite the old maid that no one wants, or ever wanted. She's too tall and too skinny and her face is too long and remorseful, with a thin mouth that turns down and hair too coarse to be attractive. And so, without much to recommend her, men have steered clear of her, and he intends to do the same. Because, much worse then money or connections or beauty or lack of intelligence, she dislikes being out of doors, and she has such bad allergies that she avoids gardens and conservatories. He couldn't possibly be interested in anyone who didn't like gardens. He wishes old Harvey hadn't invited her, but the Harveys are close to the girl's grandfather, who occasionally presses for them to include Maud so she'll have some sort of social interaction. And possibly find a husband.
He shrugs and mutters, "If you wish."
"It doesn't much signify what I wish, Colin."
"Yes, bcause you're returning to Boston in two weeks."
"No, because you are your own person, and I can't possibly make decisions for someone so decided in their own mind. I've never in my life met anyone as determined as you, Colin."
He hears the soft clicks of her heels as she moves away from him, to leave him alone. Impulsively, he turns and asks, "Will you let me know when she leaves?"
Cece glances over her shoulder, pauses, and then says maddeningly, "Perhaps."
He growls, but she only smirks and walks out. And he wishes she had stayed, though he can't say why.