Page 10 of Two Wars and a Wedding

“C’est bien vrai.” Monsieur de Robecourt’s eyes slanted sideways to Betsy. “One would not want to cause a riot outside the palace.”

“I would hardly do that,” protested Betsy. Just the prospect of it made her feel terribly worldly and daring. It was heady stuff. “I only meant that I don’t see why my wearing a skirt should impact my ability to perform a task. The Romans wore togas. The Scots wear kilts.”

“Not all the time,” interjected Mrs. MacHugh, her eyes dancing with amusement. “I can assure you on good authority. They’ve been subjected to trousers.”

“Even so. Men’s clothes can be just as confining as women’s. Look at those ridiculous cravats you wear and those stiff collars.” Betsy turned to Monsieur de Robecourt, waving her teacup in the direction of his throat.

Monsieur de Robecourt fingered the silk of his cravat. “Like the plumage of a bird—designed to attract the attention of the fairer sex.” His eyes followed the curves exaggerated by Betsy’s Paris suit with frank appreciation. “We have fewer natural advantages.”

“That’s beside the point.” What was the point? Betsy tried to remember what she had been talking about. She was suddenly very aware of the way her breasts pressed against the fabric of her chemise. “The point is that there is absolutely nothing that makes women constitutionally incapable of the art of excavation and I mean to prove it.”

Monsieur de Robecourt leaned back in his chair. “And how do you intend to go about that?”

“Strategically.” Belatedly, Betsy remembered that her new companion was on first-name terms with the director of the American School. Just because she had bowled him over, quite literally, didn’t make him an ally. “You aren’t going to tell Dr. Richardson, are you?”

“I shouldn’t dream of it.”

“Monsieur de Robecourt is quite trustworthy,” Mrs. MacHugh assured her. “For a Frenchman.”

“This from Greeks bearing gâteaux? Ah, thank you.” Monsieur de Robecourt accepted the tea cake his hostess offered him. “May I aid in your grand strategy?”

Betsy swallowed a mouthful of scone. Ethel would be terribly jealous; it really was very good. “Why should you do that?”

“To discommode Rufus, of course. And to oblige a lady.”

There was a crumb on her lip; Betsy licked it off. “Dr. Richardson would say that to wish to participate fully in the work of the school makes me nothing of the sort.”

Monsieur de Robecourt set his cake plate down on one knee, all mockery gone. “Then he and I have a very different definition of what it means to be a lady. One of my ancestresses went on Crusade with Queen Eleanor. She rode bare-breasted to Jerusalem. We have, I believe, a different idea of what it is to be a lady.”

Betsy could feel little pinpricks all over, as though she’d been asleep and was only just waking up. She’d been told what ladies did and didn’t do, but no one, not even her father, who believed she could do anything at all—as long as it had to do with classical studies—had suggested to her that perhaps a lady might be something different from the petted creature on a pedestal she had scorned to become. That a lady might do instead of just be.

“I’d never thought of that,” said Betsy wonderingly. “It’s rather like the classical concept of virtu as opposed to the modern idea of virtue. We praise people for what they refrain from doing rather than rewarding them for what they dare.”

“What would you dare, Miss Hayes?”

“Well, I don’t intend to excavate bare-breasted, that’s for certain,” said Betsy, without thinking.

“Dommage,” murmured Monsieur de Robecourt. Betsy’s cheeks flared. “You could set a fashion.”

“I’m not that fashionable,” said Betsy hastily. She had a mad, fleeting image of riding bare-breasted in the Greek sunshine, or lounging like Mrs. MacHugh, uncorseted, in soft silks. “Professor Sterrett is leading a party through the Peloponnese to Tiryns and Mycenae. I have been informed that this is a grueling expedition requiring a great deal of mud and the loud singing of college songs.”

Mrs. MacHugh clapped her hands together. “And you mean to go along?”

“I can sing as loudly as anyone.”

“I imagine you can.” Something about the way Monsieur de Robecourt said it made it sound like a compliment. “What about the mud?”

“I don’t adore it, but I don’t mind it.”

“I feel that way about a number of people,” murmured Mrs. MacHugh.

Monsieur de Robecourt sent her a look of mock distress. “Is that my cue to depart?”

“Not you, Charles—nor you, Miss Hayes. I haven’t been so entertained in a fortnight.” Betsy doubted that. Mrs. MacHugh seemed like the sort of woman who never failed to milk enjoyment from any circumstance. After the anxious atmosphere of the American School, Betsy found her immensely refreshing. This was a world of which Betsy knew nothing, of sophisticated banter, of royal courts, of casual erudition.

Of ladies who rode bare-breasted on Crusade. Or had. Several centuries ago.

Reluctantly, Betsy set her teacup down. She had stayed far longer than the half hour acceptable for a first call. “I should be getting back.”