The girl’s nod of approval had become a barely disguised laugh, and for a heartbeat Estelle’s hopes plummeted: clearly she had said something moronic. She couldn’t see how, though, and her brow furrowed (slightly but sincerely) in case there was to be some quarrel about the qualities she sought. Estelle would staunchly defend every one –
Oh. Miss Dashwood was not laughing at her at all. Atticus wasn’t a rake! Not some cad who used his charm upon everyone: thank Merlin for that. A little new hope punctured through Estelle’s lungs at the prospect of him, an actually serious respectable man, and her faint frown became a small pleased smile before she so much as digested the name. Atticus. Foxwood? They were relatives of the Dashwoods, weren’t they? And pureblood, and – Mr. Atticus Foxwood, Estelle thought in great relief, was not the Professor. He was the eldest son, was he not? Better and better.
Sitting up a little straighter and taking a sip of tea, Estelle was still ruminating so profoundly on Atticus Foxwood that she barely registered Miss Dashwood’s next question, and she almost thought she had misheard it. “To owls?” She said, eyebrows high, with a bemused brightness. “Well, of course!” Owls were eminently useful as post-creatures, and she had had one all through school and Pendergast’s, and more dignified in bearing than other sorts of animals... “As pets, at any rate,” Estelle said, almost droll, “though perhaps not for a husband.” See – she could be witty, if she wanted. “Why do you ask?”
Oh. Miss Dashwood was not laughing at her at all. Atticus wasn’t a rake! Not some cad who used his charm upon everyone: thank Merlin for that. A little new hope punctured through Estelle’s lungs at the prospect of him, an actually serious respectable man, and her faint frown became a small pleased smile before she so much as digested the name. Atticus. Foxwood? They were relatives of the Dashwoods, weren’t they? And pureblood, and – Mr. Atticus Foxwood, Estelle thought in great relief, was not the Professor. He was the eldest son, was he not? Better and better.
Sitting up a little straighter and taking a sip of tea, Estelle was still ruminating so profoundly on Atticus Foxwood that she barely registered Miss Dashwood’s next question, and she almost thought she had misheard it. “To owls?” She said, eyebrows high, with a bemused brightness. “Well, of course!” Owls were eminently useful as post-creatures, and she had had one all through school and Pendergast’s, and more dignified in bearing than other sorts of animals... “As pets, at any rate,” Estelle said, almost droll, “though perhaps not for a husband.” See – she could be witty, if she wanted. “Why do you ask?”
