Chapter 23
“Should I put my new robe on?” Caroline suggested tentatively.
She watched Gervaise as he poured them both a glass of wine.
They were waiting for Reg to fetch their dinner from a French place Gervaise knew which was further afield than Effie’s usual haunts.
Reg had been sent with written specifications for the particular dish Gervaise wanted, Sole à la Meunièr.
“Don’t you think you’ve been sat around long enough today scantily clad?” Gervaise asked. His tone was light but something about it made Caroline sit up straighter. “As Gracie would say, ‘you’ll catch your death of cold,’” he added, pulling a face and handing her a glass.
“I’m sure I haven’t caught a chill,” Caroline answered. “I’ve not sneezed once.”
“Well, thank heavens for small mercies,” he replied flippantly. “You will oblige me by moving a little closer to the fire and putting these on.”
He tossed a pair of heavy woolen socks into her lap which Caroline stared down at before moving to pull them on over her stockings.
In truth, her toes were a little cold, despite the roaring blaze in the hearth.
The cats were stretched out in front of it in an ecstasy of heat worship.
They had already eaten their supper which Effie had purchased from a “cat meat” vendor.
Caroline had asked what it was, then promptly wished she hadn’t. She had always been fond of horses.
She inched her chair a little closer to the fire and gazed down at the lumpy socks.
They were overlarge on her feet and did nothing to enhance her already stodgy appearance.
Were they his socks? she wondered, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
If so, they must be ones he wore with a tweed suit when he was in the country.
He certainly did not wear socks like these in town.
The socks he wore currently were of a fine knitted silk, she was sure of it, she thought, eyeing his sophisticated attire. It was so unfair that he should be so smart in his formal tailcoat, while she sat here, bundled up in brown boiled wool, looking a fright!
Gervaise was acting strangely, she thought, taking a sip of wine.
For starters, he had changed for dinner, something which seemed almost absurdly formal under the circumstances.
At first, she had wondered if they were going out, but instead he had ordered the fires lit in their rooms and declared they would be dining in.
Now he was insisting she remained here, dressed in a garment she knew for a fact he thought repulsive! It was most peculiar. “Here,” he said, passing her the pile of parcels. “You may as well open your presents while we wait.”
She perked up a little at this. “Really?”
He shrugged, flinging himself down into the seat opposite her, but though his pose was disinterested, she could see his eyes watching her as she tore the wrapper off the first box.
“Gloves!” she exclaimed with surprise. “Oh, and such charming ones!” She lifted the pale kid gloves out of the tissue paper and traced her finger over the elegant pearl buttons and the delicate embroidery. “I’ve never had any so pretty.”
“You could do with some mittens to wear indoors,” he muttered. “If I had only known how cold your hands get.”
The next box made her gasp, for it was a gorgeous cashmere shawl of scarlet and cream, heavily decorated at the borders. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Gervaise. I’ve never seen one so lovely. Blanche Pebmarsh has one, you know, but it is not half so fine as this one.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.”
The next parcel was a collection of five books tooled in navy blue leather with gold lettering. Opening the first one, she read aloud, “The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.”
“It’s a collection of essays and short stories I thought you might like,” he said off-handedly.
“Have you read it?” For a moment she thought he would shake his head, then he nodded, and Caroline felt a rush of triumph she could not really account for. He had purchased them especially, not at random, she thought almost gleefully. Really, she did not know why that pleased her so much.
A rap on the door interrupted them, and Gervaise stood up as Reg entered the room carrying their supper.
Caroline removed the neat little books from the table and set them down in a pile on the floor.
Where was the dressing gown? she wondered, scanning the remaining pile of gifts. None of them looked the right shape.
The presents she had opened thus far had been so eminently respectable.
Not the sort of thing she had always imagined a man gifted his mistress at all.
She had expected something far more salacious.
Like lacy nightgowns or…her mind went blank.
Well, she was not sure what precisely, but she had not expected items that could be just as easily gifted to one’s sister that was for certain!
“I’ll dish up, shall I?” Gervaise said, bringing the plates and cutlery to the table.
Sole à la Meunièr turned out to be pan-fried sole served in a nutty brown sauce with lemon juice and fresh parsley.
It was accompanied by a bowl of buttery potatoes which he shared between the two of them. It was a delicious meal.
“What is the French restaurant like?” Caroline asked, setting down her knife and fork with a contented sigh. “Is it very grand?”
“Far from it. It’s poky, ill lit, and inconveniently situated. The food, however, is sublime and more than makes up for the location.”
“Is that why you always collect your food from there?”
He hesitated. “No. I have never done that before.”
Then, why now? Caroline wondered. She could easily have thrown her burgundy gown back on.
Gervaise, however, had grown quiet. He cleared the table and then topped up their wineglasses. An air of heaviness sprung up between them that made the room feel somewhat oppressive. Suddenly Caroline knew she had to say something, or he would, and she was suddenly nervous as to what that might be
“Was there a maenad called Ambrosia?” she blurted. “Because I thought Ambrosia was something altogether different. Like a food the gods ate or something like that.”
“Ambrosia?” he answered after a small pause. “Yes, I think there was a maenad called that, now you mention it. She was Dionysus’s favorite, if memory serves. Somebody murdered her and he wrought a terrible revenge.” He took a sip of wine.
“Really?”
“She was consequently turned into a vine.”
“That sort of thing was always happening in ancient Greece, wasn’t it?” Caroline mused. “Mr. Bailey addressed me as Ambrosia all day today and I was a bit confused, but I suppose it makes perfect sense now.
“Oh? Called you Ambrosia, did he?” His voice sounded a little strange.
“Yes. Tell me,” she said, resting her elbows on the table. “What sort of secrets did the maenads know?”
“What?” He looked thrown by the turn the conversation had taken.
“Mr. Bailey said that maenads knew secrets.”
He looked vaguely impatient. “He was referring, I suppose, to the mysteries of Dionysus’s cult.”
“And what would those entail?” she asked encouragingly.
He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Initiation rites, that sort of thing.”
“Such as?” she persisted.
He sighed, clearly uninterested in the subject. “If memory serves, sparagmos and omophagia.”
She propped her chin on her hand. “And what are those?”
“Dismemberment and the ingestion of raw meat,” he answered heavily.
She pulled a face. “Ugh! How horrid! Why should they wish to practice such things?”
“To achieve the same ends as most cults of that kind.” He shrugged. In answer to her questioning look, he added, “Spiritual enlightenment.”
“Seems a funny sort of way to go about it!”
“No doubt.”
“I am not sure I am at all flattered that you should compare me to a maenad now!” she admitted.
“Were you flattered, my sweet?” he asked, a glint in his eye.
“Of course! No one had ever told me I resembled anything remotely mythological before.”
“Really? But then, you were surrounded on all sides by some remarkably dull people,” he reminded her.
“Yes,” she agreed, then shook her head. “Well, no, that’s not really true,” she added conscientiously.
“Reverend Ryland is said to be an expert on ancient scrolls, and my mother is not precisely dull. She’s sort of…
twisted, I’ve come to realize. You found her rather interesting I seem to recall.
” Her eyes avoided his as Gervaise leaned back in his chair.
“She’s not one-tenth as interesting as her daughter.”
“Hah!” Caroline scoffed. “You say that now!”
“It’s true.”
“You did not find me interesting at all! You merely thought me a damsel in distress.”
He gave a startled laugh at that. “My God, do you really imagine I would have run away with you if I had thought that?”
“Well…”
“Your mother’s only interesting feature was how poisonous she was. Hardly an attractive feature.”
“Apparently she was terribly beautiful in her youth,” she answered.
“I highly doubt that,” Gervaise answered dismissively. “At best she would have possessed a superficial prettiness that was rather cloying. You are nothing like her, thank the lord.”
“No,” she agreed, then hesitated. “Though earlier today it did occur to me that, well…telling lies could be rather fun.” She swallowed. “Maybe that was how Mama started out until she became eventually consumed by them.”
He looked amused, in spite of himself. “Why my precious, what lies have you been telling?” he asked, and she could see the smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, nothing dreadful,” she said evasively. “Just the usual ones.”
“Usual ones?” he queried.
“Why, that I am Miss Pomfrey, of course,” she said airily. “And have had an entire company of soldiers at my mercy. And a captain of the guard who was greatly desirous of my hand in marriage, but I threw him over to accept your indecent proposal instead.”