Chapter Thirteen
They listened for the door, and then Charlie brought him in. The footman had been well-briefed ahead of time. “It is Lord Tramondeley, Lady Valor. The duke has ordered that the doors are always open for Lord Tramondeley.”
“Yes, indeed, Charlie,” Valor said. “Lord Tramondeley, you know Lady Felicity, this is Mrs. Right, our dear housekeeper and member of the family.”
Valor could see a flicker of surprise cross his features but he bowed and said, “Mrs. Right, glad to know you.”
Mrs. Right nodded. “Charlie,” she said, “you’d best bring in another cup. And will those be flowers, Lord Tramondeley? Will we need a vase?”
“Ah yes,” Lord Tramondeley said.
Valor got the idea that he’d almost forgotten they were in his hand. He handed them over to the footman. She wished to see what they were, what message did they bring, but Charlie took them out with him in search of a vase.
“How does your Cornwall party preparation come along, Lord Tramondeley?” Felicity asked.
“It’s no trouble,” the lord said, “it’s really a simple sort of party.”
“Stratton is looking forward to it, though he says he only wishes for a sketch of me as nobody will want a sketch of him,” Felicity said. “However, I want a sketch of him so I will cajole him into complying.”
“Is it usual in Cornwall?” Valor asked. “That people want sketches at their parties?”
“No,” Lord Tramondeley said. “I must admit that it’s not. Most of the people in my neighborhood would assume I’d gone mad to suggest such a thing, but I thought it might be amusing.”
“I think it’s very original,” Valor said.
“Why do not you come too, Mrs. Right?” Lord Tramondeley asked.
Valor beamed over the idea. How considerate!
“Gracious me, I do not suppose you want the housekeeper at your fancy party,” Mrs. Right said.
“It is not particularly fancy,” Lord Tramondeley said. “That is not the Cornwall way. In any case, I think you will know most of the guests, as there is a preponderance of the duke’s daughters and their husbands coming.”
Just then, Charlie slipped back into the room quietly, as if he did not wish to be noticed. He turned his back to the party and hurried to a small table by the window. Then he whipped around and stood in front of it.
“Charlie,” Mrs. Right said. “Is that the vase of flowers you’ve just set down?”
He nodded sadly. “Yes, Mrs. Right.” He slowly stepped away to reveal a vase containing marigolds.
“Goodness,” Felicity said.
Marigolds? What did he mean by it? Why would he wish to communicate a message of sorrow and melancholy?
Lord Tramondeley seemed to notice that the ladies were staring at his flowers with various expressions of chagrin. He said, “Lady Valor did say orange was one of her preferred colors.”
Valor and Felicity looked at one another. Then it occurred to Valor that if Lord Tramondeley had arrived to London without knowing how to dance, it would be unlikely that anybody had ever handed him a book on the meaning of flowers.
“Lord Tramondeley,” she said, “I have a feeling that you are unaware that flowers, depending on the type you choose, send a particular message.”
“Really?” Lord Tramondeley said, glancing over at the flowers. “What message does orange send?”
“Oh, it’s not orange, it’s marigolds,” Valor said.
“Sadness and grief,” Felicity said with a snort.
Mrs. Right held a napkin near her lips but it was evident that her shoulders shook.
“I most certainly did not mean to send sadness and grief,” Lord Tramondeley said.
“No, we know,” Valor said. She could not contain her laughter longer and neither could Felicity. Fortunately, this set Lord Tramondeley laughing too.
They eventually settled themselves and it was just in time for Thomas hurrying into the room with a very elaborate wrapped package.
“Lady Valor, this was just delivered. It is addressed to you.”
Lord Tramondeley looked suspiciously at the box with its blue satin ribbon which confirmed in Valor’s mind that whoever it was from, it was not from him. The count, perhaps?
“As Papa is not here,” Felicity said, “and as a young lady ought not receive presents that have not been looked over and approved, perhaps I ought to open it.”
“Do, Felicity,” Valor said. She had not the first idea of what it was, and she could not say she much cared. Lord Tramondeley’s irritation over it was far more interesting.
Felicity read aloud the note that had come tucked beneath the silk ribbon.
Lady Valor—
Enclosed are a biscotto called Susamelle. I hope you find this traditional item pleasing.
Count di Compressio
Lord Tramondeley’s expression had grown very dark indeed. “Biscotto? Susamelle?” he said. It was said in such a tone that one might have thought the count had sent a dead pigeon.
Felicity opened the box to reveal brown biscuits shaped in an S and coated with a sugar glaze.
“And look, it’s shaped in an S in case anybody forgets what it is,” Lord Tramondeley said derisively.
“It’s a spiced biscuit, if I recall correctly,” Mrs. Right said. “Cinnamon, honey, nutmeg, that sort of thing.”
“It sounds terrible,” Lord Tramondeley said. “It looks terrible too. It’s very brown.”
Valor was positively delighted with the lord’s disdain over the count’s gift. She determinedly picked up a biscotto and bit into it. Then she frowned and said, “Oh dear, I do not care for these.”
“I knew it,” Lord Tramondeley said, appearing supremely satisfied.
In truth, she liked it very much, but she would never, ever admit to it. It made Lord Tramondeley too happy that the count had not succeeded in impressing. He’d brought marigolds and despised the count’s gift—it was exceedingly uplifting.
*
Mrs. Right did not view herself as a lady prone to becoming a victim of flattery. She was well able to stand up to it when a tradesman trundled out some ridiculous compliment about her superior taste or hinted that she was a fine-looking woman.
If those fellows had anything more on their mind than selling their wares, it was to find a wife.
Or more accurately called a cook, nurse, and housekeeper, for their household.
They would name that person a wife and all sorts of nonsense would be said in the church, but that wife would be no better than a lowly servant of one.
She had been lucky with her husband, but she’d seen time and time again what most men of that station expected.
Those gentlemen who occasionally tried it on were very dense.
Why on earth would she consider it when she had all the comforts of the duke’s household?
When the duke’s girls were her girls? When she lived in grand houses and her duties were rather light?
When she had such a comfortable relationship, more of a friendship these days, with the duke?
To give all that up for a man who did not bathe as often as he should and could only provide her a small dwelling, no freedom, and onerous duties.
Of course, men generally thought very highly of themselves so it would not have occurred to them to think about what might be in it for her.
They might flatter until their last breath and get nowhere.
And yet, she could not help but to be flattered by Lord Tramondeley.
To think, he’d invited her to the Cornwall party.
That was a compliment that really struck home.
Of course, there were a few other inducements that caused her to like him.
He was the duke’s heir and might come to live in the Dales.
He had a certain charm about him, turning up to London without knowing how to dance or understanding the meaning of flowers.
Heaven only knew what else he’d not heard of.
There was something very endearing about it.
He was not the suave and sophisticated London gentleman.
Mrs. Right did not think that sort would suit Valor.
That sort might be summed up by the count.
He was the suave and sophisticated type.
Furthermore, the duke was right about him.
This idea of living in Hertfordshire forevermore was nonsense.
Sooner or later, he would wish to return to Sardinia.
He would take his bride with him. The very idea of her poppet surrounded by foreigners…
Mrs. Right got the idea that the quiet of Hertfordshire had been the big draw for Valor. Now that idea had been upended.
She began to wonder if there could be a way to solidify the direction things seemed to be going. It would be well if she could drive that count back to Sardinia this instant.
How to do it though? She’d been thinking about it for days. What would drive a continental count to pack up and go home?
Just now, she peered into the dining room.
Charlie was giving a last polish to the silver as Mr. Huberville looked on.
She supposed all the bacon grease had been gotten off it.
The ersatz butler reached for a crystal goblet and then pulled his hand back.
Mrs. Right was fairly certain he worried about dropping it and breaking yet another item in the duke’s household. He would be right to worry.
“Nothing broken today, Mrs. Right!” Mr. Huberville said.
The housekeeper swallowed a sigh. Mr. Huberville’s standards, or lack of them, were such that not breaking something was the pinnacle of success.
“Mrs. Right,” Charlie said, “why did that count send over those strange biscuits?”
“I imagine he meant to impress,” she said. “It’s probably a custom of some sort in his country.”
Charlie snorted derisively. “I don’t like these continental people with their strange biscuits and strange accents. Italian, French, German, they’re all the same.”
Mrs. Right smiled. She did not think they were quite all the same. The Italians and Germans had not produced a Napoleon, for one thing. It was the French that had inflicted the world with that despot.