Chapter 2 #2
Plum leaned across Alessandro to take in the view. “God’s teeth, it hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Plum, it may be Shakespearean, but it is still an oath. You know how Aunt Hermia feels about profanity.”
He waved me off with a charcoal-smudged hand. “Auntie Hermia will be so happy to see her prodigal boys, she won’t care if I come draped in rags and swearing like a sailor. I’ll wager the fatted calf is being roasted as we speak.”
On that point I was forced to agree. Our Aunt Hermia, Father’s youngest sister, had come to live at the Abbey when our mother died from exhaustion.
Ten children in sixteen years had been too much for her slight, graceful shape.
Aunt Hermia had done her best to instill proper manners and a sense of decorum, but seven hundred years of March eccentricity was too much, even for her iron will.
We were civilized, but the veneer was a thin one.
In her later years, Aunt Hermia had even come to embrace her own peculiarities, and it was true that her drawing room was the only room in England where ladies were invited to smoke after dinner.
Needless to say, Marches were seldom invited to Court.
“Speaking of returning home,” Plum said, his expression a trifle pained, “I don’t suppose we could stay at March House instead of the Grand Hotel?”
I blinked at him. “Plum, the arrangements have already been made at the hotel. I hardly think it would be fair to disappoint their expectations. Besides, Father is in Sussex. The house would have been closed up months ago, and I am certainly not going to simply turn up and expect the staff to scurry around, yanking off dust sheets and preparing meals with no warning.”
“They are servants, Julia,” Plum pointed out with a touch of exasperation. “They will be perfectly content to do whatever is expected of them.”
I looked at him closely, scrutinising his garments.
His coat buttons were loose, a sure sign he had been tugging at them in distraction.
It was a nervous habit from boyhood. He dropped buttons in his wake as a May Queen dropped flowers.
The maids had long since given up stitching them back on, and he usually went about with his coat flapping loosely around him.
Yes, something was clearly troubling him, and I did not think that it was solely his irritation at Lysander’s marriage.
I suspected his pockets were thin—Plum’s tastes were expensive, and even Father’s liberal allowances only stretched so far.
Still, even if Plum was flirting with insolvency, there were other considerations.
“It is impolite, both to the staff of March House, and the hotel,” I told him.
“Besides, I hardly think that it will help our cause with Father to have descended on March House with no warning and inconvenienced his staff and eaten his food. You know they will send the bills to him. Under other circumstances, I might well agree with you, but I think a little prudence on our part might go some distance toward smoothing matters for Ly,” I finished.
Plum darted a look to the other part of the compartment where Lysander and Violante were huddled together, heads nearly touching as they whispered endearments.
“And we must do whatever we can for Lysander,” Plum added, his handsome mouth curved into a mocking smile.
He left as quickly as he had come, settling himself some distance away behind a newspaper.
I turned with an apologetic glance to Alessandro, but he was staring out the window, his expression deeply troubled and far away.
I did not interrupt him, and the rest of the journey into London was accomplished in silence.
* * *
The manager of the Grand Hotel, in an act of unprecedented kindness, assigned me a suite on a different floor from my family.
There had been some difficulty with the arrangements, he said, fluttering his hands in apology, our letter had come so late, it was such a busy season with the holiday fast approaching.
I reassured him and took the key, grateful for the distance from the rest of the party.
Violante and Lysander had broken out in a quarrel again on the station platform, Plum was sulking openly, and Alessandro was by now visibly distressed.
He only smiled when he noticed my trouble in coaxing Florence from her basket.
She remained curled on her cushion, staring at me with the lofty disdain of a Russian czarina.
“Florence, come out at once. This is unacceptable,” I told her. Alessandro smiled at me, a smile that did not touch the sadness in his eyes.
“Ah, my dear lady. She does not understand you. She is an Italian dog, you must speak Italian to her.”
I stared at him, but there was no sign of jocularity in him. “You are not joking? I must speak Italian to her?”
“But of course, my lady. Do as I do.” He bent swiftly and pitched his voice low and seductive. “Dai, Firenze.”
The little dog leaped up at once and waited patiently at his heel. “You see? Very easy. She wants to please you.”
The dog and I regarded each other. I had my doubts that she wished to please me, but I thanked Alessandro just the same and turned to make my way into the hotel. Florence sat, staring down her long nose at me.
I sighed. “Andiamo, Firenze. Come along.” She trotted up and gave my skirt hem a deep sniff. Then she gave a deep, disappointed sigh.
“I know precisely how you feel.”
* * *
The next morning I made my way down to breakfast in the hotel’s elegant dining room, feeling buoyant with good cheer and a good night’s sleep.
Something about being on English soil again had soothed me, and I had slept deeply and dreamlessly, waking only when Florence barked out an order to be taken for a walk.
I handed her off to a grumbling Morag with a few simple words of Italian, although I had little doubt Morag would simply bark back at her in Gaelic.
But even Morag’s sullenness was no match for my cheerful mood as I entered the dining room.
I might have known that it would not last.
Resting against my plate was a hastily scrawled note from Lysander explaining that he and Violante had chosen to have a lie-in and would take the later conveyance instead of the morning train as we had planned.
I wrinkled my nose at the note and crumpled it into my butter dish.
A lie-in indeed. More like an attack of the cowardy-cowardy custards.
Ly was nervous at the prospect of facing Father.
The possibility of losing his considerable allowance, particularly with a wife to maintain, was a grim one.
The notion of keeping Violante on the proceeds of his musical compositions was laughable, but also frighteningly real.
Ly was simply playing for time, expecting the rest of us to journey down to Bellmont Abbey and smooth the way for him, soothing Father out of his black mood and making him amenable to meeting Lysander under happier terms.
It simply would not do. I applied myself to a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, porridge, toast, stewed fruit, and a very nice pot of tea.
I enjoyed it thoroughly. The Italians, for all their vaunted cookery skills, cannot do a proper breakfast. A bit of bread and a cup of milky coffee is a parsimonious way to begin one’s day.
When I was well fortified, I had a quick word with the waiter and made my way to Lysander and Violante’s rooms and tapped sharply on the door.
There was a sleepy mumble from within, but I simply rapped again, more loudly this time, and after a long moment, Lysander answered the door, wrapping a dressing gown around himself, his expression thunderous.
“Julia, what the devil do you want? Did you not get my note?”
I smiled at him sweetly. “I did, in fact. And I am afraid it will not serve, Lysander. We must be at the train station in a little more than an hour. I have ordered your breakfast to be sent up. I am afraid there will not be time for you to have more than rolls and coffee, but the hotel is packing a hamper for the train.”
He gaped at me. “Julia, really. I do not see why—”
Violante appeared then, clutching a lacy garment about her shoulders and yawning broadly, her black hair plaited in ribbons like a schoolgirl’s. She looked pale and tired, plum-purple crescents shadowing her eyes. I greeted her cordially.
“Good morning, Violante. I do hope you slept well. There has been a slight change in plans, my dear. We are all travelling down together this morning. Morag will help you dress. She is quite efficient, for all her sins, and the hotel maids are dreadfully slow.”
“Si, Giulia. Grazie.” She nodded obediently, but Lysander stood his ground, squaring his shoulders.
“Now, see here, Julia. I will not be organised by you as though I were a child and you were my nanny. I am your brother, your elder brother, a fact I think you have rather forgotten. Now, my wife and I will travel down to Blessingstoke when it suits us, not when you command.”
I stared at him, eyebrows slightly raised, saying nothing. After a moment he groaned, his shoulders drooping in defeat.
“Why, why am I plagued by bossy women?”
I smiled at him to show that I bore no grudge. “I am sure I could not say, Lysander. I will see you shortly.”
I turned to Violante who had watched our exchange speculatively. “Remind me to have a little chat with you when we reach the Abbey, my dear.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but Lysander pulled her back into their room and banged the door closed. I shrugged and turned on my heel to find Plum lingering in his doorway, doing his best to smother a laugh. I fixed him with a warning look and he raised his hands.
“I am already dressed and the hotel’s valet is packing my portmanteau as we speak. I was just going downstairs for some breakfast.”