Chapter 11
THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER
Yet men will murder upon holy days.
—The Eve of St. Agnes, Keats
Dinner was a spirited and lively affair.
Conversation and wine flowed in equal abundance, and everyone seemed in high spirits with only a few exceptions.
Violante sat next to Father, nibbling at pickled chestnuts and bestirring herself only to reply to questions.
She kept her hand firmly at her belly, and I began to wonder if there was not perhaps a happy event in her future.
Hortense had survived her day with Violante and Aunt Dorcas and was seated at Father’s other hand, coolly elegant in ice-blue satin trimmed in silver ribbon.
She looked like a pale snow queen, rimed in frost, a few tasteful diamonds winking out from her hair.
Emma and Lucy were dressed in the same gowns they had worn the previous evening, as was Charlotte, although she had added a scrap of purple lace to the bodice, a perfect foil for her roses-and-cream complexion.
Portia was resplendent in jade green, her wrists heavy with carved jade bracelets purchased from the hold of a Chinese merchant ship.
My jewels were by far the most extravagant, and as the soup course was served I began to feel a little embarrassed by them.
Father had shown no flicker of recognition when I entered the room, and if he had heard the exclamations of delight by the ladies, he betrayed no sign of it.
For his part, Brisbane flicked one glance at the spectacular jewels draped over my skin and turned back to his whiskey.
We talked of many things that night at dinner: our venture to the Gypsy camp (which caused Aunt Dorcas to shudder into her consommé muttering about vibrations) and the Irish question (a subject Father changed as quickly as possible) among them.
Alessandro was prevailed upon to answer questions about Italy, and from there the conversation turned to travel.
Sir Cedric had chanced to mention his excursions in Kashmir, enthusing about the natural beauties of the place.
“In fact, I am of a mind to take Lucy there after Italy,” he finished. “Italy is all well and good, but it takes a half-savage place like India to know you are truly alive.”
Mr. Snow gave a little grimace of distaste.
“If by ‘alive’ you mean tortured by insects, heat, filth, and disease, then I will grant you are correct, sir. Not to mention the difficulties between the races. My posting to India was the most trying of all my time in the army. No, I am afraid I must dispute with you. It is a place where the hardiest man may be well and truly tested. It is no place for the gentler sex.”
“On the contrary,” Lucy put in brightly, “Emma was there some years ago, and she found it most enchanting.”
Portia and I exchanged quick glances. Emma’s foray to India with Aunt Gertrude to find a husband had not been a success, and it was less than discreet of Lucy to mention it.
Poor Emma had returned from India after a single season, as unattached as the day she arrived there, and it was this failure to find a husband that had forced her into service as a governess.
Brisbane turned to Emma. I could not see his expression, but his tone was one of sincere interest. “Most ladies find it a challenge. Did you not mind the climate? The language difficulties?”
“Oh, no, my lord,” she said quietly, her expression earnest. “I found it paradise. The climate was quite exhilarating, and the native people, so warm, so friendly and artless. I would go again tomorrow if I were able.” There was a wistfulness about her I found oddly touching, and I felt suddenly sorry for her, constrained by her station and her lack of income to suffer the whims of others.
She could travel only by invitation, on the largesse of another.
As if cued, Lucy cried out dramatically, “Then you must come with us!” She was sitting across from her sister, and she looked from Emma to Sir Cedric, imploringly. He hesitated for the barest moment, and before he could speak Emma did so.
“No, Lucy,” she said gently. “I am sure Sir Cedric wishes to make his wedding trip without accompaniment. There will be other travels. Perhaps in a few years, when there are children who might benefit from a little supervision from their Aunt Emma,” she finished with a smile.
Sir Cedric threw her a look of pure gratitude, and Lucy blushed deeply at the mention of children.
Snow was watching Emma with a warm gleam in his eyes, and I wondered again if something might be done to nudge them toward a match.
Conversation turned again, this time at Portia’s behest, and a spirited debate broke out on the subject of trout, for reasons I never clearly understood.
I was too busy watching Father, who had been noticeably quiet that evening.
His eyes darted over the company ranged at his table.
He was keenly watchful, as though he expected something to happen, but what, and by whose hand, I could not imagine.
After dessert the ladies adjourned briefly to the lesser drawing room. I was not surprised my pearls drew their attention as flame will draw moths. They gathered round for a better look—even Portia, who had seen them often enough. Only Mrs. King hung back, her expression pensive.
Violante pronounced them molto bellissimo, though Aunt Dorcas merely rolled them in her palm, dropped them with a decided sniff and took her chair by the fire.
I glanced at Hortense, who had suffered Aunt Dorcas for the better part of the day.
She was concentrating intently on her needlework, but her lips twitched with suppressed laughter.
Lucy was the most appreciative. She ran her fingers over the pearls at my wrists, sighing softly.
“Cedric has promised me pearls for a wedding gift, but I cannot think they will be as fine as these,” she remarked. Lucy was nothing if not practical. “How long have they been in the Grey family?”
I shrugged. “Ages. The clasp is a double-headed Romanov eagle, perhaps a sign they were fashioned for Russian royalty. The Greys always liked to claim they belonged to Catherine the Great herself.” I furrowed my brow. “Now that I think on it, I should probably send them to Edward’s heir.”
“Whyever so?” Portia demanded as she lit a thin Spanish cigar. “The pearls are yours. Edward’s will was quite specific.”
“Yes, but I never wear them. Besides, his cousin has the estate and not enough money to keep it. Perhaps he could sell them. It is a hard thing to inherit an enormous beast of a house and no funds to maintain it. Pity it’s entailed.
He cannot even sell it to recoup his losses.
I imagine the pearls would go quite a long way toward refurbishing Greymoor. ”
The estate was not far; in fact its eastern border was the western property line of Bellmont Abbey.
It had been a nice-enough house when Edward’s father was alive.
But his untimely death, coupled with Edward’s neglect, had wreaked havoc on the property.
Edward’s distant cousin had inherited the old wreck, and though he had a comfortable income, he had nearly bankrupted himself simply trying to keep a roof on it.
It would have been wiser to abandon the old place and buy a nice sturdy new house, but he was stubborn.
Turning the pearls over to him might make quite a difference to his gently impoverished family.
Viewed in that light, letting them moulder in a London vault seemed a rather criminal act.
Portia drew deeply on her cigar, puffing out a perfect ring of blue smoke. I sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of it as she fixed me with an indulgent smile. “God, you are sentimental.”
Mrs. King moved forward then, throwing Portia a look that might almost have been reproachful. “I think it is a truly admirable sentiment, Lady Julia,” she said quietly.
“Yes, well,” I said briskly, “they are only bits of oyster grit after all. I far prefer rubies. Now, I should like to hear more about India. Emma, I had forgotten you were there. Will you oblige us with a story?”
Emma hesitated, but the others gathered around, murmuring encouragement and settling themselves comfortably. She gave me a shy smile, then took a tiny sip of the port Portia had pressed upon her.
“I suppose what I remember most clearly are the gardens, in particular the moonlight garden of the Amber Palace.”
“Oh, how romantic!” breathed Charlotte.
“It was. The garden had been commissioned by a prince as a wedding gift for his bride. You see, this prince was very strict, and followed the customs of his Mohammedan overlord. His wives and concubines lived in seclusion, locked away from the world so long as the sun shone. But once dusk had come, and darkness had fallen over the land, the royal ladies were permitted to stroll in the gardens. Out of his love for his bride, the prince constructed this particular garden to be at its most spectacular by moonlight.”
Her eyes took on a faraway gleam, and I knew that Emma no longer saw the stone walls and tapestries of an English drawing room. She saw only India, with all of its exotic beauties, and she brought us with her by the magic of her words.