Chapter 17 #2
For his part, Brisbane was entirely indifferent.
He too ate three helpings of the lamb, as well as a sizeable portion of roast potatoes and an enormous plate of cherry tarts with almond cream.
Father managed a bit of everything, but he seemed distracted, putting mustard on his peas and salt on his dessert.
He ate it anyway, and I noticed Hortense doing her best to amuse him.
From time to time he smiled wearily at her, and I looked away, not wishing to intrude on their intimacy.
It was apparent to me now that he needed her, and I was pleased to find that I was comfortable with the notion.
I turned to Alessandro then, sorry to find him quiet and withdrawn.
The murder had upset him terribly, and from the hollow look about his eyes, I thought it entirely possible he had not slept at all the previous night.
I did my best to entice him into conversation, but his replies were succinct to the point of backwardness, and after a few minutes I gave up.
Understandably, Sir Cedric and Henry were quiet, eating stolidly, without contribution to the conversation or any apparent pleasure in their food.
I had not yet had a chance to speak with Sir Cedric about Lucy, and he spent most of the luncheon hour shooting me significant glances.
I tried giving him a reassuring nod, but he simply redoubled his efforts.
I ignored them and toyed with my food, too often putting my fork down still laden; the image of Snow’s cold corpse was yet too vivid and too many unanswered questions lingered in my mind.
Portia heroically took on the chore of steering the conversation, butterflying from subject to subject, skillfully avoiding any topics which might be awkward.
I suppose that is how we arrived at the subject of Christmas again, and Charlotte’s role in the stirring up of the puddings.
“So very kind of you to lend a hand,” Portia finished brightly.
I speared a bit of potato and pushed it around the plate.
“My dearest mama always taught me, ‘One must lend a hand wherever one can,’” Charlotte put in earnestly.
I threw Brisbane a hateful look. I still could not quite believe he had taken the trouble to propose marriage to her. She was ridiculous, with her cloying sweetness and her silly platitudes. She could not have held his attention for the duration of a fish course, much less the rest of their lives.
Lysander roused himself then. “Who is expected for Christmas? I am rather surprised we have not seen Benedick and his brood yet.”
Benedick, perhaps the favourite of my brothers, lived on the Home Farm, the other side of the Abbey from Blessingstoke.
He had been conspicuously absent of late.
I missed him, and his delightful wife. My nieces and nephews were another matter altogether.
They were like very good, aged cognac: delicious, but only in very small doses.
“Benedick’s lot are in quarantine,” Portia advised him. “Measles. They look to be recovered by Christmas, but if they come, Olivia and her family will not.”
I blinked at her. It was not like Benedick to be at odds with any of our siblings. Most of us quarrelled with one another from time to time, but Benedick was usually the only one on speaking terms with everybody.
“Olivia’s children infected his with measles,” Portia explained. “Benedick made some remark about the stupidity of taking one’s children visiting when they’ve come out in spots, and she took it rather badly.”
“I see,” I said, poking at a piece of lamb. “What of the rest of them?”
Portia laid down her fork and began to tick them off on her fingers.
“Bellmont is in London for the little season. He has parliamentary duties and cannot get away. Olivia and Benedick we have spoken of. Nerissa is unwell,” she said with a lift of the brows.
I took her meaning instantly. Unlike most of our sisters, Nerissa did not bear children easily.
For every healthy living child, there had been a handful of miscarriages.
She had adopted the habit of taking to her bed during each pregnancy, and if she was breeding again, we would not see her again until the child was christened.
“Lysander, Plum, you, and I are here, Julia,” she said, nodding at me and continuing to tick off her fingers.
“Beatrice is being set upon by all of her husband’s family.
They are descending to Cornwall en masse for the holiday, and there is no chance of her escaping them.
That leaves only Valerius, and he has not yet made up his mind whether to spend Christmas in the bosom of his family or dosing the lower orders in Whitehall. ”
“So many Marches,” Violante murmured.
“Indeed,” Father replied. I did not know if Lysander had informed him yet of Violante’s expectations, but from the kindly way Father was regarding her, I suspected he had.
Father adored grandchildren, and the only thing that made him happier than being covered in them was escaping them and spending an afternoon locked in his study while they overran the Abbey like savages.
At least that was one family matter settled, I thought as I stared irritably at my peas.
I could not imagine why I should feel so twitchy, so bad-tempered.
I could have cheerfully thrown my cutlery at someone’s head, and it was only when the dessert dishes were being cleared that I realised it was because I was frustrated.
Luncheon, a lengthy family affair, had interrupted my burgeoning investigation, and what I wanted most, what I craved, was time alone to puzzle over the pieces I had collected and fit them together.
The coffee was replenished, and I had just made up my mind to excuse myself when Aquinas entered, Morag hard on his heels. Aquinas’ expression was as carefully schooled as ever, but his wiry grey hair was ever so slightly dishevelled, and his cuffs were not shot. Morag looked faintly deranged.
Aquinas made straight for my father, bent to his ear, and whispered. Father listened, then murmured, half to himself, “Good God, not this too.”
He waved a hand. “Tell Lady Julia. Something ought to be done to recover them.” He covered his face with a hand.
Around the table, cups and spoons stilled, conversation halted. Every face swivelled to face Aquinas expectantly. He cleared his throat.
“I regret to inform you,” he began, but Morag interrupted, her bony cheeks hot with indignation.
“Something of great value is missing in this house!” she announced to the assembled company.
She paused, glancing slowly around the table, holding everyone’s gaze in a gesture Sarah Siddons would have envied.
When she had circled the entire table, her eyes flashing, she lifted her chin and proclaimed, “The Grey Pearls have been stolen!”