Chapter 22
THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER
He gave you such a mastery report For art and exercise in your defense, And for your rapier most especially.
—Hamlet
I returned Grim to his cage in Father’s study, pleased to find the room deserted.
He had likely gone elsewhere to sulk, and he was welcome to it.
I took the chance to sit a moment, deeply occupied with the thoughts that were tumbling through my head like bits of glass in a kaleidoscope.
The difficulty was none of these bits seemed to make any nice, pretty patterns.
There were dozens of snippets of conversation, impressions, facts, theories, all whirling madly, none pausing long enough for me to make sense of them.
This would never do, I told myself severely.
The only way to fit the pieces together was to first make them orderly.
With a brisk step I went to my room, banishing Morag and the dog as I retrieved paper and pen.
I arranged them on the blotter, remembering the maxim one of my governesses had always chanted, “A tidy desk is the reflection of a tidy mind.” Of course, this particular governess had been discharged when Aunt Hermia discovered her dancing naked on the front lawn in celebration of the summer solstice.
Perhaps it was best not to put much confidence in her little philosophies, but I had nothing to lose.
Writing swiftly, I put down everything I could think of pertaining to the murder, the theft of the pearls, and any other curious behaviours I had witnessed—the drugging of Lucy and Emma, the flirtation between Plum and Charlotte, the antipathy Snow held toward the Gypsies, the ghosts—I noted it all.
And written down in a neat and orderly fashion, it was as tremendous a mess as it had been in my head.
I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes, thinking hard.
Nothing made any sense at all; the pieces were too tenuous, the connections between them too vague and shadowy as yet.
I groaned and threw the paper into the fire, deriving a very little satisfaction in watching it burn.
“How Brisbane does this every day I shall never know,” I grumbled.
But if I were to be entirely honest, I must admit I felt more alive, more necessary, than I had in half a year.
My wanderings around Italy had been pleasant beyond description, but pleasant is a very little word.
And I realised, as I sat watching my efforts at deduction smoulder to ash, I wanted a larger life than the one I had led.
I wanted adventure and passion and romance, and all the other things I had scorned.
More than seven hundred years of wild March blood had told at last, I thought with a smile.
I had done a mighty job of suppressing it for the first thirty years of my life, but it simply would not do anymore.
* * *
With a newfound vigour, I left my room and made my way downstairs.
Just as I reached the bottom of the staircase, Hortense appeared, coaxing a moody Violante along.
My sister-in-law was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief and Hortense looked at me over the girl’s head, her eyes warm with sympathy and perhaps a touch of relief.
“Ah, Julia. Just the friendly face we hoped to find. Violante is a trifle upset, and perhaps you can cheer her better than I. I think she grows weary of me,” Hortense said, hugging Violante close to her side and giving her a wink.
Violante hugged her back, watering the silk of her gown with her tears.
I put out my hand. “Come, walk with me, Violante. We will be very naughty and steal cakes from Cook and eat them on the stairs as Portia and I used to do as children.”
Violante pulled a face and put a hand to her stomach. “I do not think the cakes I would like very much.”
“Perhaps not, but you will like being with me. I am far nicer than Lysander and much prettier than Plum.”
She laughed at this and took my hand, giving Hortense a quick kiss in farewell. I was astonished at how quickly they had become intimate, but it ought not to have surprised me. I knew only too well how kind Hortense could be. Compassion was the brightest treasure in her jewel box of virtues.
Violante and I strolled down the corridor, arm in arm.
I felt a little ashamed of myself. The poor child was in a foreign country, with an imperfect grasp of the language, struggling to accommodate herself to her new family, and had endured a murder in her home, as well.
And one could only imagine how the knowledge of her pregnancy had affected her.
Doubtless she was pleased, but she had not had an easy time of it thus far, and I noticed her mouth was drawn down with sadness.
Impulsively I patted her hand, sorry I had not remembered earlier how affectionate she was. She must have missed the easy intimacies of her sisters and cousins in Italy. I brushed the hair back from her brow. “You are a little homesick, I think.”
She nodded. “Si. I miss the sunshine, the flowers, the good foods of Napoli.” I raised my brows and she hurried on. “England is very nice, of course. But it is not my home. There are no dead people at home.”
I blinked at her. “Of course there are dead people in Italy, Violante. Some of them are still lying out in the churches for people to look at. I have seen the guidebooks.” They were gruesome too, those decaying old saints, preserved under glass like so many specimens in a museum of natural history.
I had made a point of visiting as many as possible during my travels.
“They are not in my house,” she corrected, and I had to concede the point. To my understanding, her upbringing had been a conventional one. Her family might be passionately Italian, but at least murder had never broken out at one of their house parties.
“Please believe me when I tell you that they are not usually in this house either. This is a very strange turn of events, my dear, and not at all the welcome we had planned for you,” I said consolingly.
She smiled at me, but doubtfully so. I changed the subject.
“What do you think of Father?”
Her smile deepened. “He is very nice.” Verra nice. “His Italian, it is not so good as my English, but we understand each other.”
“Good,” I told her. “It is good when family understand one another.”
She leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I am making him a waistcoat—it is a surprise, tell no one.”
I blinked at her. “Of course not. What a charming idea. Father will be delighted.”
She smiled, clearly pleased with herself. “It was Lysander’s idea. He thought if I made something for Papa with my own hands, it would show how much I est—est—”
“Esteem?” I suggested.
“Esteem him,” she finished happily. “I want to be the good daughter to him.”
I resisted the little dart of annoyance I felt when she said that. Father had five daughters, he scarcely needed another. But I reminded myself that Violante was a stranger in our country, and that we were her family now.
I patted her hand. “That is a noble idea, Violante. I am sure he will be very pleased.”
She brightened and tucked her handkerchief into her pocket. “I will go and work on it now. Tell me, does he like best the purples or the oranges?”
I tipped my head, considering carefully.
Father’s wardrobe was usually an excellent barometer of his mental state.
When he was feeling melancholy and sulky, he wore his decaying old tweeds and shirts made for him in Savile Row thirty years ago.
When he was in fine fettle, he dressed like a maharajah with just a dash of circus performer, all colour and light.
It had not escaped my attention that he had worn his threadbare tweeds with a pair of disgusting old gaiters since our arrival at the Abbey.
Perhaps a fine new waistcoat would be just the thing to raise his spirits.
“He loves them both, Violante. He loves them both so much you ought to make him a striped waistcoat, orange and purple together. Perhaps with some nice red taffeta for the back,” I told her firmly. “And great buttons all down the front, green ones.”
She beamed at me, and I beamed back at her, baring my teeth in a fond smile. I was quite beginning to like the girl.
Violante and I chatted haltingly for some little while as we paced the length of the ground floor.
She told me about the baby and I pretended to be surprised, and by the time we finished, she seemed much more cheerful than she had been when I found her with Hortense.
At one point she threw her arms around me, kissing me soundly on the cheek.
I patted her shoulder a little awkwardly. “How very sweet you are, Violante. Now, why don’t we go and find Lysander? It is almost time for tea.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “I like tea. It is very nice.” Verra nice.
She looped her arm through mine while we walked like two schoolgirls on holiday, searching for Lysander. The library and music room—his likeliest haunts—were quite empty, but as we quitted the latter I detected a faint roar. I turned to Violante.
“Did you hear that?”
She cocked her head, jetty curls spilling over one shoulder. “The growl? Like the boar?”
“Bear,” I corrected. “Yes, that is precisely what I meant.”
I led the way down the corridor, and as we moved closer I distinctly heard another muffled growl and an unmistakable metallic clang. I groaned.
“What is it?” Violante demanded, her eyes wide as she clutched at my arm.
“A prime display of male conceit is what it is,” I muttered.