Chapter 23 #3
I snorted and coughed behind my hand to cover it. “Yes, Plum is famous in the family for his balmlike qualities. We have often told him so.”
Charlotte lowered her chin, looking at me from beneath a fringe of dark lashes, her lower lip thrust ever so delicately outward.
“You mock me, my lady. And I cannot even fault you for it. I know my own conduct has been grossly unladylike. My dearest mama would spin in her grave could she but see what a mockery I have made of the womanly virtues she tried so desperately to instill within me.”
I paused and turned to her. “My dear Charlotte, I have very little interest in virtues, particularly those of the womanly variety. Marry Brisbane, do not marry him, it is of no consequence to me. But since you pay me the compliment of your confidence, I will offer you this piece of advice—do not look to my brother to play Galahad to your distressed damsel. He has told a hundred ladies he loved them, and never once did he mean it. Plum is a lovely boy, and I am delighted he is my brother. But do not put your hope in him. He is altogether too fragile a vessel.”
With that I left her gaping after me. I was perfectly aware my words would be of no consequence to her if she really harboured a tendresse for him.
But the chance that a bit of plain speaking might dampen her ardour was not to be missed.
I knew Plum well enough to know when he was merely playing at being a lover.
His romantic imagination had been roused by Charlotte’s plight, and her chocolate-box prettiness had only heightened the effect.
Plum, however, was not the sort of man to be captured for long by a pretty face with a penchant for ruffles and bonbons.
He craved exoticism, mystery, the unknown.
Charlotte was a departure for him simply because he had travelled so long abroad, sating his appetite for dusky signorinas.
He would tire of her as soon as he realised she was uneducated and uninteresting, precisely the sort of bland Englishwoman he had scorned for so long.
I only hoped he realised his mistake before they married and I was made an aunt again.
Morag was out when I reached my bedchamber, but Florence was fully awake, inspecting the room and wreaking destruction. She had savaged a cushion and a book, eaten the better part of a candle, and was trotting about with a slipper clamped firmly between her tiny jaws when I found her.
“You are a vile little monster,” I told her, wrestling the slipper out of her mouth. She growled and retreated to her basket to sulk. I looked at the ruined slipper in my hand, not entirely surprised to find its mate, damp and missing half its embroidery, already tucked in her basket.
“Go on then,” I told her. “Keep them both. But no more or I will give you to the cats for a plaything.”
She turned her back to me and settled down with her new slippers.
I lay on my bed, fully dressed, and read for a while.
At some point I must have slept, for I know I dreamed.
I was moving through the hidden passages of the Abbey, up the winding stair to the lumber rooms. But they were not lumber rooms. They were scriptoria again, as they had been so long ago.
Robed and sandaled monks sat at their small desks, dipping their quills into bottles of ink, frozen with the cold.
They blew clouds of breath at me, breath that smelled of hashish until I fled to the darkened priory vault and down into the stone-strewn passage to the churchyard.
I was running as fast as I could, one hand holding a candle aloft.
By the inexplicable alchemy of dreams, it did not gutter but shone brightly, lighting the way ahead.
And as I ran I heard the echo of my own footsteps, and those of another.
I turned, many times, raising the candle to peer behind me.
But I saw nothing and still I ran, the passageways much longer than I remembered, and narrower, twisting and tightening until I became stuck fast and screamed for help.
I heard a deep metallic sound, like the striking of the sanctuary bell.
Then, horrified, I heard the second set of footsteps approaching and a quick, sharp exhalation of breath as someone blew out my candle.
I woke trembling then, to find my limbs twisted in the bedclothes. I must not have cried out, for Florence still slept peacefully in her basket. I heard the bell strike again, and I realised then it was the signal to dress for dinner. I looked at the clock, surprised to find how long I had slept.
Slowly, I untangled myself from the bedclothes and rose.
I rang for Morag, and for once was glad of her idle chatter as she dressed me.
I wore black again out of respect for Mr. Snow—if Portia’s dog must wear mourning, so must we all, I decided sourly—and left off my jewels, except for the pendant Brisbane had given me.
I had not expected to wear it again, but the dream had left me badly shaken.
It seemed almost a presentiment of something frightening to come, and though I did not stop to think of it then, the little silver coin struck with the head of Medusa had become something of an amulet.
I would admit it to no one, but I believed firmly and unaccountably that so long as I wore it, no harm would befall me.