Chapter 7
Seven
If you are already feeling battered by life and have the opportunity to eavesdrop . . . don’t.
As Ophelia and I traipsed around the cloister to the drawing room, I planned my morning meeting with Miss Wellington.
I wanted Ophelia moved to a room close by so that Tess could train one of the housemaids in the duties of a femme de chambre, but also because I recognized her loneliness.
I’d grown familiar with that particular emotion in the last few months.
We were approaching the open door to the drawing room when we heard Godric say, “He purchased a pretty face. Nothing novel about that.”
I instinctively brought Ophelia to a halt, catching her arm to hold her back. I wanted to hear the rest.
“She’s the kind of woman who follows a husband-hunting script—marry a wealthy man, no matter his age,” Godric continued, his voice cold.
“She must have failed to snag a younger man,” another man said. Perhaps Lancelot? “Likely she had no dowry.”
“Her nose is short, her cheeks are round, and she has a halt in her gait.” Obviously Sophonisba. “My dearest diddle-darling Clifford could have done better.”
Bollocks.
“I suggest you don’t cross swords with the new Lady Burnsby,” Godric said, sounding amused. “There’s a hint of the firebrand about her.”
“Nonsense!” Sophonisba again. “She is boring, without a thought in her head. Bunny tells me that she regularly leaves him yawning.”
Bunny?
Bollocks to that, too. My husband was definitely more boring than me. Ophelia let out a growl, and I put a finger over my lips.
“You think so?” Godric sounded even more entertained. “How would you characterize her? A shy fawn? A quiet cherub?”
“Corpselike,” Sophonisba remarked.
I admit to feeling a chill. She wasn’t right yet. But at the rate Burnsby collected dead wives, I might not be long for this world.
“She’s far livelier than you seem to think,” Godric said. “Offer a conjecture, Lance?”
“Did she weep or faint when she heard the news?” the heir inquired. I took that to be a direct reference to Hecuba’s and Alice’s introductions to Sophonisba.
“She remained composed,” Godric replied. “I don’t think she gives a damn for the old man.”
“Bunny told me that she adores him,” Sophonisba said. “My poor diddly-dums has been bamboozled.”
“I can understand the impulse to marry Burnsby, considering the likelihood of quickly inheriting a widow’s portion,” Lancelot said. “But any woman who would marry a man of such advanced age has neither morals nor character.”
“She’s a mercenary hussy,” Sophonisba declared.
Ho hum.
Not exactly a groundbreaking insult.
“I don’t agree,” Godric said. “Even if she were, blame should be laid at Burnsby’s feet. How do you think King Henry the Eighth managed to marry so many women?”
“Because he killed off the others,” Ophelia hissed.
“Why blame a woman when a man offers to share his fortune and title? By the way, Lady Burnsby may join us at any moment,” Godric cautioned. “We should shift the subject of our discussion to something less damning of her character.”
Too late.
Sophonisba ignored him. “She is nothing more than a strumpet!”
Silence seemed to indicate that her two companions were comparing pots to kettles, which set her back up. “A spendthrift who demands wine at five shillings a bottle!” Sophonisba added shrilly.
“Lance, you’ll be happy to know that Ophelia will join us this evening,” Godric said, brushing aside the cost of excellent port.
“I doubt it,” Sophonisba interjected. “The girl is not fit for a drawing room.”
Ophelia was grinning.
“Just wait until she catches sight of you,” I whispered.
“What an extraordinary thing to say about my sister,” Lancelot said, steel in his voice. “I shall be happy to see Ophelia and Aunt Mima. Though I was disconcerted when Mima described you as her son, Godric.”
“I’ve corrected her to no avail,” Godric said. “She’s been addressing every woman in the abbey as her sister.”
“She never mistakes me for her sister,” Sophonisba said with a sniff.
I loosened my grip on Ophelia’s arm. “Time to join them.”
“Are your feelings terribly hurt?” Her eyes were wide.
“No, not at all.” I’d heard it all before.
“Godric said you were uninteresting, Lance said you were immoral, Sophonisba said loads of mean things, including that you have a short nose and like expensive wine.”
“Miss Ainsworth’s nose might bedeck a Roman coin,” I said, “but I shan’t be so rude as to point it out.”
(Though I just did. Sorry! Oh wait, I’m not sorry.)
“I try to be kind,” I added. “But do remember that port bought for less than seven shillings a bottle is undrinkable. The champagne that Crumpsall will serve tonight cost twelve.”
Perhaps I could train Ophelia not to be a lady, but a woman with sleek eyebrows and expertise in ordering wine.
As we entered the drawing room, I paused in the doorway to allow the assembly to examine my short nose and Ophelia’s fetching attire.
I could see our reflection in the large glass hanging to one side.
I looked my best, since embarrassment had given me an attractive flush.
Ophelia was adorable, if one ignored her scowl.
Godric wore black again. He appeared shocked, frozen in place, staring at us with his brows drawn together. Of course, Ophelia bore no resemblance to the bedraggled girl he had seen a mere hour ago. Tess is a magician.
Sophonisba had changed into a gold evening gown, the bodice miraculously suspended just above her nipples. She glanced at us and turned away, patting her hair in the mirror.
The man who must be Lancelot, Burnsby’s heir, stood beside her, his bride nowhere to be seen.
He was leaner than Godric but equally tall.
His lavender coat embroidered with silver lilies shrieked of Parisian artistry.
My husband would detest it on sight, as he considered an Englishman in “Froggie” garments a betrayal of heritage, just as he believed every foreigner deeply misfortunate to have been born outside the British Isles.
Lancelot had golden curls and had luckily avoided his father’s chin.
(In short, the hero has made his appearance. Check!)
Yet what a sour hero he was, calling my morals into question. Now I registered his dazzled expression with satisfaction.
He hastened across the room and bowed before me. “What a delight to meet you, Lady Burnsby. You would please me greatly if you addressed me as Lance. After all, we are family.”
I gave him a dispassionate smile as I curtsied and didn’t offer my first name.
He turned to his half-sister and bowed again. “Ophelia, when did you grow into such a delightful young lady?”
“About an hour ago,” she replied, bobbing a curtsy. “I am wearing Genevieve’s fine feathers. And lip color.”
“You are already on a Christian name basis with your new stepmother?” He threw me a charmingly plaintive glance.
“Oh, more than that,” Godric drawled, leaving Sophonisba behind as he joined us.
“Despite having met only an hour ago, they’ve been sharing girlish confidences.
Lady Burnsby is single-handedly making up for your sister’s lack of a governess by explaining mankind’s depravities.
” He bowed. “Lady Burnsby, Miss Burnsby.”
When he straightened, Ophelia leaned forward and poked him in the chest. “You stop being so horrid,” she ordered. She scowled at Lancelot. “You as well.”
“Ophelia!” I grabbed her elbow, but there was no stopping her.
“We heard everything you said about Genevieve, and I’m ashamed of both of you.”
Godric just blinked, but Lancelot seemed genuinely regretful. “My deepest apologies, Lady Burnsby. I was an ass, spouting unfair comments when I had never met you.”
“Godric had met Genevieve, and he was still nasty,” Ophelia said. She glowered at him the way a constable glares at a drunk.
I groaned inwardly. “Ophelia, this is neither the time nor the place. People are allowed to have opinions you do not agree with. Sir Godric didn’t intend either of us to overhear his appraisal.”
“He said you were boring, and you’re not!”
“That’s not what I said,” Godric put in.
I ignored him. “You can’t scold people when you don’t agree with their assessments. We were eavesdropping, which is wrong.” I smiled at Godric, and believe me, my smile can be as deadly as Ophelia’s scowl. “Though it can elucidate the speaker’s character and discernment.”
“She’s got you there, Godric,” Lance said in a tone of deep enjoyment.
“Il est mal élevé, faut dire,” Ophelia said.
(I tried to puzzle that out. He is rude, I must say. Or: He is rude, you should say? I wasn’t certain.)
Lance grinned at his half-sister, bursting into fluent French. They began speaking too fast for me to understand.
Godric stood beside me, mute as a stone, while I tried to think of a jest about my “cherubic” nature. Nothing came to mind. The worst thing about knowing that people find you boring is that it makes you more boring.
Naturally, Godric made no effort to converse with me. Ladies are taught to entertain, whereas gentlemen can stand around expressing apathy. Or surly discontent (the brooding, mysterious ones. You know the type).
Lancelot asked Godric a question, and he proved to have an excellent command of French. I couldn’t follow.
Well, bollocks.