Chapter 8 #2
When we reached the other side of the room, Ophelia succumbed to giggles. “We left her behind!” she gasped. “You said ‘we ladies’ and left Sophonisba behind!”
“The world is full of people whom you should leave behind for your own peace of mind,” Colette advised.
With her characteristic bluntness, Ophelia said, “I like you.”
“I like you as well, even more than your magnificent eyebrows,” Colette said. “Your honesty is refreshing.”
She turned to me. “Have you been having a dreadful time? Lance was full of conjecture about why a fourth lady had agreed to marry his father, and after having met Lord Burnsby, I understood Lance’s perplexity. But now, having seen you in person, I am more than perplexed: I am stunned.”
I cleared my throat, trying to think what to say, as Crumpsall offered a tray of champagne.
“Let’s drink to the remarkable good luck of the Burnsby family to have found the three of us,” Colette said.
“They didn’t exactly find me,” Ophelia said, taking a cautious sip. “I’ve been here all along. They just forgot I existed.”
“Now that you are a grown woman, no one will forget you again.” Colette’s husky laugh made her even more alluring.
Mima wandered through the door, wearing the same striped gown as on my arrival, her snowy hair now adorned with a circlet of red silk flowers.
“My goodness,” Colette exclaimed. “Who is that lady? She resembles one of those red-and-white poles that marks a barber’s establishment.”
“That is Aunt Mima,” I replied.
“Oh, yes. I have heard of her, as my husband feels great fondness for her. You must find her a better femme de chambre, Genevieve. The lady has need of assistance.”
“I don’t think Aunt Mima has a maid,” Ophelia reported.
“My father wouldn’t want to waste the money, because she never leaves the abbey.
In case Lance didn’t tell you, Aunt Mima is addled.
She can’t remember much before her twentieth birthday, and most days she doesn’t remember what happened yesterday. She’ll likely greet you as her sister.”
“No, she won’t,” Colette replied, very amused. “I inherited my mother’s skin tone.”
“You are very dark compared to me,” Ophelia agreed, holding out her arm. “My skin resembles the underbelly of a dead fish.”
“Never speak disparagingly of yourself,” Colette advised. “Your beauty will inspire enough insults.”
“We overheard Godric and Lancelot saying awful things about Genevieve as we approached the drawing room,” Ophelia said, “but Sophonisba was the meanest.”
“I shall reprimand Lance in private,” Colette promised.
“Ophelia has already done so, in public,” I put in dryly.
“Sophonisba said Genevieve has a limp and a short nose,” Ophelia said.
“I suspect a good many people delight in sharing unpleasantries about Genevieve’s perfect nose,” Colette said. “People always think that beauty signals that one rose above one’s station. They take savage delight in pointing out the supposed injustice.”
“In truth, my father is of higher status than my husband,” I said sheepishly. “Although less plump in the pocket.”
“Similarly, my father’s rank is higher than Lance’s—even more so if one takes into account the widespread disdain among Frenchmen for the noblesse impériale created by Napoleon.
All the same, aristocratic gossip insists that I married Lance for his title.
” She snapped her fan shut and leveled it at Ophelia.
“Insults provoked by jealousy should always be considered beneath one’s notice. ”
What a delightful notion. I was so tired of being reprimanded for my supposed greediness, no matter how often I pretended that I didn’t care or didn’t hear such comments.
Now I just had to figure out how to ignore those insults.
(Yes, I did catch the obvious parallel to ignoring mistresses. I had Sophonisba to learn to ignore as well.)
“I’ve been in this abbey for hours without seeing any ghosts,” Colette complained. “Lance persuaded me to join him by promising the phantoms marching up and down the ramparts would make up for his dissolute papa. I am a great reader, and I could not resist a haunted abbey.”
“Have you read Les Liaisons Dangereuses?” Ophelia asked. “It’s my favorite novel.”
“Many times. After my mother passed away, my father sent me to an English boarding school. That book did more to teach students French than hours of tutoring.”
“Did you enjoy living in England?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” Colette said. “At first, the other girls were startled by my skin color, but after an heiress from Saint Kitts joined us as a parlor boarder, I ceased to be a novelty. Her weekly pin money was enough to take the whole school to Gunter’s Tea Shop for ices.”
“I should like to go to Gunter’s,” Ophelia said wistfully.
“You shall,” Colette said. “Drink your champagne, darlings. I’m afraid I’ll have to return to my husband’s side.
Dinner still lies ahead of us, and Lance seems to have launched into an inadvisable spat with his father.
His lordship should be left to enjoy his sherry with his disreputable très-coquette. ”
Sure enough, Burnsby had turned purple, and Sophonisba was patting his arm. Lancelot appeared sleekly amused.
“To clear the air,” Colette said cheerfully, “my darling Lance told me when he proposed that not only did he love me madly, but my nationality and the color of my skin made me the perfect revenge against his despicable father.”
“You took him anyway?” Ophelia asked, looking rather astounded.
“You will find, darling, that handsome men are to be found everywhere, but honest ones are few and far between. Moreover, his sense of humor agrees with mine.”
“A character trait I find more and more compelling,” I said.
(Having married a man neither handsome, nor honest, nor humorous.)
“Genevieve, I do understand that you are not responsible for your husband’s attire,” Colette said, “but mon dieu! His costume is such that I considered him a functionary, perhaps the fool in a royal court. The virulent checks, the reticule hanging over his crotch, the feather!”
I hadn’t noticed the furry bag strapped around Burnsby’s hips in such a way as to dangle over his private parts. His bonnet—for it could not be termed a hat—was adorned with a large silver badge, from which jutted a feather, even taller than Sophonisba’s.
“Gentlemen stow addlepated wives in asylums,” Colette said. “Perhaps it’s time to turn the tables. Surely a judge would accept Burnsby’s costume as evidence of lunacy. I would also add that in France women can sue for divorce if a husband brings his paramour into the family home.”
My eyes widened. I doubted it was true in England, but what a lovely idea.
She patted my hand and rose to her feet. “I’ll separate the wild beasts.”
Ophelia and I watched her sail across the room. She detached father and son as neatly as a sheepdog divides a herd, bearing Lancelot away to greet Mima and leaving Burnsby with Sophonisba loitering at his side.
“Watch,” Ophelia exclaimed. “I’ll bet you anything that Aunt Mima greets Colette as her sister.”
Sure enough, Colette threw us a laughing glance over her shoulder and swept Mima into a warm hug.
“Poor Aunt Mima,” Ophelia said. “I always reject her greeting and insist that I’m not her sister, but Colette’s response was kinder, wasn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Godric is looking at you.”
Sure enough, he was over by the fireplace, glowering in our direction like a black storm cloud. I rolled my eyes—even less ladylike than shrugging, though I’m not sure why.
“Let’s go over there,” Ophelia said with sudden energy.
“Let’s not,” I said, finishing my champagne. “I have a great dislike of surly men.”
“It’s my job to protect you from Sophonisba, remember?” Ophelia dragged me to my feet. “She loathes Godric. If we stay here, she might decide to join us.”
I doubted that; ever since I entered the room, Sophonisba had been regarding me with caution. Her opening sally had been a string of babyish endearments, but mine was a costume fit for the royal court.
In conclusion, with the help of diamonds, I currently held the tournament advantage.
Ophelia and I reached Godric’s side just as Crumpsall announced that dinner was ready.
My heart squeezed when my husband escorted Sophonisba Ainsworth from the room without a backward glance.
I had grown used to the public labeling me rapacious and an “old man’s folly.
” I had brought the situation on myself and didn’t have the right to complain.
I didn’t want Burnsby; I didn’t even like him any longer.
Yet to this point, my husband had treated me like a queen—buying the odd piglet and diamond hair piece, for example. Now he walked away, murmuring to another woman, their plumes brushing together. My stomach started burning.
Godric cleared his throat. “May I escort you to dinner, Lady Burnsby?” His eyes were sympathetic again, damn him.
What was the alternative? Set up camp in the cloister? Join Peony in the kitchens? Flag down a passing carriage and beg passage to London?
We hadn’t seen another carriage in the last two hours on the road, or I might have considered the latter.
“I can walk by myself,” I told him, squaring my shoulders.
“Genevieve’s maid says that she is courageous and decisive, and I should model myself on her,” Ophelia told Godric.
I opened my mouth to utter the obvious disclaimer—no marrying elderly men—but Godric surprised me. A smile touching his mouth, he said, “She’s a touch bossy, but I think you could do worse, Ophelia.”
High praise from that source.
I strode from the drawing room, because striding doesn’t imply that I bounded after my husband like an anxious rabbit.
(A bossy rabbit, maybe.)