Chapter 9 #2
The subject made me recall another mystery: The first of Burnsby’s wives died in childbirth and the second died from complications giving birth, but what of the third?
“I’ve been meaning to ask, Lord Burnsby, how did your third wife perish?” I called down the table to my husband. “That would be Alice,” I added, in case he’d forgotten.
(Bloody hell! Did I just say that? Oh well. Champagne had lent me courage. Or peeled away my ladylike exterior.)
My husband had been murmuring to Sophonisba, their feathers mingling again, but his head swung up, his expression one of deep umbrage.
(Umbrage is a lovely word, not used enough. He resembled a bulldog. An elderly bulldog without a chin.)
“I never liked Alice very much,” Mima put in. “Fainting! Always fainting! It was only a matter of time till she cracked like an egg.”
“Did the lady fall from a rampart?” Colette asked.
“No, no, she was terrified of the roof,” Mima replied. “She fainted on the hearth after yet another affront. Not offered by me,” she added.
Burnsby turned a rich burgundy. “You make it sound as if I played a role in her death. That is untrue and unjust. I wasn’t even in the room!”
Mima shrugged. “Would she have fainted had you not forced her to live with your paramour?”
“Alice fainted constantly,” Sophonisba complained. She was clutching my husband’s hand on top of the table; at least he was no longer groping her bottom. “She used it to communicate when words would have done just as well.”
“I am appalled, Lady Burnsby, that you would raise such a distressing subject of conversation,” my husband announced. “You exhibit an utter lack of proper feeling.”
“You must be jesting!” I retorted. “I consider myself quite ladylike not to have raised the many distressing topics that come to mind. What are the topics of conversation suitable to this particular occasion?”
“Ghosts,” Colette said cheerfully. “Had my husband not promised phantoms, I wouldn’t be sitting at this table. In France, the aristocracy is taught that vulgarity is infectious.” Her eyes rested thoughtfully on Sophonisba.
Since my husband seemed about to spit out an impolitic comment, I intervened. “As regards your former wives, Lord Burnsby, I intend to seek out our spectral guests in the library at my earliest opportunity.”
“At least one ghost takes a daily turn about the library,” Ophelia offered. “Everyone in the abbey knows it.”
“She was my sister,” Mima put in, her face woebegone. “She took my baby.”
The table froze until Colette said kindly, “You still have me. Was that Hecuba?”
Mima blinked uncertainly. “Hecuba was Burnsby’s second wife. Perhaps Marigold?”
“Burnsby?” I prompted. “Surely you remember your first wife’s name?”
“Lily,” he said gruffly.
“So many posies in this abbey,” Mima said dreamily. “Me and Peony.”
“I would add my maid, Fleur,” Colette said. “Who is Peony?”
“My piglet,” I answered. “She’s very intelligent.”
Colette called down the table. “Lance, I would like a piglet.”
“You shall have one, darling,” Lancelot replied. “The French countryside is full of piglets who would prefer not be turned into blanquette de porc.”
“Lady Burnsby assured me that every eligible debutante has her own hog,” Godric put in. “Fashionably accoutered with leashes matching their mistresses’ costumes.”
“Luckily, all colors flatter Peony’s complexion.” I giggled because silliness felt good in the midst of marital tragedy.
Colette’s eyes lit up. “I shall have a leash sewn with pearls to match my favorite pelisse.”
Sophonisba appeared to be chewing on my husband’s ear, presumably a gesture of affection. I couldn’t tolerate another bite (ha!) sitting opposite that pair.
“I shall visit the library immediately,” I announced.
“Lady Burnsby!” my husband exclaimed, straightening. “Our guests are still dining.”
“Don’t pretend to care about propriety now, not when I, your wife, am forced to inhabit this house with your mistress,” I said, gesturing with my glass. A wave of champagne flew into the air and doused one of the candles. “To be precise, when all four of your wives are in residence.”
“No, no, dear, there can only be one,” Mima said.
Ever since meeting Sophonisba, I’d been reluctant to look at Burnsby, but now I found I didn’t mind. His mouth—his painted mouth—formed a shocked O. “Lady Burnsby, you have imbibed too much of the grape.”
“Dreadfully unladylike of me,” I said mockingly. “How vulgar. My spouse must be rubbing off on me.”
“I require that you retire to your chamber.”
“Why on earth would I do anything you want me to?” I leaned forward, just to make sure that Burnsby could read my expression, given his poor eyesight.
(In case you’re wondering, I aimed at an expression of murderous rage, like a woman planning to kick her husband off the ramparts.)
“Well, I never!” Sophonisba said with a sniff. “How ill-bred.”
“I would advise you not to go there,” I told her.
Mima began applauding, and Godric and Colette joined in.
“Really?” Burnsby huffed. How ill-bred of him.
“Yes, really,” I retorted.
He cleared his throat. “I am the master of this household—”
I cut him off. “Mastery is granted by respect. I have none for you, even more so since you resemble a bony crow in that kilt. A bony crow with a furry caterpillar draped in front of its privates.”
Ophelia snorted and began laughing helplessly, registering my use of her father’s insulting remarks.
“Is that a jest?” my husband demanded, starting to his feet, which allowed the dinner guests to ogle the furry bag he had strapped around his waist. Even the footmen craned their heads to look.
“Both funny and accurate,” Godric remarked. He was lounging back in his chair, amused rather than solemn, for once.
“Why should I jest?” I asked Burnsby. “You seem to believe that life will continue precisely as it was before you offered me this insult. I never liked your yellow pantaloons, but the kilt is fifty times worse. Your knees should be exhibited to your valet alone—who ought to be sacked for allowing you to wear that caterpillar in the open air.”
“Your opinion is irrelevant,” my husband said.
“Presumably you wouldn’t want your wife to emulate your adultery,” Godric said, his voice suddenly curt.
“That’s a direct hit, as they say in Hamlet,” Mima observed, before Burnsby could overcome his indignation and answer.
I smiled at her. “Will you join me in the library?”
“I’ll join you and the ghosts next time,” Mima promised. “Cook has made one of her marvelous soufflés, and there’s an almond cake as well. Besides, Alice may make an appearance. I didn’t like her.”
“Almond cake and soufflé,” Ophelia said, her eyes glowing. I had a strong suspicion that the nursery fare hadn’t included many sweets.
I stood up. “Would anyone else like to join me in the library?”
Next to me, Godric rose to his feet with a speed that suggested that he, too, was eager to escape the charming dinner party.
“I, for one, would be happy to troll the abbey in search of ghosts,” Colette said. “Lance, do accompany me.”
“Forgive me, Colette, but your husband should remain at the table,” I said to Lancelot.
I let my gaze say what I hadn’t yet voiced: He had shirked his responsibility to his half-sister—understandably, since he lived in France—but that stopped now.
No young girl should be left in company with a canary bird, as my father labeled women of Sophonisba’s ilk.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Lancelot said, sitting back down. “Will ghost hunting take long?”
“Surely not,” I conjectured, setting down my glass. “Hamlet no sooner shows up on the ramparts than Hamlet senior begins airing the family’s shame.” I let my gaze rest on Sophonisba’s bosom. “One could argue that this family’s dirty laundry is already on display.”
My husband scowled at me.
“Another hit,” Godric drawled.
“A hit, a very palpable hit!” I said, smiling at him.
“Quoting Hamlet,” he said, raising his glass. “Brilliant and witty.”
The amused gleam in his eyes made me feel . . . happy. Ridiculous, under the circumstances, but he felt like a port in my marital storm. A decent man who would never betray his wife, once he had one.
“Queen Gertrude couldn’t see or hear the ghost, which gives me hope that I’ll be spared,” Godric said, standing back so that I could precede him to the door.
“After all, if ghosts disclosed themselves to solicitors instead of to grieving and deranged children, revenge would be guided by the law, not by a poisoned rapier. Much less theatrical.”
“You’ve discovered a sense of humor,” I said.
“Like an illness or a ghost, it’s being forced upon me.”
In a day full of shocks, here was another: Godric’s sober eyes could be surprisingly warm.