Chapter 10
Ten
Reserve judgment if you meet a sober-eyed gentleman; he may be possessed of a sense of irony. Perhaps even the ability to laugh.
Icouldn’t bear another moment in that dining room,” Colette remarked, as we walked into the chilly open air of the cloister, led by two footmen carrying lamps. “You must have suffered from a bout of insanity when marrying Burnsby, ma chérie.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I muttered.
“It would be like marrying a prune,” Colette said. “A prune in possession of fifty thousand pounds is still a dried plum.”
“The snow has arrived,” Godric said, coming to my rescue by changing the subject. I hadn’t noticed when we first entered the cloister, but now I saw snowflakes dancing through the air in the courtyard. “The abbey will be buried by morning.”
I digested that in silence. There went any hope of commandeering Burnsby’s traveling carriage and heading back down the road to Edinburgh. Or even farther, to London.
The footmen lit the wall lamps in the library and roused both fires to roaring before they left. I almost requested more champagne but decided against it.
(No more drinky-poos for me.)
Colette curled up on one end of a sofa before the fireplace, and I dropped onto the other.
Godric seated himself in an armchair to my right.
He was as elegant as when I met him earlier in the day, his cravat snowy white and perfectly starched, his hair a gentlemanly tumble, his expression inscrutable.
I felt as if the day had aged me a hundred years.
Normally, my hair remains in a prim chignon, but ringlets were bobbing around my face, and curls had fallen down my back.
My neck scarf was hopelessly crumpled. Despite walking around the snowy cloister, I felt flushed and uncomfortable, so I untied it and put the lace to the side.
“What a ravishing gown,” Colette said, leaning forward to inspect the silk lilies. “And your shoulders! Just think of the sensation we’d create if we wore similar robes de soirée.”
“Burnsby sometimes insists that he and I wear matching garments,” I remarked. “If you’ll forgive me, Colette, I shall never again pair my attire with another person.”
Godric frowned, puzzled.
“So that bystanders grasp that we’re married, as opposed to father and daughter,” I explained. “He gets frightfully cross when strangers assume I’m his offspring and furious when complimented on his granddaughter’s beauty.”
“That man will go to his eternal reward soon enough,” Colette said.
That was blunt.
“Just think, he might have asked you to wear a fuzzy caterpillar and a plaid gown!” She shuddered. “Freedom will come along with your widow’s portion, and you can live with us. Perhaps you should move to France right away. It would be easier to keep your dignity.”
“I haven’t any dignity,” I said. “Burnsby’s entire household in the Lowlands, where we’ve lived for months, knew the truth, and I didn’t. I’ve had no dignity for the whole of my marriage. I just didn’t know.”
One side of Godric’s mouth quirked. “You do have dignity. I promise that.”
“I shrieked like a fishwife at my husband before a tableful of guests.” The champagne was wearing off. “I am shocked at myself.”
“But not regretful?” Colette said, eyebrow raised.
I shook my head. “I found it enjoyable. Few opportunities to speak the truth have presented themselves in my life.”
“You should do it more often,” Godric advised.
I eyed him. “Says you, the man who spreads rancor about the courts of law.”
“The men whom I prosecute have no right to insincere courtesy. Neither has your husband, to be frank.”
“Still, that behavior isn’t like me. I’m a ‘quiet cherub,’” I reminded him.
“I meant the comment jocosely.”
“Was ‘cherub’ an insult?” Colette asked.
“I’m a mercenary social climber with a short nose, a limp, no dowry—that is true—I can’t remember the rest.”
“Your nose is perfect,” Colette said consolingly.
“I don’t have a limp, either.”
“Almost every descriptor was wrong,” Godric said. “Though I accurately called you a firebrand.”
“I am boring,” I said, shrugging. Champagne had blunted the sting of that fact.
“Not a bit of it!” Colette exclaimed.
I leaned over to kiss her cheek, loving her insistence. “You haven’t known me long enough,” I told her, a little sadly. “Sir Godric is right to claim that I followed a husband-hunting script. I wouldn’t know how to behave without one.”
“Pooh!” Colette said. “You are utterly wrong, Genevieve.”
Godric’s eyes met mine. “If you won’t believe me, believe the countess. Frenchwomen don’t bother to lie.”
That must make life much easier.
“I wish ghosts or crumpets would make an appearance,” Colette said. “Burnsby put me off my meal by fondling his courtisane, and now I’m hungry.”
She and I glanced around the room, but no phantoms were to be seen, even in shadowy corners.
Godric didn’t turn his head to search for a ghost. His steady gaze made me restless. If I wasn’t so tipsy, I would wind my hair back up, but I wasn’t good at wielding hairpins at the best of times.
“The wives are probably thronging the ramparts instead of the library,” Colette decided. “That’s a classical location, befitting ladies of the nobility.”
“The ramparts are dangerous in a snowstorm,” Godric said. “Lancelot would never allow you to venture out.”
“Why should husbands believe that they have the right to disallow anything?” I asked.
“If Bathsheba’s husband knew she was sunning herself in the nude, he would have tried to stop her, because it resulted in his death,” Godric pointed out.
“Are you equating the biblical Bathsheba with Sophonisba?” I asked, surprised by the digression.
“I don’t remember anything about Bathsheba’s husband,” Colette said.
“King David ordered him to the front lines of war, where he perished, allowing David to marry Bathsheba,” I said.
“This is such an intellectual conversation,” Colette cried. “It’s your influence, Genevieve. I fritter away my time discussing frivolities like bonnets and gloves, whereas this evening we’ve discussed biblical marital advice, not to mention Hamlet.”
“I don’t think theologians would consider a discussion of King David’s homicidal actions markedly intellectual,” Godric said dampeningly.
“I stand corrected,” Colette said, giving him a dimpled smile. “Then let’s talk about you.”
“There’s nothing to know.”
“I understand that you are unmarried, but are you betrothed?”
“No.”
“I promised Sir Godric that I would find him a wife,” I put in. It wouldn’t be hard; I was certain any number of women would like to marry him. The villain in this story was not Godric, but Burnsby.
That left two heroes, Lancelot and Godric, both in possession of titles and appropriately heroic jaws (the firelight did marvelous things for Godric’s rough-hewn male beauty). Both honorable, unlike my husband.
I couldn’t interpret Godric’s expression as his eyes lingered on my face. It made me feel prickly and self-conscious.
“Perhaps we should ring for tea,” I said.
“And toast. I’m starving,” Colette said, jumping up and heading for the bell, which hung beside the door.
“What sort of woman would you like to marry?” I asked Godric. “I have any number of acquaintances I might introduce you to at musicales and balls.”
“The life of a barrister to the Crown hasn’t allowed for such diversions. Have you missed balls in the months since you married?”
“Not particularly, but I do miss the theater. So, the qualities of your would-be wife?”
“I should like a wife who had a sense of humor, an understanding of irony, curly hair, an educated mind, and a strong imagination.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “You would like my sister as much as she would like you, despite your lack of golden hair. She will be debuting next year.”
“Too young for me.”
“I shall think about suitable ladies.”
“Would it be easier if I asked for a brunette with the voice of a lark?” he asked.
“Miss Melton,” I said instantly. “She has lovely dark hair; she knows reams of poetry by heart; and if she’s not precisely a lark, she is surely a linnet.”
His eyes were laughing now. “No, no, I want a lark or nightingale. A linnet is far too commonplace.”
“I suppose a barrister to the Crown has the right to demand musical perfection,” I said.
“Can you sing?”
“Are you discussing possible spouses for Godric?” Colette called from behind my back. “I have friends who—”
Her voice broke off. I turned my head to see her eyes widening before she clasped her hands over her bosom and let out a piercing shriek.
I leaped to my feet. “What did you see?” I cried, fear exploding in my body as I turned in the direction of the shadowy rows of books.