Chapter Twelve
Twelve
If you face an imminent battle, remember this ancient proverb: If the enemy leaves a door open, rush in. (That might be General Wellington? I’m not sure.)
Itook breakfast in my chamber before seeking out Miss Wellington. I wasn’t risking the embarrassment of finding Burnsby and Sophonisba seated together at a small table.
When I ventured into the cloister, I found the sky a heavy gray, with snow coming down in flurries. Luckily, I have a pair of sturdy ankle boots. Tess had reported that grooms had spent most of the night shoveling snow.
By dinnertime yesterday, the abbey felt insidiously evil, as if my misbegotten marriage was a symptom of deeper rot. Today the fresh snow lent me new strength.
I would get through Christmas as best I could, sort out the household and Ophelia’s future, and consider myself free. No more listening to Burnsby’s homilies about vulgarity, no more praise of his garish pantaloons, no more Christmas hymns in June.
I had no intention of ever living with my husband again.
That thought made me smile and try to catch a snowflake on my tongue.
(Ladies never show their tongues. I have no idea why that part of the body is intrinsically improper.)
The kitchen was large, clean, and thankfully warm. Peony trotted over as I tossed off my cloak, her curly tail wagging as she oinked a greeting. I plumped down on the floor and gathered her into my lap, letting her warm, wiggling body heal the lingering ache in my heart.
After I’d been introduced to everyone from the cook to the bootblack, Miss Wellington and I retired to her study, bringing Peony with us.
We spent a few hours reviewing the housekeeping accounts and the menus for the coming week before Christmas, discussing the provisions I’d sent ahead as well as Colette’s trunk of Parisian delicacies.
Miss Wellington readily accepted the news that Burnsby and Sophonisba would dine alone from now on.
“The rest of us will sup in the library, as we are waiting for ghosts,” I told her.
(While avoiding my lascivious, bigoted husband, but I didn’t explicate.)
“Ophelia will join us,” I added, “but at other times, she may ring for a meal from whatever room she chooses to be in.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” the housekeeper said, nodding.
I reached out and squeezed her hand. “Thank you for the plates of food you have left in the library, despite knowing that vermin might have found them.”
Her face wreathed in a huge smile.
“Our next challenge is the freezing colonnade,” I said. “I suggest hooks by every door leading to the cloister. Thick, woolen cloaks may be worn interchangeably by whoever has to run around the walkway.”
Before she could explain my husband’s point of view, I said, “Like our dining arrangements, I will inform Lord Burnsby of this change in policy.”
We turned to Ophelia’s prolonged residence in the nursery. The room to the left of mine was empty, and Miss Wellington promised to have it cleaned before teatime. She had three young maids eligible to serve as Ophelia’s femme de chambre.
She folded her hands on the table, her eyes on mine. “However, I would be remiss not to tell you that Lord Burnsby has refused to assign a maid to serve the young lady.”
I made an unimpressed—extraordinarily vulgar—sound. “Please send the maids to my chamber before luncheon, and Ophelia can chat with each, one by one. While we’re on the subject, has Aunt Mima a personal maid?”
“No, his lordship feels—”
I raised my hand to stop her. “She could join us to meet these young women.”
“Actually, an elderly maid helps Miss Mima secretly, as it were, because Lord Burnsby has been reluctant to pay her a personal maid’s wages.”
“My lady’s maid is paid twenty guineas a year,” I said. “I trust you are being paid twenty-four guineas?” That would put her on a par with Burnsby’s other Scottish housekeeper.
She nodded.
“Excellent. Please inform Mima’s maid of her new status and salary. Speaking of the household, I understand that a footman with a rash should be restored to employment.”
“That would be marvelous,” Miss Wellington exclaimed, beaming again.
“The poor lad is the only support for his aged mother, but Miss Ainsworth decided that he was diseased with smallpox. We had an outbreak when I was a girl, and the disease starts with a rash inside the mouth and throat, not around the chin.”
“He might be allergic to starch,” I suggested.
Miss Wellington blinked. “That would make sense. The rash appeared two weeks ago after Mr. Crumpsall put the household in livery. We had anticipated his lordship would arrive at an earlier date.” She hesitated.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Lady Burnsby, you seem to have a great deal of experience running a household for someone so young and newly married. ”
“My mother died when I was young, and I took over my father’s household. Our staff kindly taught me everything.”
“But surely your father had a housekeeper?”
Sometimes, when a salary could be found.
I smiled and dodged the question. “I came to enjoy it.” I’m proud of the backbone that equipped me to run a household at such a young age.
“If you wouldn’t mind another somewhat impertinent observation,” the housekeeper said, “Miss Mima is not well.”
“She does seem confused.”
“Her memory has never been good, but lately she spends all day wandering the abbey, searching the rooms one by one. No one knows what she hopes to find. The other day we found her in the attics in her nightgown. She might have taken her death of cold.”
(Madwoman in the attic? Check!)
Alas, in life—as opposed to fiction—an eccentric, lonesome woman is more heartbreaking than intriguing.
“Let’s assign the footman with the chin rash to follow Mima wherever she goes, making certain that she wears a cloak outdoors and doesn’t get lost. He needn’t put on a starched cravat for that.”
“A perfect situation, my lady. He is accustomed to elderly women, and he’ll be kind to Miss Mima.”
So far, Miss Wellington and I hadn’t discussed the elephant in the room: to wit, Sophonisba Ainsworth’s assumption of the role of Burnsby’s wife, even when his actual wife was in residence.
I accepted another cup of expertly brewed tea.
“I hope I can rely on your discretion, Miss Wellington. Things in this abbey must change.”
The advice I gave to Rosie about rushing through an open door into battle? Burnsby had left a door open when he married me.
I was Lady Burnsby, and Sophonisba was not.
Like any wife with backbone, I meant to clean house.
“I have decided to ask my husband to establish Miss Ainsworth in a home of her own, even given her thirty-year residence here.”
“It might be forty years,” Miss Wellington offered.
“None of us know for certain because after his first wife died, Lord Burnsby dismissed his entire household and sent the baby, Sir Lancelot, to foster with Sir Godric’s family.
He moved abroad, leaving the abbey empty, and didn’t return home until a few years later.
He brought Miss Ainsworth with him, or so rumor has it. ”
Presumably having lured Sophonisba from her career as an “opera singer.”
“My mother was hired as the abbey housekeeper after Lord Burnsby married a second time,” Miss Wellington continued. “She arrived at the abbey to find Miss Mima and Miss Ainsworth living here. Mr. Crumpsall was already in residence, having been hired when the abbey was reopened.”
She hesitated. “My mother was a good woman, and she didn’t care for the situation. But she was born not far away, and she always said that she’d live with the devil if it meant she could stay in the mountains.”
Just like that, my husband descended from garden-variety villain to devil.
(Check!)
“I hope you don’t mind my saying that this household is lucky that his lordship married you.” Her smile suggested utter faith in my ability to effect the changes we’d discussed.
I was hoping that the French law allowing divorce when a mistress was brought into the family home would be useful.
My husband would be horrified by divorce proceedings; he treasured his reputation more than his estate.
I would gladly visit the House of Lords and describe his mental capacity, albeit after my sister was happily married.
But in the meantime, on to the next problem.
“Ophelia tells me Sir Lancelot plans to venture into the forest to find a Yule log that will burn in the drawing room fireplace on Christmas Day,” I said.
“Yes, Miss Mima has told her stories about the boys finding Yule logs,” Miss Wellington said.
“The lighting of the log will take place in the drawing room,” I said. “Given that Christmas is also Lord Burnsby’s birthday, all guests should dine together. However, I cannot envision a joyful gathering around the fireplace with that monstrous portrait glaring down at me.”
Miss Wellington was startled into a giggle.
“I considered a hospitable wall in the cowshed, but I believe an unfortunate accident would be a better outcome.”
(Petty revenge, but would you blame me?)
Her eyes widened. “What kind of accident?”
“A footman wielding a fireplace poker might trip and rip the canvas, straight down the middle,” I said with relish.
She bit her lip. “Miss Ainsworth would demand the footman be fired.”
Oh, right.
“I understand,” I said. “Please forget that I mentioned it. The less you know, the less you can be blamed for. Please don’t share this conversation, even with Crumpsall.”
She nodded.
Peony was snuffling around my ankles and let out an oink that meant, Please pick me up.
“She is heavier than she was only a week ago,” I said, snuggling the piggy into the crook of my arm in her favorite position. Peony would always be a runt, but her stomach had rounded. I started scratching her under the chin, and she closed her eyes blissfully.
“She’s such a sweet pig, and so clean,” Miss Wellington said. “She’s better than a dog, the way she—”
The door to her study opened without notice, revealing Sophonisba Ainsworth in a morning gown that exposed an acre of bosom.
“Good morning, Miss Wellington,” she said.
The housekeeper rose and curtsied.
I did not.
“Lady Burnsby,” Sophonisba said, after a moment of silence. She bobbed a curtsy.
“Miss Ainsworth. Can either of us help you with something?”
“I always design the birthday menu,” she said, tossing her head so that her plumes danced in the air.
Oh, right.
That.
“We shall have venison and a roast peacock, as is traditional on Christ’s birthday,” I informed her, shaping my vowels to sound as royal as Queen Charlotte.
“Duck and sweetmeats for the second course, followed by salads and savories. Miss Wellington’s menu concludes with gingerbread, Christmas pudding, mince pie, a cheese course, and, finally, ices. ”
“Lord Burnsby doesn’t care for mince pie or plum pudding.” Her tone was markedly condescending. “It is his birthday, his seventieth birthday.”
“The Christ child takes precedence,” I stated, my tone precluding argument.
“Perhaps you and Lord Burnsby might provide some entertainment before the meal? I know that Countess Marmont is eager to see the spectacle that her father once denied her to preserve her innocence—if not a dance, perhaps a song or two?”
Sophonisba stared at me. I squared my shoulders, reminding her silently that I’m neither a fainter nor a weeper, and I won’t be hiding in my room.
“Lord Burnsby and I will select some appropriate hymns.” She stepped close enough that I could smell her sultry perfume, bent down, and tapped my piggy on the nose. Hadn’t she heard that you don’t wake a sleeping baby? Peony’s extravagant eyelashes fluttered open.
“No roast suckling pig on the Christmas menu?” Sophonisba asked. “I understood from Lord Burnsby that this piggy-wiggy may be served up.”
Apparently, her knowledge of Burnsby’s favorite dishes hadn’t been challenge enough. Not only was this piggy-wiggy nestled in a lady’s lap, but Peony was wearing a turquoise velvet leash with silver stitching.
“My pet will never be eaten,” I said, allowing my expression to convey surprise at the lady’s obliviousness.
Sophonisba wrinkled her nose. “Surely a sow doesn’t go nighty-night in your boudoir?”
I’m proud to say that I did not make a vulgar joke about her boudoir in response to this artless question. “When she is fully grown, Peony will move to a barn. She will miss me, but we all know that time changes circumstances.”
(In other words, prepare to be put out to pasture.)
Sophonisba tapped my piglet’s nose again and said casually, “What a shame. Bacon is one of my favorite num-nums.”
The only threats that have ever frightened me relate to my sister’s well-being. Miss Wellington had assured me that the household loved my piglet; they would never allow this woman to pop her into a stewpot. Since Peony was now awake, I set her on the ground.
“Would you be so good as to return my pet to the kitchens, Miss Ainsworth?” I handed her the leash.
If I say so myself, I know how to issue an order. Not a threat, an order.
She blinked down at the pig.
“Or was there some way we could assist you?” I inquired, mimicking Queen Charlotte once again.
Color faded from her cheeks, highlighting the patches of rouge she’d painted on earlier that morning. I might have felt apologetic, but we all have our roles to play, mine being the betrayed and disrespected wife. Threatening to turn Peony into bacon?
Unpardonable.
Without a word, Sophonisba turned and stalked out. I met Miss Wellington’s mirthful eyes. “Please follow closely and make sure that Peony doesn’t end up in the stewpot? And warn the kitchen to keep a close eye,” I added.
“No one will harm that darling baby under my watch,” the housekeeper vowed. “Or you!”
With a jolt I remembered that the household had reason to believe I might be next seen in ghostly form. I had no intention of going to my grave before my eighties. Perhaps my nineties.
After she bustled away, I paused to collect myself. I still had to talk to Mima about her maid, find Ophelia in the nursery, locate the seamstress and set her to work, figure out what to do with the portrait, and speak to my husband.
I had spent half a year vibrating to his moods like a tuning fork, judging whether he would be happier if I remained silent, murmured a platitude, or threw him a compliment.
As Lady Burnsby, I’d been almost as constrained by propriety as I’d been as a debutante.
No longer.