Chapter 21
Twenty-One
You have no need for this advice, Rosie, but I offer it anyway: Families come in all sizes and shapes. Until now I never understood that the word has little to do with bonds of blood.
Godric’s eyes tightened when I threw off my cloak in the library that evening, revealing an evening gown sewn from midnight blue velvet.
The sleeves were fashionably puffed, but they extended to my elbows, and the bodice covered my breasts.
My only jewelry was a bracelet of woven gold and pearls, with pearl clasps in my hair.
Burnsby had declared the gown not fashionable enough for his wife, so I rarely wore it. He would despise my scarlet lip color and the way curls fell over my shoulders—like a hoyden, he would say, his thin lips twisting.
Fortunately, he was far away, in the dining room with Sophonisba and a great deal of silver plate.
When Godric kissed my hand in greeting, I felt myself bubbling with happiness. If desire is a foreign language, like French, I am learning its accents. Godric likes this gown; I have no need to bare my chest to gain his attention. The unsaid is palpable.
“Miss Wellington has done a magnificent job bedecking the library,” I said, glancing around me.
“The maids have concluded that since Hecuba saved your life, they have nothing to fear. So they helped decorate the chamber for Christmas.”
When everyone was assembled for dinner, I seated myself beside Godric, feeling bold and slightly mad. He leaned close and brushed a lock of hair behind my shoulder, muttering something about fire, though the candelabra was far away.
Colette’s eyes sparkled as she hid her expression behind her fan.
“Godric is not as prickly as he used to be. He just smiled, which is practically a Christmas miracle,” Ophelia observed.
“Ophelia!” I said, shaking out my napkin. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“You’re past embarrassment,” she said blithely.
I should summon up good advice. “Marriage is a sacrament,” I said, trying to sound wise. I sounded as false as Burnsby claiming not to have warned me about Sophonisba due to my maidenhood.
She rolled her eyes. “Colette’s, perhaps, but not yours.”
She was right—and wrong. I made those vows, after all, even if my husband hadn’t meant his.
Yet I no sooner caught sight of Godric than my heart began thumping, skipping beats. I had trouble keeping my tranquil expression locked in place.
Mima drifted into the room and stopped short, seeing me. “Are you a ghost?” she asked. “I mean, are you a ghost, too?”
Ophelia slipped her hand into mine.
“Thankfully not,” I said. “You are not spectral, either, Mima.”
“I never said I was. The wives are, the ones who aren’t you.”
The cook had made us a magnificent dinner: roast goose and roast boar, Yorkshire pudding and mince pies.
“If we were home in Paris, we would dance now,” Colette said, when we were finished eating.
“You’d have to roll me around the room like a barrel of ale,” Ophelia said. “I’ve never seen so much food on one table!”
Colette smiled at her. “One couldn’t expect more than four courses in the wilderness, but in Paris, you’ll enjoy far more.”
Once we were playing commerce, I raised an unpleasant subject. “Tomorrow, we gather in the drawing room to light the Yule log with Burnsby and Sophonisba.”
Ophelia wrinkled her nose. “Must we?” she groaned aloud. “We could steal the Yule log and light it here.”
“I am the lady of the abbey,” I said, a good deal more calmly than I had at that first, drunken dinner.
“Tomorrow, I shall host a ceremonial Yule log lighting in the drawing room, followed by Christmas dinner. As it is Burnsby’s birthday, Miss Wellington has prepared a special cake for the sweets course. ”
“Perhaps Sophonisba won’t join us,” Ophelia suggested. “I know where the keys are kept, in the housekeeper’s study. I could lock her in the abbot’s chamber.”
I shook my head. The final round of the tournament was upon us; I couldn’t win by hiding or sneaking about.
“The abbey is mine,” I said, voicing what I’d been thinking in the last week, “at least until you inherit it, Lance.” I threw him an apologetic glance.
“The way this household has been treated is abominable. Miss Wellington has never been allowed to offer the customary St. Stephen’s Day meal to the staff, grooms, and gardeners.
Expenses for the day after Christmas were to be no more than for a usual meal. ”
“Ophelia, have you ever had Christmas dinner?” Lance asked, his voice dropping a full octave.
She rolled her eyes at his expression. “Miss Wellington always gives me a slice of figgy pudding.”
“I apologize again,” Lance said, reaching over and taking her hand.
“We could celebrate Christmas twice a year,” Colette offered. “We have fifteen birthdays to make up for, Lance. We’ll be throwing parties monthly.”
Lance groaned. “You’ve had no birthday celebrations, either?”
A grin spread across his half-sister’s face. “I’ll gladly accept presents year-round, just as our father sings Christmas hymns regardless of the season.”
Ophelia had had a far more challenging childhood than I, and yet she shone with grace and strength. She remained herself, whereas I built walls—
I pushed the thought away. “I need a favor.”
Colette’s eyes were amused, Lance’s and Ophelia’s interested, Mima’s befuddled. I didn’t glance at Godric, because whenever I’ve looked at him, my mask of serenity deserted me. My feelings were written on my face, and Ophelia had teased me enough for one day.
“Miss Wellington told me that the Yule log has been ceremoniously wrapped in hazel twigs and is ready to be lit,” I explained. “Before that happens, the portrait of Sophonisba Ainsworth, which hangs over the mantelpiece, must be removed.”
“Let’s take it down and burn it on top of the Yule log,” Ophelia suggested.
Godric shook his head. “It’s not so easy.” His voice sounded oddly flat, perhaps due to the hush that came with the snow hissing against the windows and muting the world beyond the abbey walls.
“Why not?” Ophelia demanded. “I can’t imagine anyone thinking it’s a worthwhile piece of art. Alternately, I could stow it in one of the secret passages—or in the attics! No one other than Mima visits them.”
“We could explain its disappearance by claiming that Hecuba’s ghost absconded with it in a fit of rage,” Colette suggested, waving her fingers.
“I was hoping to see it hang in a cow barn,” I said, “but I could accept the attics.”
“The portrait is bolted to the wall,” Lance stated.
“You tried to dispense with it before?” Colette asked, snuggling up next to him. “I am unsurprised. I married you for your excellent taste, among other things.” She tilted her mouth toward his—but Lance didn’t brush a kiss on her lips.
“After Hecuba locked herself in her room and sobbed for two days, the boys tried to cheer her up by removing it,” Mima said suddenly.
She had stared blurrily into space throughout the meal, silent except for a few random sentences. For example, she had informed me that she’d try to find the baby carriage in the attics—despite the fact that Peony was napping to the side of the room in that very pram.
Ever since my rescue, the cook has been giving my piglet special treats to celebrate her miraculous nose; Peony’s stomach was as tight as a drum, and she couldn’t stay awake.
“Burnsby and Sophonisba caught Lance in the act,” Godric said.
Something in his voice made fear curl in my stomach. I took one of his hands under the table and held it fast, my fingers wrapping around his.
“Sophonisba demanded we be punished,” Lance said.
“He beat Lance,” Mima said. “Right there in the drawing room, with a poker. Hecuba refused to leave her room for the whole of the holiday and didn’t learn about it until later.” Her body sagged like a half-full sack of grain, her head drooping to the table.
“A poker?” Horror slammed down my spine. My eyes flew to the scar bisecting Godric’s eyebrow. “You can’t . . . You can’t mean . . . No!”
Colette choked and caught her husband’s cravat, drawing Lance close. “You told me those scars were from a boyhood mishap at Eton!”
Godric gave me a wry smile. “Unfortunately, Lance and I both bear the marks of Burnsby’s parenting.”
“That’s appalling!” I said fiercely. “Why did you ever come back?”
“I am Burnsby’s ward,” he reminded me. “Until Lance and I reached our majority, we had nowhere else to go.”
A tear slid down Colette’s cheek. Lance kissed her mouth before he rose with her in his arms. “At age twelve, my dearest friend, my brother in all but name, managed to wrestle the poker from my father’s hands, which resulted in that rakish scar on his face.
” He walked from the room, still carrying Colette, without another word.
My lips opened, but no sound came out. I imagined two boys—one with somber eyes and black hair, and the other with laughing eyes and golden hair—trying to make Hecuba stop crying.
There my imagination slammed to a halt.
Perhaps I’d invade Burnsby’s room with my poker, rather than waiting for him to accost me again.
“I thought I had an awful childhood,” Ophelia whispered.
Godric grimaced. “He beat us whenever Sophonisba insisted that we needed correction, but that was the only incident involving a poker, and the last time he touched either of us. He knew that he had gone too far.”
“You could have lost an eye!”
“Lance insists that the scar on my face is attractive,” he said, in a voice that did not invite further commentary.
“He should be imprisoned!” I snarled.
“Few boys at Eton are unmarked. Whipping is common.”
“Revolting,” Ophelia said with disgust.
“No wonder most of them grow up to be such bastards,” I said.
She blinked at me. “No lady says that word aloud, do they?”
“Don’t blurt it out in a ballroom.”
“You didn’t like it when I talked about ‘bloody Burnsby.’”