Chapter 24 #2
“It happened long ago,” Lance said, wrapping a hand around his wife’s waist and dropping a kiss on her lips.
“If I bore the scars?”
His genial face froze over like a winter pond. “Let’s not discuss it.”
Since the carolers were nowhere to be seen, we settled comfortably around the fire.
“Is Christmas in France the same as here?” Ophelia asked Colette. “Do you drink sweet wine, for example?” She had sipped the wassail and hastily replaced the cup on the silver tray.
“Vin chaud,” Colette answered, nodding. “If you don’t like the sweetness of wassail, you will hate vin chaud. It’s made by boiling wine and honey together.”
“Eons ago, English druids supposedly drank honey, which sounds disgusting,” Ophelia said with a shudder.
“We call that mead,” Colette said. “We, too, had druids in France, Gauls who worshipped in magic groves where—”
At that moment Burnsby and Sophonisba walked in and paused for effect. All of our heads swiveled to the door.
They wore matching garments, the color of blood. Sophonisba wore a headdress adorned not just with a ruby in a gold setting, but four towering ostrich feathers, dyed crimson to match her dress. The infamous ermine cape was fastened to her shoulders and flared behind her.
“What a riveting presentation,” Colette cried. “Have any of you seen the playwright Ben Jonson’s Christmas, His Masque? The daughter of ‘Old Christmas’ is called ‘Minced-Pie.’ Her costume resembled Miss Ainsworth’s.”
“I have not,” Burnsby said in an unfriendly fashion.
Colette lowered her voice. “Just so you know, Ophelia, my plumassier considers a headdress embellished with more than two feathers tasteless. Do your best to avoid comparisons between your head and a rhubarb patch.”
“I will never wear feathers, red or otherwise,” Ophelia said. “Not after living here.”
“Ahem,” Burnsby said loudly. He and Sophonisba burst into song.
A virgin unspotted, the Prophet foretold,
Should bring forth a—
“—Ouch!”
“Savior” was replaced by Burnsby’s “ouch” because Sophonisba had elbowed him in the side.
“Where’s my portrait, diddly-plum?” she screeched. “How did that get there?” She tore her eyes from Hecuba’s image and glared at us . . . at me, in particular.
I gazed back, confident that my face was the very picture of innocence.
“Oh, my goodness!” Ophelia said in a delighted voice. “My mommy’s portrait is hanging above the mantelpiece. It’s a Christmas miracle!”
Burnsby glanced at his daughter, his face granite, eyes narrowed. He must have concluded that she was not to blame, because he turned to me. “What is the meaning of this outrage, Lady Burnsby? What has become of the portrait of Miss Ainsworth that adorned the mantel?”
“I have no idea,” I said with perfect truth.
His eyes flashed from one face to another. When he turned to glare at Crumpsall, I decided to catch his attention again.
“No house can have two mistresses,” I informed him. “My portrait should hang there, but you have unaccountably neglected to commission an image commemorating our blissful union.” I tapped my chin. “I’ll speak to Sir Thomas Lawrence as soon as I return to London. A steal at fifty guineas.”
My husband snorted. “Reynolds is no better than a thief.” While Burnsby spends a great deal of money on clothing (for example, secondhand ermine cloaks), he is wretchedly miserly at heart.
“I could employ a mediocre Italian portraitist at a cost of five guineas, but I must consider your dignity and name,” I retorted.
“You’re displaying your ignorance,” Sophonisba snapped. “Pompeo Batoni is the most sought-after portraitist on the Continent.”
“Really?” Colette remarked. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“You shut your mouth!” Sophonisba said, her eyes remaining focused on me. Her hands clenched into fists. “I can see through you! You think you’re clever, but I despise you!”
“I can live with the disappointment,” I told her.
She didn’t take that well. “To hell with the whole bally lot of you. Especially you.”
(Me, obviously.)
“How very rude, after I allowed you to join us for Christmas dinner,” I retorted. “I considered myself very generous not to have evicted the subject of Batoni’s portrait—yet.”
Sophonisba stilled. “What’s she talking about, bubbly-boo?” she asked, turning to my husband.
I surmised that Burnsby had, characteristically, neglected to inform his mistress that she needed a new abode by the first of February. He didn’t say anything now, either, just glared at me from beneath beetle brows.
“Burnsby?” I prompted, a genial smile on my face.
Crumpsall departed, leaving the doors slightly ajar, presumably so he could listen from the corridor. I, too, would prefer to appreciate this evening’s entertainment from a distance, say, from the back of the theater.
“My papa was right about the vivacity of opéra-ballet dancers,” Colette said, cutting into the silence. “Lance, chéri, what does ‘bally’ signify? Some nuances in Miss Ainsworth’s vocabulary are escaping me.”
“Also, please explicate ‘spotted’ versus ‘unspotted,’” Ophelia put in. “I wouldn’t want to make an indelicate assumption.”
She needed a good deal of practice before she could match Colette’s mischievous use of an innocent expression.
“I suppose you think you’re being funny?” Sophonisba’s plumes waved back and forth—not rhubarb, but a wheat field struck by a summer storm.
“The monarch dreams of execution,” Ophelia remarked, not bothering to lower her voice. “Surely the next line is ‘off with her head!’”
“You have until February the first,” I informed Sophonisba, taking strength from the warmth of Godric’s solid shoulder beside mine.
She stared at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“My husband will explain.”
Burnsby finally spoke. “What happened to the paper pinned to the back of Sophie’s portrait?” His voice was silky smooth.
Villainous.
“What has the first of February to do with anything, and more to the point, where has my beautiful painting gone?” Sophonisba wailed.
“Don’t worry, dearest. I shall recover your likeness and restore it to its accustomed position.” Burnsby escorted his mistress to a chair, and she sat down, the back of her hand covering her eyes.
“She copied that gesture from Alice,” Ophelia whispered to me. “Alice was forever sinking into a chair with one hand in that odd position.”
“Did you mean this paper?” Godric asked, pulling it from his coat. “I have it.”
“So you stole my portrait!” Sophonisba cried. “How dare you? What have you done with it?”
“Godric and I attempted to remove it once before, don’t you remember?” Lance asked. “You’ll find it more challenging to order our punishment, now that we are no longer children.” His voice was so cutting that Sophonisba’s eyes fell.
“Read the paper aloud!” Ophelia cried. “Or we could light the Yule log and toss it on top.”
“I trust you know what you’re doing, Sir Godric,” Burnsby said with an angry titter. “I wouldn’t recommend airing that document in public. You must accept the consequences, should you do so.”
“A wise woman told me that family secrets are better aired,” Godric said, glancing at me.
“I presume you’re attempting to disinherit me by means of an illegal will, Burnsby?” Lance asked with patent indifference. “Godric assures me that you cannot succeed.”
“It is not a will,” Godric said.
Sophonisba dropped her hand from her face. “As my darling Bunny said, you have brought this on yourselves. I would have remained silent, for his sake.”
The smile on her face—directed at me—suggested that she had kept a major weapon in reserve.
“I suppose you will do as your conscience decrees, Sir Godric,” Burnsby said, seating himself beside Sophonisba and planting his cane. “You have always indulged in ungentlemanly bullheadedness.”
He rubbed one arm, wincing, before he reached over and took a silver cup from the tray Crumpsall left behind. “May I offer you a Christmas collation, Sophie? The butler seems unaccountably missing yet again. I shall consider discharging him on the grounds of poor service.”
Sophonisba accepted the cup. “Yes, do sack him. I don’t like his insolent expression, nor the housekeeper’s, either. Sack them both.” Considering that subject closed, she turned back to me. “I would have let you live in peace.”
“Implying that you didn’t do the same for my predecessors?” I retorted. “All the gossip about Burnsby’s three wives didn’t take a homicidal mistress into account, but if you feel up to it, Sir Godric can record your confession.”
Honestly, I don’t know what had gotten into me. I’d never been so insouciant before, and it wasn’t an attractive trait, though Colette buried her face in Lance’s shoulder, trying to suppress a fit of giggles.
Next to me, Godric moved restlessly. I reached out and put a hand on his knee, enjoying the way that my husband’s eyes followed the movement.
“Lady Burnsby!” he said, fury turning his cheeks red. “And you, Sir Godric! I cannot believe my eyes, nor countenance such foul behavior from a man who grew up in my household, under my protection.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Sir Godric hasn’t exhibited foulness, but after exposing young boys to an insalubrious environment, what did you expect? Your so-called protection led to his scarred face. I’m merely following your adulterous lead in spreading my wings.”
“Nothing could excuse your execrable behavior,” he retorted, with the utter conviction that hypocritical men frequently display.
“Didn’t you tell me that you were hoping for a spare to your heir? With luck, I can give you just that.”
“You’re a she-devil.” Burnsby snorted, curling his right hand into a fist—which made him drop his cane. It fell against the table; three full cups of wassail collided with a silvery note, and red wine splashed in all directions.
Godric’s cravat took the brunt of it, turning from pristine to polka-dotted. He took out a handkerchief and wiped wine from his chin.
I patted his chest in a dramatic show of unladylike behavior that made Ophelia choke with laughter. “Alas, Sir Godric, your exquisite coat is soiled! Lord Burnsby, you must offer your deepest apologies.”
Burnsby muttered something that definitely wasn’t an apology, because it referenced my “slutty ways.”
“She’s having you on, buggy-boo,” Sophonisba said. “She’s not bedding Godric. Can you see she’s as virginal as when you married her?”
I smoothed my white satin skirts. “Unspotted I was, and unspotted I remain—for the moment.” I gave my livid husband a significant look. “I have so much to share with the House of Lords.”
“Virginal but never boring,” Godric said in my ear, making my heart soar.
“My ermine!” Sophonisba shrieked, suddenly noticing that it, too, had been stained with wine. She stared at me like an angry chicken, the kind with feathers spouting from the top of its head.
Burnsby made a clucking sound. “Not to worry, dumpling. Years ago, I dropped a glass of burgundy on a white horse, with no lasting ill effects. If need be, we’ll send your cloak to the stables and let the grooms clean it.”
“My beautiful shoes,” Ophelia said mournfully. “I hope silk can be washed.” She extended an emerald-adorned, splattered slipper.
“Where did you get those shoes?” Burnsby demanded.
“I gave them to her,” Colette responded. “I do love a cluster of emeralds, even those fit only for shoes.” She slid her eyes to Sophonisba’s pale ruby. “It’s so hard to find stones worth the price these days.”
Lance leaned closer to his wife and kissed her cheek, saying something quietly.
“My ruby is perfection,” Sophonisba declared. Then she added, with a triumphant air, “As Bunny said, the sheet of paper behind my portrait is not a will.”
She paused until our eyes returned to her.
“Please do go on, Miss Ainsworth,” Colette said. “We are on tenterhooks. I do hope it’s a page torn from a diary. Or perhaps a secret letter.”
I smiled at her, because Colette was as au courant as I am with the latest fashions in fiction.
“Godric holds a page copied from the local parish register, detailing the marriage of Clifford Clifton Burnsby to . . .”
Sophonisba paused for dramatic effect.
“Susanna Brattle.”