Chapter 11
“The cake is simply delicious,” Lady Allen declared as she forked another bite.
How Agatha adored her mother!
Because frankly, the Duke of Westfort’s mother was diabolical, and yet her own mama seemed undaunted in her sunny yellow gown, with her blond curls piled atop her head and her eyes sparkling as she ate the sumptuous cake.
It was, however, hard not to admire the duchess.
As a matter of fact, Agatha was fairly certain that her own mother did admire the duchess in some way. She admired the duchess in some way too. How could she not?
Because at present, Agatha was perched beside her mother on a delicate settee embroidered with the most beautiful bright red peonies. The armrests were gilded. The entire room looked as if it had been made of spun sugar. The walls were striped with two shades of pink.
Mirrors hung from every foreseeable surface, reflecting light, bringing in a glorious, cheerful disposition to the otherwise dreary English spring day.
Yes, it was a triumphant, beautiful salon festooned with white stucco and jewels of color in every place she could set her eyes upon, including upon Lady Larkin and her daughter, Lady Hortense.
Had this been the duke’s idea? To invite them together? She rather thought not. No, this had to be his mother. And it was a fascinating choice.
They sat on the delicate, gilded settee opposite herself and her mother.
Yes, the Duchess of Westfort was sitting in a chair at the head of those twin settees in which she was holding court as best as the duchess could. She held an excellently crafted silver teapot in her hand with an ivory handle while, with her other, she balanced a delicate bone china cup.
The china was so thin that one could almost see through it. Lady Larkin did not look amused, but strangely enough, Lady Hortense did.
Her lips, which were not quite as pink as Agatha’s, kept twitching ever so slightly as she sat in her exquisitely tailored day gown that was laced with pink ribbons and embroidered with strawberries.
So, Lady Hortense was either amused, or she had some strange sort of affectation.
Or she was incredibly nervous in the company of her mother.
Agatha would have been incredibly nervous in the company of Lady Larkin too, if Lady Larkin was her mother.
The woman looked perpetually displeased, as if she had not been at ease for years, as if she had either sucked on a lemon or her hair was too tight.
Perhaps her shoes did not fit.
An ill-fitting pair of shoes really was the worst thing in the world.
“I’m so glad you like it,” the Duchess of Westfort said to Agatha’s mother. “Our cook is from Paris and knows how to make the best cakes in the world.”
The boast was quite something, but really she knew her mother wouldn’t be terribly impressed. It was cake, after all.
Agatha had always wondered why people like the Duchess of Westfort needed to collect boasts like that. One could not just have the best cook in England. No, the cook had to be from Paris.
She rather thought it was because the wealthiest, most powerful people had the emptiest of souls because they’d been raised entirely by nannies, governesses, and tutors, seeing parents a few minutes a day or a few months a year.
Really, most of the titled people in England needed a good hug. They’d not get it, of course. And so, cooks from Paris would have to do.
“The pink frosting with the gold edging is particularly fine,” Agatha’s mother said, taking a larger than usual bite and chewing with enthusiasm. For her mother did know how to enjoy things.
Oh, yes, Agatha loved her mother. And she considered herself to be particularly fortunate to have been raised by someone who loved sunlight, and long grass, and her children more than diamonds.
And, of course, Agatha loved the fact that her mother was not allowing the Duchess of Westfort to make her uncomfortable, and so Agatha would not either.
She sipped at her tea and gazed across at Lady Larkin and Lady Hortense, the pairs of women clearly meant to feel like two armies gazing at each other before the fray.
“How wonderful to see you again today. You both look simply marvelous. How sad it was that the weather was not fine enough to take a turn in the park. Perhaps we should take a turn about the room, Lady Hortense and I?”
Lady Hortense brightened and started to inch off the uncomfortable settee, but her mother staid her with the slightest touch.
“No, Lady Hortense is most tired after last night’s ball, and she must preserve herself for another vigorous set of opportunities to dance this evening as we are to go to Viscount Skyburn’s mother’s affair.”
“What an interesting individual that young man is,” Lady Allen said, as if truly fascinated by the man who seemed to move through society like a comet blazing through the sky, rather than a mere mortal.
Lady Larkin was no fool.
The Duchess of Westfort’s face tensed at the mention of Skyburn.
Clearly, though Agatha’s mother had ignored it, Lady Larkin was suggesting that perhaps Hortense might be in the run for another rather important lord.
A viscount, of course, was not a duke, but the Skyburn line was one of the most powerful in the country, and the viscount’s mother had been a European princess.
That was rather hard to ignore.
“Oh yes, we shall be in attendance too, of course,” said the Duchess of Westfort.
“Will you be in attendance Lady Allen?” Lady Larkin asked, likely knowing the answer already but happy to expose it.
“Alas, no, we have not been invited,” her mother said without regret or embarrassment. “It was a miracle we were invited to the Duke of Rivers’ party last night. We really don’t know why we were, as we don’t usually travel in such elevated circles.”
Hortense let out a noise that sounded dangerously close to a snort.
Her mother gave her a quick glance. “She is still recovering from last night. Dancing so many dances, you know. Just the slightest little cold in her throat. I think she got a bit of chilly air on the coach ride home.”
The Duchess of Westfort gave a sympathetic tut as she eschewed her cake and drank her tea. “One must ward off chill, especially since she plays the harp so well. Her fingers mustn’t get cold. Poor thing. Hortense, why don’t you go and play for us now?”
A stunning standing harp was in the corner of the room.
Drat, Agatha thought with a hint of annoyance. This was to be a talent duel. An opportunity to show off, as it were, the skills of the daughters.
There would be no competition.
She could not possibly compete with Lady Hortense Larkin. Her tutors had not been very numerous. Her tutors were the books in the library and the many guests her father had visit over the years.
There were, of course, musicians who she had worked with and dancing masters, but she didn’t really care about that sort of thing.
Except for the poor violin master who had found himself abandoned in the countryside of England after making some very poor choices and was unable to go home to Austria. He’d stayed with them for more than a year whilst he mended his broken spirit and taught them all to play and love Herr Mozart.
Aside from Mozart and the violin, she far preferred the daisies in the field and the cows in the pasture and the horses too, and also the laughing one experienced when falling in the muck in spring weather as one crossed a stream.
But London was a must, as were its refinements, for a young lady to marry.
The Duchess of Westfort looked from Lady Hortense to Agatha and asked, “Do you play anything, my dear?”
Agatha gave a small salute with her teacup. “Oh, I plunk out a tune on the piano quite poorly.”
“Oh, she’s an excellent violinist,” her mother said, apparently unable to stop herself.
“Mama, you don’t need to bring that up. Most people don’t keep violins about anyway.”
The Duchess of Westfort’s brows shot up. “Oh, but I do. We collect all sorts of things, you know. I like to have the best of everything.”
I bet you do, Agatha thought.
And just at that particular moment, the Duke of Westfort, handsome, strong, powerful as a god, and suddenly extremely flummoxed, took in the scene as he strode into the room, “Mama, I’m so glad that you invited…”
His voice died off as he took in the nearing melee.
Well, it wasn’t a pitched battle. Yet.
She thought they were all actually being quite nice to each other, but there was an undercurrent that suggested something could go wrong quite quickly.
“Darling,” the Duchess of Westfort called out. “Come, come. Our guests are here. And Miss Allen was about to play for us.”
“Yes, I can see that, Mama,” he said. “How fortunate we are to have so many fine ladies in one room.”
Agatha’s mother beamed at him. “How fortuitous you met my daughter. We had a simply wonderful time last night. It seems that you did too, perhaps too much of it.”
The Duke of Westfort blushed. He actually blushed because it was impossible to ignore the fact that he had clearly been meant to meet one young lady last night and had been enamored with another one, and now it seemed that his mother was going to try to put them side by side in comparison.
Agatha wasn’t competitive in this way. There was no point, but it appeared that Lady Hortense was going to do what she was told. And her mother clearly supported the Duchess of Westfort’s plan.
“First, Lady Hortense is going to play the harp,” the duchess intoned.
Reluctantly, Lady Hortense stood and headed towards the harp. She sat down on the little cushioned stool behind it, leaned it towards her, and then, as she plucked the strings, she really began to sound like an angel.
The sounds that emanated from it were otherworldly, and Agatha couldn’t help herself. She leaned back and let herself drift away on the beauty of the notes of the harp.
She didn’t look at the Duke of Westfort.
She didn’t look at the Duchess of Westfort.
She didn’t look at anyone.