Chapter 2
True to my expectations, when we joined them in the red saloon, Mrs. Birnam managed to slip in plenty of barbs and complaints about our leaving her and her daughter, Matilda, to their own devices.
Even though it had been less than half an hour, I didn’t attempt to counter her, deciding it would be simpler to allow her to gripe while we waited for the staff to arrive with tea.
True to the room’s name, the saloon’s predominant color was red.
From the silk wallpaper to the upholstery on the furniture to the trim of the drapes, there was no shortage of the vibrant hue.
Even the woodwork was stained to a reddish tint, while gold accents shimmered in the picture frames, the gilt outlines of the medallions on the ceiling and the Baroque ornamentation above the three sets of tall double doors leading out onto the terrace.
The ceilings on this level of the house were all at least fifteen feet high, with the great hall at the center being a full two stories.
Despite the warmth of the day, per Mrs. Birnam’s request, a fire had been lit in the hearth.
Though I noticed she was now seated on a settee ten feet away from it, her woolen shawl discarded.
Matilda, on the other hand, sat with flushed cheeks in a chair near the flames.
While clearly miserable, she seemed determined that someone make use of her mother’s earlier demand.
I strolled toward one of the sets of French doors, which were propped open to allow a breeze to waft inside, saving us all from slowly roasting, as Mrs. Birnam harrumphed.
“I cannot imagine what is keeping Lady Tavistock so long. When my children were young, I would never have allowed them to place such demands on my time, especially not whilst attending a house party. Honestly, I cannot imagine why she even brought them with her. What else are nurses and governesses for?”
“Oh, I asked her to bring them,” I replied artlessly. “To see how much Rory has grown since November, and to meet dear little Sherry.”
“Sherry.” She tsked. “What sort of name is that for a child?”
“His full name is Sherracombe, after his late grandfather,” Alana reminded her, though I doubted Mrs. Birnam was unaware.
“A connection better left unadvertised, if you ask me.”
Anticipating Alana’s terse response, I called over my shoulder to Matilda before she could speak. “Miss Birnam, will you come closer? I should like your opinion on something.”
“Of course,” she said, immediately rising to her feet to join me at the window.
Outside, beyond the terrace, lay the parterre garden setout in a circular design.
It was too regimented for my taste, but I knew my father-in-law favored it.
Since Lord Gage had spent more than twenty years of his life in the Royal Navy, it was not a surprise that he preferred neatness and order to the more chaotic, natural gardens which appealed to me.
In any case, plants and gardening were not my forte.
But Matilda had confessed an interest in such things, and Trevor claimed that the roses she had cultivated at Twizel Hall—Mr. Birnam’s recently acquired estate—were a sight to behold.
“Do you see the flower beds around the outside of the central path of the circle?” I asked in a voice soft enough that I hoped Mrs. Birnam wouldn’t overhear and interject.
Alana—bless her—seemed to infer my intent, for I heard her address the other woman as I continued.
“His lordship is not happy with their current appearance, and I must agree. Though I’m not sure what to advise him. ”
The plants that had been chosen for that patch when the house and gardens were refurbished three years prior, when my father-in-law, Lord Gage, was granted this property as well as his title by the king for services to the Crown, had not thrived.
While most of the beds were bright with color and flush with growth, the vegetation in those beds appeared almost dead.
“Do you have any suggestions?” I asked Matilda.
She bit the corner of her lower lip, giving the matter her serious consideration before answering.
Upon first being introduced to Matilda, I could tell why my brother had taken an initial interest in her.
She was a lovely girl with hazel eyes lively with good humor and a button nose.
Her soft brown hair was remarkably fine, struggling to hold the curls about the temples that were so fashionable, but she had no need of them.
Not when her skin was so creamy and smooth.
I was relieved to see that the red in her cheeks appeared to be fading in the cool draft gently billowing the drapes on either side of us.
“It could be the soil or the type of plants,” she replied. “I believe the ones embedded there thrive in a shady environment rather than full sun. But I would have to examine them more closely to say for sure.”
“Would you do so and then give us the benefit of your guidance?”
Her smile brightened. “I would be happy to.”
“Excellent,” I declared. “That is one less thing for me to worry about.”
Matilda seemed to read more into this statement than intended, for her eyes dimmed. “Is there anything else I can assist you with, my lady?”
“Oh, thank you. But truly, it’s nothing to concern yourself with,” I hastened to assure her. “Though won’t you please call me Kiera. Under the circumstances, it seems rather unnecessary to be so formal.”
“I should like that,” she confessed almost shyly, the crests of her cheeks pinkening again. “And you must call me Matilda.”
“Why are you conversing by the door?” Mrs. Birnam’s strident voice demanded to know. “Matilda, come away from there. You’ll catch a chill.”
“It is plenty warm, Mother,” Matilda answered evenly, though she complied with her request. “We were just admiring the garden and planning to take a stroll through it after tea.”
“Not without your pelisse, you won’t.”
The doors opened then, saving Matilda from needing to make a response, and two footmen strode inside carrying enormous silver trays.
The first was laden with three teapots as well as cups and all the other accoutrements necessary for tea.
The second contained tiered plates piled high with sandwiches, biscuits, and patisseries of every variety.
I directed the footmen to set the trays on the table at the center of the room beneath the crystal chandelier so that we all might serve ourselves, then excused them.
Mrs. Birnam scowled as they bowed and departed, perhaps having expected them to remain to attend us.
However, I knew the staff was already at sixes and sevens preparing for that evening’s dinner, not to mention the extra work required to ready the manor for the eventual arrival of fifty more guests.
I did not require footmen to stand about pouring tea and passing out sandwiches when Bowcott, the butler, could put them to better use elsewhere.
“May I pour for you, Mrs. Birnam?” I offered, hoping to stave off another snide remark.
“That’s not necessary,” she answered as she fluffed the enormous apple green gigot sleeves of her gown, which were currently so en vogue. Frankly, their width over the past three years had grown from simply annoying to beyond absurd. She nodded to her daughter. “Matilda will see to it.”
I was prepared to argue when Lorna wafted into the room like a petal on a breeze. Her long blond hair was plaited into an elegant knot threaded with a gold cord and a pale pink ribbon which matched her dress as well as the shade of her lips.
“Oh, I must have impeccable timing,” she declared with a tinkling laugh as she saw the mountainous spread. “For I must confess, I’m famished.”
“The needs of young children will do that to you,” Alana told her with a knowing smile.
“Impeccable timing, indeed,” Mrs. Birnam drawled with arched eyebrows. “And here, I feared you might have gotten lost.”
I frowned, displeased with her relentless disapproval of my friend, but I took my cues from Lorna, who seemed entirely unruffled as she began selecting food for her plate.
“Well, of course, the children were also being served their tea, so it was no great work of deduction that we would soon be as well.” This effectively squashed any implied notion that Lorna had been anywhere other than where she’d said she was.
“Though, on the subject of impeccable timing, I do believe Alfie’s stomach has proved itself infallible yet again, for I understand the men have just returned to the stables. ”
Alana and I shared an amused glance, having made a similar prediction of the hunting party’s imminent arrival.
“Then I suggest filling our plates before they join us or risk there being nothing left,” my sister jested.
“Mr. Birnam does work up a ferocious appetite whenever he goes off on one of his rides,” Mrs. Birnam commented, her florid features softening in a brief but genuine smile. It offered me my first glimpse of the pretty woman who still lurked beneath her mask of steely propriety and discontentment.
She wasn’t the first matron I’d met who had transformed herself into such a figure.
For some, it was the result of life’s accumulated disappointments, while for others, it seemed to be caused by a particular rigid sense of Protestant religiosity in which anything that one took pleasure or enjoyment in was by default suspicious and should therefore be shunned.
As if joy and happiness were an anathema to Christianity.
Based on some of her comments, I suspected Mrs. Birnam’s motivation was due to the latter, but I was leery of assuming that the first couldn’t also be true.
Many people had silent tragedies and hardships they were loath to speak of that had shaped them irrevocably. I knew this intimately.
“Jemmy, on the other hand, picks at his food like a bird rather than a grown man of four and twenty,” Mrs. Birnam added, her brow furrowed as she spoke of her son.