Midsummer Night (4 page)

Chapter Four

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.

—
Romeo and Juliet
, Prologue, 6

W
e returned to the Abbey far later than we had expected. Olivia, fuming at the delay, took her frustrations out on her own lady’s maid, Potter, the only servant she deemed worthy, by virtue of her length of service and skill with a needle, of touching my wedding gown. She kept poor old Potter on her knees for the better part of an hour adjusting the hem, and then another hour was spent pinning darts and fussing over trims.

Olivia and Portia had wrestled over the design of the gown, and I was horrified to find Olivia had prevailed. Her tastes were entirely dictated by fashion; no frill, no furbelow could be awful enough to earn her refusal if the fashion papers declared it
au courant
. Portia’s inclinations were for beautifully tailored garments whose very simplicity showed her assets to perfection. She had schooled me well, and although I would not scorn the occasional embellishment, I preferred neatness. In light of this, Olivia’s choice was an abomination. The whole of the skirt was cross-hatched with ribbon, a giant posy of taffeta blossoms pinned at each intersection. On top of this appalling confection was an overskirt, edged with ruffles and padded up to ridiculous heights. The bodice did not even bear speaking of, and while Olivia went to find yet another bit of lace for poor old Potter to whip onto the gown, I caught Portia’s gaze in the mirror.

“What did you let her do?” I muttered through gritted teeth.

“
Pas devant la bonne
, Julia,” she said, cutting her eyes quickly to Potter.

“Oh, it doesn’t bother me, Lady B.,” Potter put in with a mouthful of pins. “I pay no mind to what you ladies say.”

“See? Potter doesn’t mind, now tell me quickly before Olivia comes back. What the devil happened? I thought I could at least rely upon you not to dress me up like a cake.”

Portia’s expression was pained. “I wanted something simple. Olivia wanted this monstrosity. We found ourselves at an impasse, so we cut cards for it. Olivia won.”

“And I lost,” I said bitterly. “Couldn’t you at least have persuaded her that white is scarcely suitable for a widowed bride?”

“The queen was married in white,” Portia pointed out. “Olivia was hardly likely to let you do less.”

“That was nearly fifty years ago and she was a virgin,” I reminded her.

Portia shrugged. “If it is good enough for royalty, it is good enough for Olivia.”

From the floor, Potter gave an indelicate snort, and I bit off what I was about to say.Olivia returned then, bearing a wide swath of lace draped over her arm, beaming in triumph. “This is just the finishing touch it needs,” she pronounced.

I opened my mouth to draw the line at a veil—really, a veil for a widowed bride was entirely too much, even for Olivia—but she did not fix it to my hair, as I expected. Instead, she used it to ruche the rear of my dress, creating clouds of lace just atop my sitting place.

“Olivia,” I began firmly, “I really do not think—”

But before I could finish, a shriek rang out from the corridor just as the great bell in the Jubilee Tower—silent since the Dissolution—began to ring.

The four of us looked at each other, horror dawning.

“FIRE!”

We hurried out of the Abbey, at least we hurried as much as humanly possible with Potter amongst us. Portia took her under one arm and I the other, and between us, we managed to propel her to safety. Family, friends and servants poured from every door. Morag came carrying Grim’s cage, while he hurled insults at her for bashing him about. A tidy line of cats—Peter Simple and a heavily pregnant Christopher Sly and their assorted progeny—processed outside with as much dignity as the royal family on parade while the Duke of Aberdour was carried out on Aquinas’ back and poor old Hoots was rolled out in a Bath chair by a footman.

The scene was utter chaos. From the top of the kitchen chimneys, fire and sparks shot straight into the air, a spectacularly menacing display. Soot floated on the light breeze, and the heat from the thing drove us all back into the garden. The cook and kitchen maids emerged from the kitchen covered in flour and feathers, wailing and shrieking. The chambermaids flocked together like a covy, ruffled, but not quite so willing as the kitchen girls to show it. The parlour maids, superior creatures each and all, simply stood at attention, waiting for the fuss to die down while the footmen and all of the gardeners from the outside staff formed a line to haul buckets of water from the nearest carp pond. Father oversaw it all, and moved quickly through the crowd, ordering a head count to make sure everyone had left the Abbey.

“A chambermaid seems to have gone missing,” Aquinas reported in a low voice. “Bess, the new girl,” Father turned to marshal volunteers to go and fetch her, but just then Aunt Hermia gave a sharp cry, clutching at Father’s arm.

“Crab,” she said, her voice breaking on the word. Crab was Father’s mastiff, beloved by all and unfortunately not blessed with as much wit as his good looks might have suggested. In fact, he was entirely stupid, and I realised with a twist in the pit of my stomach that the poor fellow would never have thought to follow a crowd out the door if it meant the roast intended for dinner would be left unguarded.

“He’ll be in the kitchen,” I told Father. His face drained of colour, and it was a measure of his distraction that he was more immediately concerned for his pet than his chambermaid. If I had asked him, I was sure he would have said the maid would be smart enough to shift for herself, but Crab was far too simple to accomplish such a feat.

Without a word, he left off asking for volunteers and turned on his heel, striding straight for the kitchen door.

“Father!” I cried, running after him, but he took no notice. The fire was burning hotter than ever, but he simply stripped off his coat and doused it in the nearest bucket. Holding it over his head, he approached the door, waving an arm to clear some of the thick smoke.

Just then, the smoke parted, only for an instant, and a pair of figures emerged—Bess and the mastiff. The maid was bent double, coughing hard, her frizzy, mouse-coloured hair streaming loose. She had removed her mob cap to pull it down over Crab’s eyes. He must have proved stubborn about walking through the fire, and with her quick thinking she had saved him.

Father gave a cry of jubilation and dropped his sodden coat as he fell to his knees. He pulled the cap free from the dog’s eyes to reveal Crab regarding us all with a faintly quizzical expression.

The buckets came quickly then as the boys made quick work of putting out the fire. Father sat with Crab, letting the fellow lick his face as I moved to the maid. I took her firmly by the hand.

“You are a very brave young woman, Bess,” I told her. Her face was entirely covered in soot and her unkempt hair hung in her eyes, but the face was familiar and I realised she must be related to one of the village families that kept us supplied with maids and grooms. No doubt this country loyalty was at the heart of her courageous actions.

She ducked her head sheepishly. “He is a good dog, and I cannot stand to see an animal hurt.”

“Then you have a good heart,” I replied.

Before she could reply, the head gardener emerged from the kitchen and went straight to Father.

“Just the chimney, that was. Far more smoke than aught else. ’tis put out now, and apart from the stove, there be not much damage.”

The cook stopped her caterwauling and put her hands on her hips.

“What do you mean, ‘apart from the stove?’” she demanded.

The gardener, his face streaked with grime, pushed back his cap. “I mean, the stove is fair wrecked, missus.”

“I have a wedding feast to cook in that stove,” she said darkly. “I have to feed a hundred and fifty people tomorrow, and you mean to say I must do it with no stove?”

“There, there,” Father said, never stirring from Crab’s side. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”

“Well, it’s about to be,” the cook said stoutly. She removed her apron and cap and dropped them to the ground. “I quit.”

Olivia, quivering with rage, stepped sharply in front of her. “You cannot quit. We have a wedding tomorrow.”

“And without a stove and a cook, I wish you the very best of luck,” she returned tartly. “But I have had quite enough of the upsets and calamities of serving this family. ’tis back to Brighton, I am.” She turned on her heel and left.

While Olivia stood staring openmouthed after the departing cook, Portia seized her chance. She snatched up one of the buckets of filthy pond water and, without even pausing to draw breath, dashed it over my gown, soaking me from head to hem. The muddy water ran in rivulets down the white taffeta, forming a puddle at my feet while clusters of slimy lily leaves clung to my gown.

“What the devil—” I began.

“You were on fire,” she said, her expression perfectly bland. Olivia’s jaw had opened further still and she gave a cry of disbelief.

“The gown! It’s
ruined
!” she howled.

Portia turned so that only I could see her face as she gave me a wink. “You are welcome.”

A few minutes later Brisbane appeared. I had taken a seat at the far edge of the kitchen garden, perching myself on a low wall.

“I heard the fire bell,” he explained.

“Kitchen chimney,” I told him. “It is out now, and no one is injured, thank heaven.”

He seated himself next to me. “Thank God for that.” He looked me up and down, his expression thoughtful. “Your gown appears a bit the worse for wear.”

“That was not the fire. That was Portia.”

He tipped his head. “Oh, well. I am certain she had a good reason.”

I plucked at a sodden ruffle. “I think you can see the reason.”

He nodded. “Yes, I was being polite. It is frightful. If you had walked down the aisle in that, I would have left by the vestry door. Wherever did you find such a monstrosity?”

I inclined my head in Olivia’s direction. She was striding with pale-lipped fury amongst the staff, giving orders, which was not at all within her purview, considering it was not her house. But Aunt Hermia seemed a bit undone by the afternoon’s events, and was content to let someone else take the reins. Father was pleased simply to sit and scratch Crab’s ears and feed him bits of cold meat salvaged from the larder. Scores of staff were scurrying to and fro, carrying out the ruined food.

“There goes our wedding cake,” I told Brisbane.

“Pity. I do like a nice fruitcake.”

I turned to him. “Do you think your aunt cursed us?”

His expression was pained. “I do not believe in curses, Julia. Those are faery stories mean to frighten children.”

“I know. Of course I know that. It is just that the calamities do seem to be piling up,” I said, shivering a little as a goose walked over my grave.

Brisbane pinned me with a look. “You said once you would follow me to the ends of the earth in a white petticoat to be my wife, if that is what it took.”

I pursed my lips. “You were not supposed to hear that. You were unconscious.”

“Did you mean it?”

I held that striking black gaze with my own. “You must know I did.”

“That is why I know you will be there tomorrow, whatever calamities may come. As I will be.”

I looked down at the soaked, sooty gown. “I may have to wear a white petticoat, if it comes to it.”

Brisbane gave me a slow smile. “I wish you would. The sooner I can get you into just your petticoat—”

“Ah, Brisbane! Good of you to come, my lad,” Father said, rousing himself from his reverie. “Did you hear, we nearly lost poor old Crab.”

He bore Brisbane off to commune with Crab just as Portia approached. “Come along, dearest. We must get you out of that wet thing before you catch your death of cold. And you ought to know Olivia’s not speaking to me.”

I grinned. “Yes, but you are now my favourite, so it all balances.”

She rolled her eyes heavenward. “I have always been your favourite. Now, come along. I have an idea.”

Portia hauled me into the Abbey where maids were busy opening all of the windows to air the place out. The atmosphere was thick with the smell of smoke, but there was little damage beyond the odd overturned chair or jostled bibelot someone had upset in the initial panic. Only Maurice the bear seemed to have sustained damage.

“Poor old Maurice,” I commented as Portia whisked me past. “Someone’s knocked into him and his seams have split again.”

Portia rolled her eyes. “Tarquin, no doubt. I have told that boy a thousand times he hasn’t any business playing with the taxidermy, but he will not listen.” No doubt Portia was correct. Our nephew was precocious beyond his years and had a penchant for obsessive interests. The previous winter it had been pirates, but he had since moved on to archaeology—digging up the whole of the kitchen garden in his quest for Saxon gold. His most recent interest was taxidermy, and he was not above hacking his way into every trophy in the Abbey when no one was looking.

Portia interrupted my musings on Tarquin. “Forget about the bear and hurry up. If this works, you will look an absolute picture,” she promised.

“Yes, but a picture of
what?
” I muttered.

She did not bother to reply. Once in my room she rang for Porter and there was a good deal of hushed discussion while the sodden remnants of the gown were stripped off and Morag was dispatched to organise a hot bath for me. I was soon whisked off to scrub myself from head to toe, and I luxuriated, soaking myself until my hands were withered. I had a good think in the scented steam, and when I emerged I scribbled a few lines of instructions and dispatched one of the footmen to the village for a project I had been inspired to undertake. By the time I was properly dressed with my hair tidied, it was striking half four and I went in search of tea.

“There isn’t any,” Portia told me flatly. She had sent the maids off upon a variety of mysterious errands, and we were for the moment alone. She poked at a box of sweetmeats on the dressing table.

“Those are Grim’s. If you don’t mind sharing some Turkish delight with a raven, help yourself.”