The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (50 page)

A peculiar turn of phrase, I thought, and I wondered briefly if he thought the same about Lucy.

I smiled. “Well, I will leave you to your acquisition, Sir Cedric. I wish you every happiness with him.”

I gave the horse a final pat and turned in the direction of the ladies and their little tea party on the carpet.

As I moved away I heard Sir Cedric give a sharp exclamation. “He bit me! Here, sir, I shall not want this horse. The damned thing bit me!”

I covered a smile with my hand and hastened my steps. Retrieving his money from Jasper’s pocket would be a frustrating and ultimately futile exercise. Watching him try would have been tempting, but there was other game afoot.

As I neared the ladies, Mrs. King approached me, having abandoned her efforts at conversation with the Gypsy child.

“My lady!” she called. I waited for her, and she hurried, her face a trifle pale.

“Mrs. King, are you quite all right?”

She paused, biting at her lip. “I do not know. My lady, can you tell me if that woman—Magda, I believe her name is—can you tell me if she is quite truthful?”

I shrugged. “She is as truthful as any of her race.”

Mrs. King blinked at me. “I thought you were their champion. I am surprised to hear you speak thusly.”

For some unaccountable reason I felt cross with her, and I did not trouble to hide the edge in my voice. “Mrs. King, I
am no one’s champion. I hope the Roma may be treated with respect and compassion. But those hopes do not prevent me from seeing them as they are. They have been greatly persecuted by our laws for centuries. Duplicity is simply their means of surviving in an unjust world. If I say they lie, I mean it as a statement of fact, and only because they are forced to it, as you or I would be in the same circumstances.”

She shook her head. “I do not mean to quarrel with you about the Roma. But I must know if this woman speaks truly. Does she have the sight?”

I tipped my head to the side and looked at her carefully, from the pale complexion to the tiny lines sketched at the corners of her eyes. I had not noticed them before. “She frightened you, didn’t she? When she told you your fortune.”

Mrs. King dropped her eyes, but not before I saw them fill with tears. “She touched my betrothal ring at first. I thought she was going to give me a fortune like Miss Lucy’s. I expected her to speak of wedding trips and trousseaux. Instead she dropped my hand and stared straight through me. She bored into me with those black eyes. I felt quite faint for a moment, but I heard her distinctly. She warned me about ghosts. She said I was in danger, if I did not leave the Abbey, some terrible fate would befall me.”

I nearly snorted, and to cover the sound, I coughed behind my glove. Mrs. King clapped me heartily on the back.

“Are you quite all right?”

I waved her away. “Perfectly, I assure you.”

Magda, for all her faults, could occasionally perpetrate an act of genius. Doubtless she had heard through the
grapevine of village gossip that Mrs. King was betrothed to Brisbane. And though she liked to utter her Cassandra-like warnings about him to me, she also knew I harboured a
tendresse
for him. Magda and I had had our troubles, but she would always be loyal to me, in her own fashion.

I touched Mrs. King’s arm. “I should not worry if I were you, my dear.”

Mrs. King clutched at me. “She said I should retire early, bolt my door, and not stir until morning,” she whispered.

Gently, I detached her fingers. “Excellent advice. The Abbey is full of odd little staircases and twisty corridors. One might take a nasty tumble in the dark. Far better to stay safely in your room.”

She nodded, clasping her hands together. “I must warn the others though. It would be selfish of me not to do so.”

I raised my hand to pat her again, then thought better of it. “Do whatever you think is best, my dear.”

She thanked me, and I think would have even tried to embrace me, but Brisbane had spotted us together and was moving rapidly in our direction.

“Ah, here is your fiancé now. I am sure he will be only too happy to allay your fears. If you will excuse me,” I murmured, making a hasty retreat.

When I was a safe distance away, I hazarded a glance back over my shoulder. Mrs. King was turned away from me, her face buried in Brisbane’s shoulder. He was staring over her head at me, his expression unfathomable.

Then I remembered the lesson of Lot’s wife, and hurried on my way.

T
he rest of the afternoon idled pleasantly by.

The Roma provided us with a simple tea—just thickly-cut bread with fresh butter—but, sauced with the lovely view and the brisk air, it was utterly delicious. Father managed to avert a disaster by purchasing Mephistopheles from Sir Cedric himself, and Plum completed a rather superb series of sketches from his vantage point on the little outcropping. Mrs. King insisted upon telling the party of her ominous fortune, and though the ladies responded with murmurs of sympathy, the gentlemen jollied her out of her fears by telling the most outrageously silly ghost stories. Father went to great lengths to soothe her worries by insisting the ghosts of Bellmont
Abbey were of the very best sort, and terribly friendly as well.

“That is precisely what I am afraid of,” she pointed out, and the entire group broke into laughter. She laughed as well, and after that seemed much more at her ease.

Alessandro was prevailed upon to tell us tales of Tuscan
strega,
and Mr. Ludlow and Mr. Snow made their contributions as well, relating folktales of their travels to India and China. Then Jasper was persuaded to bring out his guitar and sing a few Gypsy songs. Several of the children had crept quite close to hear the ghost stories, and they sang along with Jasper’s melodies, a high, sweet chorus, not as pure as any in Westminster Abbey, but just as engaging. They were enchanting, and it was not until the sun had sunk completely below the horizon that Father rose to his feet and motioned toward the gathering darkness.

“It will be full dark soon, and I do not like the look of that sky. The temperature is falling as well,” he added, rubbing his hands together briskly. “I think we shall be in for a bit of snow from the look of the cloud just over the Downs.” Naturally the gentlemen had to spend another quarter of an hour debating the weather as the ladies stood shivering, Portia rolling her eyes at me behind Father’s back. In the end, they all agreed that, yes, it was indeed growing colder and darker and we ought to depart at once for the Abbey.

“Thank God for that,” Portia muttered, thrusting a hand into the crook of Alessandro’s arm.

We made our thanks to our hosts and pressed coins
upon the children. As we picked our way to the carriages, Mr. Snow fell into step beside me.

“What think you now, Mr. Snow?” I teased gently. “Do you have a better liking for our travelling friends? Or do you still mean to reform them?”

He smiled and took my elbow in his hand, guiding me over stones in the dusk. “They do seem happy enough, I grant you. But it will be cold tonight, bitterly so, and I cannot help but think of them, shivering in their caravans, huddled together for what meagre warmth they can find.”

I glanced ahead to where Brisbane strode, tall and strong, a far cry from the starveling child he had once been.

“If today teaches you anything, Mr. Snow, let it be this—you must never underestimate them. No race on earth has a greater capacity for survival.”

Mr. Snow sighed theatrically. “It is difficult for a man to admit his errors, my lady, but how can he resist so lovely a teacher?”

This gallant speech was accompanied by a lightly mocking smile. I fixed him with my sternest expression.

“You are outrageous.”

“You are not the first to say so. And since you have seen this leopard in all his spots, let me say further that I am extremely pleased to have been invited to join this happy party, if only because it means I shall be in proximity to the most enchanting lady I have met in a very long time.”

His charm was thick as treacle and just as cloying. He could be a merry companion, but I was in no danger of falling prey to him.

“Tell me, what led you into the church? Did you always have a vocation for the religious life, or were you converted in a brilliant flash of light, a new St. Paul on the Damascene road?”

If he was disappointed his attempt at flirtation had fallen flat, he bore no grudge. He relaxed then, and I decided I liked him better when he was at his ease.

“I was in the army, that last great hope of all second sons. My father was a knight, and a poor one at that. My elder brother inherited a crumbling estate in Surrey and four sisters to keep. I was bought a commission and sent into the world with a pat on the head and one good suit of clothes.” I slid a sidelong glance at the suit he wore now. Well-cut and fashioned of quality tweed. His tastes were beyond the reach of a curate’s meagre compensation, and I wondered idly how he managed.

“And did you like the army?”

“I did, actually. I found I was terribly competent at standing in a row and marching where I was told. I was even rather good at shooting. I did, however, find it quite disturbing when my opposite number in a skirmish decided to shoot back at
me.
”

“I can well imagine,” I murmured.

“I was lightly wounded, not enough to maim me forever, but enough to permit me to leave the army without lifting eyebrows. My brother prevailed upon connections of his to find me a living, and so I entered the church. This is my third parish, and I must say, it is my favourite thus far. I find I am suited to the contemplative life.”

He was smiling again, that small smile that hinted at some greater amusement and invited me to smile with him. He seemed to take nothing too seriously, including himself. We had reached the carriages by then, and he handed me in, leaving his hand in mine a trifle longer than strictly necessary. I watched him as he strode away. He reached his conveyance just as Emma moved to enter the carriage. She stepped back shyly, but he put out a hand, smiling as winsomely as he had at me. She laid her tiny hand in his gloved palm, darting a tremulous glance at him from under her lashes, and I sighed. It was a pity that something as mundane and dull as money should prevent a marriage between otherwise suitable partners.

As we rode back to the Abbey, Brisbane again stared out of the window, and Alessandro was a captive audience to Mrs. King’s prattling, leaving me free to think on Mr. Snow. He was mischievous and gallant, and I would wager there was a fair bit of roguish Irish blood in him. But I knew better than to think his attentions were reserved for me alone. I had observed his flattery toward Portia as well, and it was not difficult to understand him. An impoverished younger son with a sybarite’s tastes, his way in life would be greatly eased by the acquisition of a rich wife. He had scarcely spoken two words to Emma, not out of any inherent unkindness, I decided, but simply because she was poor, and a poor lady could do nothing but weigh him down, like stones in a drowning man’s pocket. No, his charm had been directed solely at the unattached ladies of means—or at least the ladies he
thought
were unattached.
It seemed impossible he could have failed to hear the gossip that followed Portia, and he had even met Jane, although it was possible he had not guessed the precise nature of their relationship. Or perhaps he had and was prepared to be a liberal husband about such matters. After all, the Duke of Devonshire had entertained a similar arrangement between his wife and her best friend, I mused. Of course, the lady in question had shared her bed with the duke as well as his wife, but for all I knew that might have been an attraction to Snow.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Mrs. King said suddenly, smiling winsomely at me.

“Not for a pound,” I replied tartly. “Look there, the Abbey. How lovely it is, blazing with lights! Quite the faery palace.”

We were silent the last few moments of the drive, and matters quickly fell to chaos when we alighted. There was much calling back and forth, noise from the dogs, orders being shouted to the footmen and grooms, and it was some minutes before everyone was sorted.

Just as I was about to step inside, I realised Mrs. King had lingered in the inner ward, hanging back as the carriages were driven away and the gates were rattled into place for the night, locking us in as effectively as any prisoners. The inner ward was deserted except for the small, lone figure in black. She stood perfectly still, staring up at the stone walls of the Abbey and did not stir, not even when I went to her.

“Mrs. King? If you stay out here, you will take a chill, and as I must stay with you out of politeness, I shall take one also, and I would very much rather not.”

For a long moment she did not look at me, but when she did, her expression was one of awe. “I wonder, my lady, I do wonder if you realise how lovely it all is.”

I blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

She sketched a broad gesture with her arm, sweeping from the courtyard cobbles to the great iron bell of the Galilee Tower, encompassing all of it, from moss-slick stones to the crooked little watchtower that looked as if it might well have been laid by a slightly inebriated mason.

“All of this. This place, your family. I wonder if you know how perfectly wonderful it all is.”

I thought on it for a moment. “I don’t suppose I do. It is all I have ever known,” I told her, a trifle apologetically.

She nodded, her lips pursed. “Yes, that makes sense. I don’t imagine Parisians go around marvelling at how wonderful Paris is either.”

“But Paris is not wonderful. It is appallingly filthy. Of course, it is a garden compared to Rome. Now Rome—”

She laid a finger on my arm, tipping her head slightly as a kitten will when it is being especially appealing. “Thank you, my lady. I have never been so warmly welcomed, nor so kindly treated as a guest.”

“Ah, well, we do try. It is a draughty old place really, and with Aunt Hermia gone I cannot entirely vouch for the maids. Aquinas does his best, but he is far too soft with them. And just so as not to catch you unawares, I must warn you that arguments will erupt. It is not a March family party until something is broken,” I said, with an attempt at lightness.

Mrs. King shook her head, her face sweetly serious. “I still think it is wonderful—so natural and unaffected. I really do not think you realise how extraordinary your upbringing has been. To be raised with such liberality, such freedom.”

I was surprised she thought so. Most people were horrified by our upbringing, and Father had received regular letters from clergymen and meddling society mothers detailing how we were being ruined. I felt a rush of genuine, if somewhat tepid, affection for Mrs. King.

“How very kind of you to say. It puts most people off terribly, you know. We are scarcely received in society at all. I love my family dearly, but we hardly know how to
behave
properly.” That was appallingly true. Our manners had changed little from my grandfather’s day, when gambling and drinking to excess were the norm, and duelling and philandering were the sports of kings. I had elderly aunts who still turned quite misty with nostalgia whenever the scandals of the past were raked over again. They complained bitterly that society had all but ended with the Regency, and that the queen was nothing more than a dull German
hausfrau.
They mourned fancy-dress balls that lasted a week, and affairs with lords and their valets alike. Their adventures were the stuff of legend, and few of us managed to equal them. My own murdered husband and burned house were the merest peccadilloes in comparison.

I smiled at Mrs. King. “We cannot even manage a simple dinner without throwing the table of precedence completely out of order. But we mean well enough.”

She hesitated, nibbling at her bottom lip. Then, in a rush, “My lady, I wonder if you might call me Charlotte.”

I hesitated and she hurried on. “No, I am sorry. It is a presumption. Please forgive me.”

I put a hand to her sleeve, giving her a sweetly duplicitous smile. “Of course it is not. You are betrothed to Brisbane, and I like to think I shall always count him a friend. I must think of you likewise. I should be very pleased to call you Charlotte.”

The lovely lips curved into a seraphic smile, and her entire face seemed illuminated with pleasure. “And may I call you familiar as well?” she asked shyly.

“I should be disappointed if you did not,” I told her. I looped my arm through hers. “Now, let us go inside. We haven’t much time until the dressing bell, and I do not mean to be late for dinner. I have it on good authority that Cook has roasted ducks in perry tonight.”

She followed me in, but just as we were about to mount the stairs, I spied Lucy, staggering under the weight of one of the great buckets of heather. I sent Charlotte along and hurried down the nave.

“Dearest, one has footmen for this sort of thing,” I reminded Lucy, taking up one handle of the bucket.

She heaved a sigh of relief and straightened. “Bless you, Julia. I know the footmen are supposed to carry these, but they managed to drop the first one and crush half the heather! It simply will not do,” she said, and for an instant I was reminded of the stubborn child she had once been. She had always been more obviously willful than Emma,
although she was often the one made to give way. Emma had a gift for getting what she desired without ever appearing to want it at all. Lucy, on the other hand, was more forthright in her demands, and was just as often punished for her acquisitiveness.

Still, every bride wants her little pleasures, I reminded myself, and perfect flowers were a small enough thing to ask. We carried them to the chapel, the one part of the great Abbey that had remained completely untouched after the Dissolution. Virtually nothing had changed in the three hundred years since the monks had fled.

Except for the bucket of sodden heather on the floor, I thought sourly. I righted the bucket and began stuffing the crushed blooms into it.

“I shall have one of the footmen fill the bucket and attend to the spilled water. It has done no damage, except to the flowers, poor things.”

Lucy left the altar and spun slowly on her heel, taking in the shadowy chapel. It was chilly in the darkness with only the great iron candelabra on the altar for warmth.

“I’ve never been in this part of the Abbey. It is so cold here. How did they bear it?” she asked, rubbing her arms.