The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (51 page)

“I suppose they were accustomed to it. None of the Abbey was heated, you know. The monks used to complain that the ink in the scriptoria froze when they were trying to copy manuscripts.”

Suddenly, her eye alighted on something, an iron ring fixed to the wall. The iron plate behind it was wrought in the shape of a mask, like some gruesome relic of Carne
vale. It looked like a throwback to pagan times, like some wicked creature out of myth, its hair wrought into the rays of a burning sun, the empty holes for its eyes staring in sightless menace.

“What is that?” she demanded, moving closer to it in the flickering shadows.

“A sanctuary ring. This was the Galilee when the Abbey was still a church, a sort of vestibule where the faithful would gather before the mass. We are just below the bell tower here. It was consecrated ground, and the ring was put there for the use of felons who might claim sanctuary from the law. The bell rang out whenever the right of sanctuary was invoked.”

She touched it lightly, then turned to me. “What became of them? They stayed here? Forever?”

I thrust the last sprig of heather into the bucket, snapping it in two as I did so. Lucy did not seem to notice. Hastily I shoved it behind the others.

“No. A felon being pursued by the law could, if he reached that ring, claim sanctuary for forty days. At the end of that time, he had to turn himself over to the authorities for trial or confess his guilt and be sent into exile.”

Lucy turned back to the ring. “Astonishing. And people actually did that here?”

“Naturally,” I said. “Murderers, thieves, heretics, they all came here and clung to that ring, invoking the right of sanctuary.” Lucy showed no inclination to leave, but from far away I heard the familiar chime of the dressing bell. I moved toward the great oaken doors leading to the nave. “If you are really interested, you must ask Father. There is
a book somewhere in the library. It lists the criminals, with all the ghoulish details. You would enjoy it thoroughly,” I finished in a brisk, nursemaidy tone. “Now if you will excuse me, I must dress for dinner.”

“Oh, Lord! That was the dressing bell, was it not? I must fly!”

She gathered her skirts in her hands and dashed out, hurtling down the nave. I followed, feeling a hundred years old and wishing Sir Cedric the very best good luck. I had a suspicion he was going to need it.

Once in my room, I had very little time to dress, and everything seemed to conspire against me. Florence was sitting up on a hearth cushion, yapping at nothing in particular while Morag bustled about, dragging things from the wardrobe and shoving them back again.

“No, not the black. The décolletage is too severe without a sizeable necklace, and I’ve nothing that will do. Fetch the bottle-green velvet. That will serve.”

Morag heaved a sigh. “I have only just sponged it.”

I dared another look at the mantel clock, then began shoving pins into my hair myself. “The dark pink satin then.”

She folded her arms over her chest, puckering her lips. “I have not yet finished whipping the hem.”

“Whyever not, for heaven’s sake?” I jammed another pin into place.

“Perhaps because I spent the better part of the day playing dressmaker to that wee beastie,” she countered, pointing at Florence. The dog, sensing we were talking
about her, fell silent and cocked her head. She put me greatly in mind of Charlotte King just then.

“Then the black will have to do.”

Morag shot me a darkly triumphant look and spread the heavy black satin onto the bed, smoothing it with a proprietary hand. When she was finished, she pointed to a box on the dressing table that, in my haste, I had not seen.

“Mind you don’t forget to open that. Mr. Aquinas was very specific. He brought it up after breakfast and said to be certain you opened it before you went down to dinner.”

I tucked the last pin into place and took up the parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper and secured with a bit of ordinary tape such as solicitors use. There was a small piece of card tied to it, penned with two words in my Father’s hand:
Wear me.

“What the devil is he up to now?” I muttered. Father adored little japes of any sort, but I was in no mood to play Alice. I wrenched the wrappings free and found a box—a familiar box of dove-grey velvet.

“It cannot be,” I said softly. I stared at it a long moment.

Morag came to peer over my shoulder. “Well, it is. When did you see them last?”

I did not open the box. “Before Edward’s death. They were still in the bank vault when he died, and I did not wear them during my period of mourning. I had half-forgot they were there.”

Still I made no move to open it. Morag finally gave me a little push, and I flicked open the clasp. Another moment’s hesitation, and I opened the lid.

There, nestled against a bed of black satin, was the most perfect collection of grey pearls in England. Even the queen had nothing to touch them. They had been assembled at great effort and expense, by Edward’s forebears. Known as the Grey Pearls, they were a sort of gemological pun. They had been given to each Grey bride on her wedding day. My own mother-in-law had bitterly resented giving them up, and it had taken every bit of Edward’s considerable powers of persuasion to convince her to part with them. I had worn them that day, but I had never liked them. I always associated them with Edward’s sour mother. Much later someone mentioned to me in passing that for every pearl a bride wears she shall shed one tear. They had been only too prophetic in my case.

But even I was forced to admit they were magnificent. I stared down into the box where they nestled like pale sleeping serpents. There was a great collar, earrings, and matching bracelets. The collar was fastened with a heavy silver filigree clasp, worked with an Imperial eagle, the red eyes of its double profiles a pair of winking rubies. The bracelets had been copied from the collar; the earrings were simpler. There was a final piece as well, an enormous rope of pearls that, when hung straight from the neck, reached to the knees. Every pearl in the set was enormous, and perfectly matched to its brothers.

I turned over Father’s note, but there was nothing else. He had gone to some trouble to remove these from the vault in London—not in accordance with proper bank policy, but then there were advantages to being an earl—
and by the time I had puzzled out his motives, dinner would be a distant memory.

“Fine. I will wear them. They will suit the black in any case,” I said finally, thrusting the box at Morag. She clipped and fastened and looped until I was weighed down like a Michaelmas goose.

Just as she clasped the last piece into place, I gasped. “You’ve scratched me.”

She peered at the collar. “Not I. One of the eagle’s heads is bent. His beak has nipped you, it has.”

She reached to meddle with it, but I waved her away. “I’ve no time to bother with it now. I will wear them tonight, and then send them to the jeweler to be mended.”

Morag fetched my slippers then, dainty things of thinnest black kid, overlaid with exquisite Spanish lace and perched on black velvet heels. I had paid a fortune for them, and was giving serious thought to having all of my evening gowns shortened by an inch to show them off to best advantage. I wriggled my feet into them and tucked a handkerchief and small box of violet cachous into the tiny pocket sewn into the seam of my gown. Morag reached for a small fur tippet, and as she scooped up the bit of fur, Florence began to howl.

Morag had the grace to look abashed. “She thinks it is her friend. They’ve spent the afternoon together, and Florence has grown rather attached.”

I took the fur from her and dropped it in the basket. “Then she may keep it. It smells of dog now, in any case.”

Morag snorted indignantly. “It does not. That dog is as clean as you or I.”

I had little doubt the animal was as clean as Morag, but I knew it was more than my life was worth to say so.

Florence grabbed at the tippet with her tiny teeth and dragged it farther into her basket, growling happily.

Morag leaned over and clucked at her.
“Haud yer sheesht, wee a body.”

I stared at her. “Have you gone completely daft? You cannot teach that dog Scots.”

She rounded on me, hands firmly at her hips. “I certainly can. You are teaching her English, and Scots is just as good a language.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but she held up a hand. “You will be late for dinner, and I’ve had a long day. I am in no humour to be hauling trays up at midnight because you’ve not had enough to eat. Off with you.”

I took my leave, grumbling under my breath. Between my family, my maid, and my pets, my life was clearly no longer my own.

D
inner was a spirited and lively affair. Conversation and wine flowed in equal abundance, and everyone seemed in high spirits with only a few exceptions. Violante sat next to Father, nibbling at pickled chestnuts and bestirring herself only to reply to questions. She kept her hand firmly at her belly, and I began to wonder if there was not perhaps a happy event in her future.

Hortense had survived her day with Violante and Aunt Dorcas and was seated at Father’s other hand, coolly elegant in ice-blue satin trimmed in silver ribbon. She looked like a pale snow queen, rimed in frost, a few tasteful diamonds winking out from her hair. Emma and Lucy were dressed in the same gowns they had worn the previous evening,
as was Charlotte, although she had added a scrap of purple lace to the bodice, a perfect foil for her roses-and-cream complexion. Portia was resplendent in jade green, her wrists heavy with carved jade bracelets purchased from the hold of a Chinese merchant ship. My jewels were by far the most extravagant, and as the soup course was served I began to feel a little embarrassed by them. Father had shown no flicker of recognition when I entered the room, and if he had heard the exclamations of delight by the ladies, he betrayed no sign of it. For his part, Brisbane flicked one glance at the spectacular jewels draped over my skin and turned back to his whiskey.

We talked of many things that night at dinner: our venture to the Gypsy camp (which caused Aunt Dorcas to shudder into her consommé muttering about vibrations) and the Irish question (a subject Father changed as quickly as possible) among them. Alessandro was prevailed upon to answer questions about Italy, and from there the conversation turned to travel.

Sir Cedric had chanced to mention his excursions in Kashmir, enthusing about the natural beauties of the place.

“In fact, I am of a mind to take Lucy there after Italy,” he finished. “Italy is all well and good, but it takes a half-savage place like India to know you are truly alive.”

Mr. Snow gave a little grimace of distaste. “If by ‘alive’ you mean tortured by insects, heat, filth, and disease, then I will grant you are correct, sir. Not to mention the difficulties between the races. My posting to India was the most trying of all my time in the army. No, I am afraid I must
dispute with you. It is a place where the hardiest man may be well and truly tested. It is no place for the gentler sex.”

“On the contrary,” Lucy put in brightly, “Emma was there some years ago, and she found it most enchanting.”

Portia and I exchanged quick glances. Emma’s foray to India with Aunt Gertrude to find a husband had not been a success, and it was less than discreet of Lucy to mention it. Poor Emma had returned from India after a single season, as unattached as the day she arrived there, and it was this failure to find a husband that had forced her into service as a governess.

Brisbane turned to Emma. I could not see his expression, but his tone was one of sincere interest. “Most ladies find it a challenge. Did you not mind the climate? The language difficulties?”

“Oh, no, my lord,” she said quietly, her expression earnest. “I found it paradise. The climate was quite exhilarating, and the native people, so warm, so friendly and artless. I would go again tomorrow if I were able.” There was a wistfulness about her I found oddly touching, and I felt suddenly sorry for her, constrained by her station and her lack of income to suffer the whims of others. She could travel only by invitation, on the largesse of another.

As if cued, Lucy cried out dramatically, “Then you must come with us!” She was sitting across from her sister, and she looked from Emma to Sir Cedric, imploringly. He hesitated for the barest moment, and before he could speak Emma did so.

“No, Lucy,” she said gently. “I am sure Sir Cedric wishes
to make his wedding trip without accompaniment. There will be other travels. Perhaps in a few years, when there are children who might benefit from a little supervision from their Aunt Emma,” she finished with a smile. Sir Cedric threw her a look of pure gratitude, and Lucy blushed deeply at the mention of children. Snow was watching Emma with a warm gleam in his eyes, and I wondered again if something might be done to nudge them toward a match.

Conversation turned again, this time at Portia’s behest, and a spirited debate broke out on the subject of trout, for reasons I never clearly understood. I was too busy watching Father, who had been noticeably quiet that evening. His eyes darted over the company ranged at his table. He was keenly watchful, as though he expected something to happen, but what, and by whose hand, I could not imagine.

After dessert the ladies adjourned briefly to the lesser drawing room. I was not surprised my pearls drew their attention as flame will draw moths. They gathered round for a better look—even Portia, who had seen them often enough. Only Mrs. King hung back, her expression pensive.

Violante pronounced them
molto bellissimo,
though Aunt Dorcas merely rolled them in her palm, dropped them with a decided sniff and took her chair by the fire. I glanced at Hortense, who had suffered Aunt Dorcas for the better part of the day. She was concentrating intently on her needlework, but her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. Lucy was the most appreciative. She ran her fingers over the pearls at my wrists, sighing softly.

“Cedric has promised me pearls for a wedding gift, but
I cannot think they will be as fine as these,” she remarked. Lucy was nothing if not practical. “How long have they been in the Grey family?”

I shrugged. “Ages. The clasp is a double-headed Romanov eagle, perhaps a sign they were fashioned for Russian royalty. The Greys always liked to claim they belonged to Catherine the Great herself.” I furrowed my brow. “Now that I think on it, I should probably send them to Edward’s heir.”

“Whyever so?” Portia demanded as she lit a thin Spanish cigar. “The pearls are yours. Edward’s will was quite specific.”

“Yes, but I never wear them. Besides, his cousin has the estate and not enough money to keep it. Perhaps he could sell them. It is a hard thing to inherit an enormous beast of a house and no funds to maintain it. Pity it’s entailed. He cannot even sell it to recoup his losses. I imagine the pearls would go quite a long way toward refurbishing Greymoor.”

The estate was not far; in fact its eastern border was the western property line of Bellmont Abbey. It had been a nice-enough house when Edward’s father was alive. But his untimely death, coupled with Edward’s neglect, had wreaked havoc on the property. Edward’s distant cousin had inherited the old wreck, and though he had a comfortable income, he had nearly bankrupted himself simply trying to keep a roof on it. It would have been wiser to abandon the old place and buy a nice sturdy new house, but he was stubborn. Turning the pearls over to him might make quite a difference to his gently impoverished family. Viewed in that light, letting them moulder in a London vault seemed a rather criminal act.

Portia drew deeply on her cigar, puffing out a perfect
ring of blue smoke. I sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of it as she fixed me with an indulgent smile. “God, you are sentimental.”

Mrs. King moved forward then, throwing Portia a look that might almost have been reproachful. “I think it is a truly admirable sentiment, Lady Julia,” she said quietly.

“Yes, well,” I said briskly, “they are only bits of oyster grit after all. I far prefer rubies. Now, I should like to hear more about India. Emma, I had forgotten you were there. Will you oblige us with a story?”

Emma hesitated, but the others gathered around, murmuring encouragement and settling themselves comfortably. She gave me a shy smile, then took a tiny sip of the port Portia had pressed upon her.

“I suppose what I remember most clearly are the gardens, in particular the moonlight garden of the Amber Palace.”

“Oh, how romantic!” breathed Charlotte.

“It was. The garden had been commissioned by a prince as a wedding gift for his bride. You see, this prince was very strict, and followed the customs of his Mohammedan overlord. His wives and concubines lived in seclusion, locked away from the world so long as the sun shone. But once dusk had come, and darkness had fallen over the land, the royal ladies were permitted to stroll in the gardens. Out of his love for his bride, the prince constructed this particular garden to be at its most spectacular by moonlight.”

Her eyes took on a faraway gleam, and I knew that Emma no longer saw the stone walls and tapestries of an
English drawing room. She saw only India, with all of its exotic beauties, and she brought us with her by the magic of her words.

“There were jasmines, of course, and tuberose, filling the air with such strong perfume that the ladies wore no scent because they knew they could never compete. There was a formal parterre, which was completely cleared and replanted several times each year so the garden would always be perfect. In the center of the parterre was a fountain of gold, fed by a stream that ran through the garden which the servants called the Stream of Paradise. At one end there was a throne where the prince could sit and watch his ladies enjoy the pleasures of the garden, and above the throne was carved the words, ‘If there be paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this…’ And along each side ran colonnades, the columns so thick with bougainvillea and jasmine that you could not see the marble for the flowers. It was truly an enchanted place.”

“How did you come to see it?” Portia ground out her little cigar in a china dish and waved her hand to clear the air. I stared at the slender stub and realised suddenly where I had seen that particular variety of cigar before. Reluctantly, I turned my attention to Emma.

“The prince loved to entertain. He often gave dinners for the regiments and the English diplomats. He always toasted the queen and insisted his children be brought out to mingle with the guests. It was important to him that they learn English. He believed the future of India lay with England, and he wanted his children to be forward-
thinking.” She hesitated, ever the consummate storyteller, the pause heightening our interest. “And yet, even as we ate his food and listened to his talk of progress and the modern age, I always thought of the ladies, locked behind marble walls until the moon rose and they were freed, like enchanted princesses under the spell of an evil queen. I liked to imagine them dancing to their strange, sad, quavering music, dancing through the columns and the fountains and the parterres, and out of the gates, leaving him behind forever.”

“Would they do such a thing?” Charlotte asked.

Emma gave her a sad smile.

“No. For much the same reason that Julia’s pet raven does not leave her, although his cage is seldom closed.

Sometimes captivity is a comfortable place.”

I would have liked to have heard more—if nothing else the condition of women in the East was an excellent subject for brisk debate—but the gentlemen joined us then, and an exuberant discussion broke out over how we should amuse ourselves. I listened as the others bantered, edging around the group to Portia’s chair. I leaned close enough to brush her ear with my lips.

“Tell me, dearest, how long have you been smoking Brisbane’s cigars?”

Portia waved a lazy hand. “He sent a box of them after the last time he dined with us. I had invited him to smoke after dinner and admired the scent of them.” She slanted me a wicked look. “I thought you were not jealous.”

“I am not. I was simply going to offer you a pastille to sweeten your breath. I’m sure it smells vile after that cigar.”

She laughed then and gave me a little push. I looked up to find Alessandro watching us, his dark eyes unusually brilliant. I gave him a small smile and he returned it warmly, suggestively even. I dropped my eyes then and we turned our attention back to the question of amusement. Charades was suggested and mercifully rejected. Someone else put forth the idea of word games; another made an argument for a theatrical, and Aunt Dorcas suggested a séance. Mrs. King blanched visibly and the proposal was quickly abandoned.

Finally, the notion of sardines was bandied about, and found to be agreeable to everyone. After another lengthy discussion concerning rules and procedures, it was established we should each play alone, and that the upper floors would be considered out of bounds for fair play, as well as the servants’ accommodations and offices so as not to disturb the staff. Aunt Dorcas insisted upon remaining in the lesser drawing room beside the fire, and Hortense nobly offered to sit with her and keep her company. To my surprise, Violante joined our merry group, her olive cheeks flushed with hectic colour.

Aquinas was summoned to supply each guest with a candlestick and lit taper. As Father had never bothered to install gaslights or proper heating on the main floor, it would be dark and chilly hunting one another.

Amid much laughter, we drew lots to see who would hide, and Charlotte King was the chosen one. She clutched her candlestick nervously, perhaps a bit timid at having to
brave the darkened Abbey alone to hide. She hesitated at the door, looking tremulously back at the group of us, but someone—it might have been Portia—called a little word of encouragement and she seemed to take heart. She slipped out, and the rest of us joined in a circle and began to count.

When we reached one hundred, we broke apart and took up our candlesticks. I heard Lucy’s high laugh, and Sir Cedric’s answering chortle. It occurred to me then that although we had agreed to hunt alone, the game was a perfect opportunity for the betrothed couple to steal a few kisses. The thought was not an appetizing one.

As soon as we left the drawing room, the group scattered like startled birds, some flocking down the side of the cloister toward the library, others taking the opposite tack and exploring the approach from the nave that led to the great drawing room. I decided to take a more thorough approach. There were few better hiding places than the shadows behind Maurice the bear. I slid into the space behind him, holding my candle aloft, careful not to singe his shabby fur. I had just decided that Charlotte must have chosen another place for her concealment when a hand clamped down upon my bare shoulder.