While the first course of soup was set before us, I heard Lady Farthington speak to Arabella. “I hope you’ve been practicing your music instead of scribbling away in those books of yours.”
Arabella’s gaze shot up to meet mine, her cheeks darkening. “Yes, aunt.”
Scribbling away in books? I chewed on my lip, wondering what her aunt had meant by it and why she had been embarrassed for me to overhear it. The sudden recollection of her ink-stained hand came to mind. Was this yet another secret Arabella was keeping from me? I smiled ever so slightly into my soup, some of my earlier frustration waning. It would be a pleasure extracting the knowledge from Arabella. Did shemake annotations in the margins of books? Did she write essays about them? I relished the idea of another challenge where she was concerned. The more she tried to push me away, the more she ensnared my interest.
“How was your recent trip to London?” Mrs. Delafield asked Lady Farthington.
“I kept my visit to the Royal Academy brief, as I do not care for the smells in London during the summer.”
“Did you do anything else exciting?” Tabitha asked. “Did you visit any shops?”
Lady Farthington’s wrinkled brow pinched in the middle. “I detest shopping. The only other outing I permitted was a quick visit to Westminster Abbey for services.”
I nodded, impressed. Not just anyone attended services at the prestigious abbey.
Mr. Clodwick bent his head forward so he might see Lady Farthington. “Did you wear a sprig of rosemary, my lady?”
“Why would I do that?” she asked.
“To ward off evil spirits and protect the wandering spirits’ passage to heaven.”
Arabella gave a stilted laugh. “Mr. Clodwick is a spiritual man.”
He shook his head. “I never attend church. Most of them are veritable graveyards.”
Mrs. Delafield gasped and coughed into her hand.
Now Elizabeth was coughing . . . or laughing. I couldn’t say which, but I appreciated it nonetheless. I couldn’t have hoped for a more delightful conversation.
“Graveyards, you say?” I was hoping the man would continue and maybe even bury himself.
“Westminster has nearly three hundred burials. Rosemary would hardly be enough.”
“What about salt?” I asked, baiting him.
His face turned grim. “Indeed, evil spirits cannot abide pure resources.”
I pulled the salt bowl toward me and pinched off a bit. “You don’t say?” I tossed the salt over my shoulder as I had seen Clodwick do a time or two when he thought no one was watching. “Three hundred? That is most disturbing.” Then, for good measure, I tossed a few more pinches over the opposite shoulder.
I caught Arabella’s heated glare.
“Forgive me, this talk must upset you. Have some salt.” I placed the salt bowl where she could reach it.
“It’s upsetting all of us.” Lady Farthington pushed back in her seat. “What nonsense is this? Evil spirits in the royal abbey? I will not hear it.”
“It is true nonetheless,” Clodwick said. “Many claim it is haunted.”
Lady Farthington sputtered. “H-haunted? Where is my cane? Someone help me stand.”
“Aunt, please,” Arabella said.
An oblivious footman jumped forward and extended his hand.
“Lady Farthington,” Mr. Delafield begged. He pushed to his feet, and the rest of us men followed. “Please finish your dinner before you leave. We will speak of more pleasant topics, I assure you.”
“Yes, please,” Mrs. Delafield said.
“No. I have quite lost my appetite.”