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 tobehaveproperly.” 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 Germanhausfrau.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.
“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.”