“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.
THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER
Yet men will murder upon holy days.
—The Eve of St. Agnes,Keats
Dinner 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.