Thomas and Adi passed through a seemingly endless number of rooms and passageways on the way to her quarters. The whole time, Thomas kept up a steady monologue about the history of the house and its occupants. He began with the curious name.
In the 1790s, during the Reign of Terror in the French Revolution, when most of the family resided in Paris, the decision was made to flee east to a recently purchased property in Alorainn: a medieval castle that had been reconstructed after the Thirty Years’ War. It was referred to in secret as “the house in the east,” translated as “La Maison de l’Orient.” In time it became La Maison Chinoise, the Chinese House.
This was rather ironic, as over the years, having escaped the Revolution, the family grew less inclined to engage in any sort of risky activities. Not only had none of them been to China, some of them scarcely traveled outside the walls of the estate.
Up a grand staircase they went, through enormous rooms, their footsteps muffled by carpets or tapping upon elaborate wood and marble floors. There were elegant furnishings high and low, and fireplaces large enough for a man to stand in. Everywhere she looked, the walls were covered with paintings, of men and horses and ships and Madonnas in blue.
Somehow, as they moved through the house, Thomas managed, with only the occasional gesture, to organize things. When they arrived at Adi’s room, spacious and airy with a huge canopied bed and doors opening onto a balcony, there were maidservants waiting for them. Thomas made introductions, gave instructions, and, with a bow to Adi, left her to their care.
• • •
She sat in her bath drinking tea and eating toast. She looked at her little cup. It was impossibly thin and fine, with delicate pink rosebuds, its tiny porcelain handle in the shape of a braided vine. It might have been the most beautiful thing she had ever seen and it made her feel terrible.
She couldn’t stop hearing the boys crying out to her. Coal said they were safe, that they would be fine. What did that mean coming from this man? She clung to the words nonetheless. It was the only thing keeping her from climbing out of her skin.
Listening to the soap bubbles popping about her head, she considered her options.
It wasn’t doing her any good to keep knocking on doors, accosting strangers. Much as she hated to admit it, she knew George was right about that.
George.
Those men called him “Your Grace.”
What did that mean exactly? This hung-over young man with stains on his shirt. Royalty. It made her realize how little she knew about this place she and her brothers had come to.
Alorainn. It had just been another one of those names on a map, different only in that it was where their grandmother had lived. And in that it was very small—this was endlessly fascinating to Xander and Xavier.
“You could walk across the whole place in a day,” Xavier had said. “We’ve got cities back home larger than this whole country!”
A principality, a man on the ship had called it. Adi was not even sure what that meant. Something to do with a prince? Had she somehow managed to stumble onto the Royal Family of Alorainn? Her eyes opened wide.
Was she having lunch with the Royal Family of Alorainn?
A maid stuck her head in and asked if she was ready to have her hair washed. Adi looked at her helplessly and continued to do what she had been doing for the past hour. She simply nodded, yes.
She’d tried to tell them she was capable of doing these things herself, but they either did not understand her clumsy gesturing or simply chose not to.
No one had washed Adi’s hair or dried her after a bath or anything like that since she was a child. Since Mother, most likely. Gita would have just pointed to the towel and told her to do it herself. Adi sighed, missing the little tyrant and her unsmiling steadfastness. She wouldn’t lose her head in all this.
After they’d dried her (with towels the size of bedsheets), there were lotions and unguents and clouds of lovely powder.
And the undergarments, the corsets, and the camisoles. She’d no idea they could be so beautiful, so delicate and light. Nothing like the commonplace stuff she was accustomed to.
And they were nothing compared to the dress.
A seamstress came in and made adjustments to the fit. The woman was most kind, and very effusive about Adi’s appearance. This only added to her growing concern.
Who was she fooling?! It was all well and good playing dress-up in this room, but she couldn’t possibly go outside wearing something like this.
As one of the maids dressed her hair, Adi gazed out of the balcony doors. Beyond the great wall, the countryside, in its endless perfect detail, stretched on forever. It only made her more aware of the absurdity of her task. Two boys, in that—endlessness.
She looked around her room. The Chinese House. Wouldn’t they be amazed. Oh, how she wished they were here being amazed. Instead of . . . wherever they might be. Her eyes teared up again.
Stop it! she thought, surprised at herself. You don’t even like them. All the trouble they’ve caused. And now look what they’ve gotten you into.
It doesn’t matter. Not like you have any choice. This is your best chance. Do what you have to do.
She caught herself in the mirror, hair piled extravagantly upon her head. Yes, this is torture.
• • •
George sat at the huge round table under the wisteria arbor. He was on time for a change—early, really; only a few cousins were midway around the circle. They waved. George smiled back.
He was considering, as he often had lately, the merits of trying to chase away a hangover with more drink.
“Hair of the dog,” as his British friends would say. Though George never knew exactly what the dog had to do with it. He wasn’t sure if it worked either, though he kept trying. He’d gotten to be something of a connoisseur of headache remedies.
“Perhaps a small beer.” He looked about for a servant, but they were all busy setting up.
George was, despite the dark circles under his eyes, now looking resplendent in a suit of azure—Thomas’s idea, to pick up the blue of the wisteria. George sighed, thinking how ridiculous his life was; he would have gone with the gray, picking up what the inside of his head felt like.
The table sparkled in the afternoon sunshine as the family began to take their places, coming in twos and threes, swarms of children being herded away by governesses. They took their seats, chattering away amidst the glasses and the silverware and spectacular vases of flowers.
Cousin Cecil looked as if he might be considering a chair next to George. He took one a few seats down instead, adjacent to an attractive cousin his age, a head taller. One of Uncle Audie’s girls, I think, thought George.
• • •
The family (Adi would make it an even forty at the table) loved it when the season and weather permitted them to eat outdoors. This was a recent development; something George’s mother’s had initiated before she died. Previously, luncheon had been held in a cold, depressing dining room in a section of the house that dated to the twelfth century.
The Sunday gatherings had been happening since April 27th, 1856, to be precise. This was the day that George’s father was born, and coincidentally also the day of the funeral of George’s grandfather, George I, who had, to everyone’s dismay, been reported killed in the siege of the Mamelon, one of the last battles of the Crimean War.
Happily, the funeral turned to celebration when George I walked in the back of the church (at 4:15) just in time to hear his own eulogy and then to hold his newborn son in his arms. Since then, the family had (with the exception of a few weeks in the spring of 1882 when the Audet overflowed) dined together on Sundays.
George complained about the luncheons but, if pressed, he had to admit that he enjoyed the tradition. As much as he had loved being in school in Paris before his father died, he’d ached with homesickness on Sunday afternoons.
Uncle Lionell and his new young wife Cici greeted George with kisses on the cheeks and took seats nearby. Following close behind, his stepmother (with Halick trailing) glanced over at him as she took her place on the opposite side of the table. Looking for the girl, no doubt.
He knew his stepmother wasn’t the only one looking. Talk of the young woman he’d brought home would have spread like wildfire through the house. (What? No shoes, no voice!) He knew as well as anyone here that nothing stayed private for long in this place.
Seemed a good idea at the time, thought George, leaning his face into his hands. Something else for them to talk about, other than me ditching the ambassador.
He winced, imagining what his mother would say. (“You know, you’re only making it worse, Georgie.”) He knew he would never be behaving this way were she still alive. It wasn’t the criticism he minded; he would have preferred someone yelling at him for his misbehavior. It was the quiet disappointment that he dreaded. The kindness of people who loved him even when he let them down.