As Flora was removing her hat and pelisse in her bedchamber a little later, a maid knocked with a summons. “I’m to bring you, miss,” she said.
“Where?”
“Lady Victoria’s orders,” was the only reply.
Curious, and a bit wary, Flora followed the girl. They went upstairs rather than down, as she had expected. The maid led her along a Spartan corridor to a half-open door. A babble of female voices could be heard beyond it.
Flora entered to find Lady Victoria and all the young women guests clustered in the center of a large chamber filled with trunks and boxes. “Ah, here is Miss Jennings,” said Lady Victoria. “That is everyone. Now I can reveal my scheme. We are going to enact tableaux this evening to entertain everyone.”
“Tableaux?” Flora inquired, amid a chorus of delighted murmurs. She knew the word, but wasn’t certain how it applied in this case. She was also a bit surprised to be included in Lady Victoria’s plans with her friends.
“You don’t know them?” Lady Victoria asked with condescending pity. The implication was clear: Flora was ignorant and countrified.
“They’re silly,” said Frances Reynolds, springing to Flora’s defense. “People dress up to reproduce scenes from history or old paintings,” the younger girl continued. “Then they just stand there. No one says anything.”
“It’s much more fun than charades,” declared one of the others.
“If you don’t want to use your wits.”
“You certainly needn’t participate if you don’t wish to, Miss Reynolds,” said Lady Victoria, moderately cutting.
“It sounds amusing,” said Flora before Frances could dig herself in any deeper. She felt a strong desire to protect the younger girl from herself.
Lady Victoria went over to open one of the trunks, revealing a swath of lovely sapphire brocade. “We have all sorts of old things to use,” she said. “We shall do two scenes. It’s hard to manage more than that, what with changing clothes and hair.”
Flora noticed that Victoria had a list. Clearly, this was not to be a democratic process.
“And ladies only,” their hostess added.
“The gentlemen can admire us from the audience,” said another girl with a giggle.
That was the idea, Flora realized.
“The first shall be the nine Muses, from ancient Greece.”
Flora blinked. She wouldn’t have expected Lady Victoria to know such a thing.
“Philip has written out a list for me,” Lady Victoria went on, answering that question. “We can represent their…talents in our costumes.” She consulted the page, read slowly and carefully, and pointed to one of her friends with each name. “Calliope represents epic poetry. Clio, history; you must take her, Miss Reynolds. You are so fond of history. Eu-euterpe, flutes and lyric poetry. Olivia, you can use your flute. Thalia, comedy and pastoral poetry. Mel-po-mene, tragedy. Terp-sichore, dance. I shall portray her. I love to dance! Erato, love poetry. Polyhymnia, sacred poetry, and Urania, astronomy. You must each think of ways to represent your subject.”
“I could play a short piece,” said Olivia.
Flora looked at her with some interest. Here was the fabled Olivia, the source of Lady Victoria’s societal pronouncements. Small and slender, she looked more elfin than oracular.
“Tableaux are silent,” Lady Victoria declared. Olivia subsided at once.
Flora waited. They were out of Muses, and she hadn’t been assigned one.
“And you can be the Muses’ mother, Miss Jennings, as you are older than the rest of us and much more experienced.” Lady Victoria smirked at her.
Some noticed the dig; others were oblivious. “Did the Muses have a mother?” Flora couldn’t help but ask. “Officially, I mean?”
“Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory,” supplied Frances Reynolds. “I have studied Greek,” she added when the others stared.
“We shall wear classical draperies of course,” Lady Victoria directed. “And wreaths of leaves and flowers in our hair.”
“We can show off our arms,” commented one of her friends.
Much of the group exchanged satisfied, sidelong glances.
“Our second tableau will be the Faerie Queen and her court,” Lady Victoria continued. “I shall be the queen. We have masses of old gowns for that one.” She pulled the brocade from the trunk and shook it out. It proved to be a sumptuous dress with a square-cut bodice and yards of skirt.
“Ooh, can I have wings?” said Olivia.
“If you can manage it in time,” their hostess replied. “You may each decide on the sort of fairy you wish to be.”
A babble of ideas filled the room.
“And Miss Jennings will be the wicked witch,” said Lady Victoria over it.
There was a brief silence. The trend of her role assignments was now obvious to everyone, Flora thought. She felt increasingly amused. “I don’t recall a wicked witch at the Faerie Queen’s court.”
“Oh yes,” her unwanted adversary replied. She gave no explanation. The constraints of logic and the requirement that one must prove assertions clearly had no hold on Victoria. She said it, and so it was truth. “We have the most cunning false nose here somewhere,” she added.
“There was not a witch,” said Frances Reynolds.
Flora heard echoes of the bright, stubborn child she must have been in the words.
“Oh, keep your bookish quibbles for your governess,” Lady Victoria retorted. “It will be very dramatic. I’m sure Miss Jennings welcomes the chance to display her acting ability.”
Miss Reynolds looked ready to storm the barricades in Flora’s defense. Flora couldn’t let the girl expend her social credit in a futile battle. “Certainly,” she declared, rather loudly, and was gratified to see that she’d managed to startle Lady Victoria.
There was a brief, uncertain pause, and then the room descended into happy chaos. Trunks and boxes were flung open and despoiled of their contents. Gowns of all sorts and eras were spread out for examination, a rainbow of color. A cache of elaborate powdered wigs was greeted with delight. The chamber rang with exclamations and laughter.
Flora soon found herself laughing with the others. Their excitement was contagious, and it was more and more amusing to find that she got no choices at all. For the first tableau she was provided with a shapeless tunic and a long, dark veil. The mother of the Muses hid her face, apparently. Perhaps all that memory depressed her spirits. Or bearing nine girls to Zeus, whom Frances Reynolds had identified as their father. Alliances with Zeus were not known for their happiness, Flora recalled. Lady Victoria decreed that Flora would not require a wreath of flowers in the first tableau. She would sit, it seemed, in a corner and contemplate her bevy of daughters.
For the Faerie Queen’s court, Lady Victoria indeed unearthed a false nose for Flora. It was long and pointed, complete with a wart, and fastened about her head with a pair of ribbons. She also found her a stringy, gray wig and a black gown that resembled a bag more than a tailored garment. A bit of soot rubbed on her face would complete the picture perfectly, she assured Flora with false kindness.
It was irritating, and ridiculous, and increasingly funny. As Lady Victoria piled on the detail, Flora mostly thought about how young the girl was. Did she imagine anyone would care if Flora was dressed up as a witch? That it would matter a whit? Was Lady Victoria expecting magic? Did she see everyone—or more properly, Lord Robert—staring and pointing and murmuring, “Ah, Miss Jennings is evil and ugly.”
Flora shrugged and began helping the others think of ways to accessorize their Muse costumes. It was actually rather interesting. Representing the different genres of poetry presented a challenge. How could epic poetry be differentiated from pastoral or sacred poetry? After some back and forth, they hit on the idea of combining a slender book with a boar spear, a sprig of greenery, and an attitude of prayer, respectively.
The Muse of love poetry declared she would simply fix the audience with a loving gaze. Exchanged glances suggested that she had a particular target in mind. The putative Melpomene stated that she would have no trouble at all looking tragic because Grecian draperies did not become her type of figure at all. She said it with good humor, however, and the others reassured her.
A small telescope was found. Frances Reynolds said she would use a scroll to stand for history. With rising enthusiasm, she decided to make it herself, in the style of an illuminated manuscript. Promised the use of ink and paints, she hurried off while others were still debating their choices.
Flora’s aid was appreciated, and she enjoyed the intellectual exercise. Indeed, it was a relief to have a task, vastly preferable to aimless chatting. She also noticed, gradually, that these girls were not as vapid and shallow as her prejudices had led her to expect. Several were quite clever; most knew more than they perhaps even realized, absorbed from their better-educated male relatives, she supposed. They simply hadn’t been given much opportunity, or reason, to learn.
On the contrary, they’d been discouraged from undertaking serious studies or projects—any endeavor that Flora’s father would have defined as useful. Which was…a pity. At least, she saw it that way. She also saw that she had a tendency to judge fashionable people based on criteria that she’d accepted without personal observation. That was an eye-opening moment. In the end, Flora couldn’t call the time wasted when it had been so educational and…rather fun.
Still, she was happy to slip away to the library when the group broke up. As soon as she walked through the tall double doors, a familiar peace descended. Warmed by a fire in the great stone hearth, the chamber enveloped her. It was empty—except for the sight, the promise, the scent of yards of books. Flora found the one she’d been reading right where she’d left it and curled up in an armchair to lose herself.
She felt a surge of disappointment when the door opened half an hour later. But it was Lord Robert, leading another gentleman.
“Oh my, what a perfectly splendid room,” said the latter.
Flora stood. This must be Randolph, she thought, examining him. The resemblance was unmistakable. And he was better looking than his brother. Put Lord Randolph in a portrait frame, and you could present him as the epitome of the Duke of Langford’s sons. He was a supremely harmonious combination of two handsome parents—the auburn hair, the piercing blue eyes, the classical features, the rangy, muscular frame. His clothes were much simpler than Lord Robert’s. He wore no clerical collar; perhaps he just used it in his parish.
As Robert introduced them, he hoped that Randolph had listened to his explanations. He’d balanced the idea that Miss Jennings was a good friend—a cousin, surely he remembered—with mockery of the family rumors of unrequited love. Things were developing nicely with Flora. Brotherly commentary was not required, much less interference.
Randolph tore his gaze away from the shelves long enough to offer a bow. “Miss Jennings. So pleased to see you again after all these years.”
So he had heard the part about her childhood visits to Langford, Robert thought. Good.
She acknowledged him with a smile. “Lord Randolph.”
“And of course we find you in the library.”
“Of course?” she replied with raised brows.
“Your father would sit nowhere else when your family visited us.” Randolph’s eyes strayed back to the books. “He had a favorite spot in the Langford library, a nook with an armchair hidden behind the antiquities section. Where no one ever went.”
“He did?” Flora looked bemused.
Randolph nodded. “He dragged a little table in there, quite blocked it off. Just as I’d done with the west corner. If we happened to come in at the same time, we pretended not to notice each other, so we could go directly to our studies, without talking.”
“That sounds like Papa.” She sounded both fond and elegiac.
Randolph nodded. “I remember one day, the dinner gong rang, and we both came out. Nearly gave my father’s secretary an apoplexy. He’d been working at the writing desk for an hour without realizing there was anyone else in the room.”
Flora laughed. Robert met her dancing eyes. She looked lovely when she laughed. Of course, she always looked lovely.
Randolph wandered over to the shelves. “I wonder if they have any volumes on Sanskrit.”
“There’s a section on languages over by the window,” Flora replied, pointing.
Randolph turned, clearly delighted. “You know Sanskrit?”
“Well I know what it is,” she said. “No more than that. Are you interested in ancient Indian tongues?”
Robert wondered if his brother would tell her about the vision, and the lute. He couldn’t. It had been a confidence.
“I met a Hindu gentleman at our brother Sebastian’s wedding,” Randolph said. “We had a number of fascinating talks.”
An adroit answer that was not an answer, Robert thought.
“You could try here.” Flora led him to a bank of shelves.
They became engrossed in book titles, throwing suggestions back and forth. “What an extraordinary girl you are,” Randolph exclaimed at one point.
A bit later, he made Flora laugh again. Fleetingly, Robert wondered if he’d made a mistake, inviting Randolph. He was not, of course, jealous. But he and Flora had first come together in study. He thought of it, of the library, as theirs.
“I shall never leave this room,” Randolph declared dramatically.
“You’ll have to venture out to meet the other young ladies,” Robert pointed out.
“Yes, of course.” Randolph came away from the shelves, looking every bit as eager as he had in pursuit of Sanskrit.
“There’s a fine pianoforte in the drawing room,” Robert added. Randolph was justly proud of his musical talent and enjoyed showing it off. “Randolph has a splendid singing voice,” he told Flora.
“You should arrange a duet with Lady Victoria, our hosts’ daughter,” she said. “She’s quite good.”
Randolph rubbed his hands together. “A fine idea.”
Robert met Flora’s eyes, alight with humor and mischief. So much information could be exchanged without words, he thought. He’d seen his parents do it for years. The comparison startled him. And then it transfixed him. And then it gratified him deeply.
“We’ve bored Robert,” Randolph said. “He cares nothing for scholarship.”
“That isn’t true,” replied Flora at once. “He has a very acute intellect.”
All would be well, Robert thought, savoring his brother’s surprised expression.
* * *
This weather won’t last, Robert thought, as he took Plato for his second constitutional late in the day. Golden light slanted across the path, gilding the trees and garden plantings. The breeze was refreshing, practically astringent, bringing intermittent flurries of colorful leaves. Undoubtedly it would be less pleasant to walk with the dog in an autumn rain or a cold snap. For now, though, he was filled with a great sense of well-being as they strolled, Plato trotting along beside him on his far-shorter legs.
Passing a pretty little gazebo, Robert thought of showing it to Flora. The same idea surfaced when they came upon a waterfall fringed with fern. She’d begun to figure in every train of thought he had. “I must settle things between us,” he said aloud.
Plato stopped, sat down on the path, and looked up at him, for all the world as if he understood.
“Yes, there are a few trifling obstacles,” Robert said. He made a dismissive gesture.
The little dog cocked his head. One ear flopped over.
“I shall take that as an offer of assistance,” Robert said with a smile.
As if he’d made his point, the dog rose and moved on. At a junction in the path ahead, Plato went left.
“Not that way.” Robert reached the crossing and indicated the right-hand turn. “Come along.” He took a few demonstrative steps.
Ignoring him, the dog continued in the opposite direction. He walked like an animal who had a definite goal in mind.
“Plato! We’re going down here. It’s time to head back.”
His supposed pet disappeared around a curve.
“Plato, come,” Robert called.
There was no response. Plato did not reappear.
Robert strode after him. “There seems to be a misunderstanding,” he said when he caught up. “You are a dog, and I am your master.”
Plato glanced back over his shoulder.
It was not a sneer, Robert thought. His canine…liege was simply going where he wished to go. Others’ desires were not a consideration. “Or he’s a dashed dog,” Robert said aloud. “Without a thought in his furry head. And now I’m talking to myself as well as to an animal. It’s all downhill from here, my lad. Soon you’ll be addressing trees and rocks, and people will begin edging away from you with nervous sidelong looks. Plato! Come here!”
The dog trotted around a bend and out of sight.
Robert nearly left him to his own devices. Plato would come crawling back when he was hungry. But the park at Salbridge Great Hall, and the lands around, were home to foxes and badgers and, who knew, great hawks and owls that could carry off a small dog in their talons. Robert went after him. He’d carry him back to the house.
Robert wasn’t quite within grabbing distance when he heard voices. Plato slipped off the path into a stand of evergreens. At the other side, he stopped and sat.
Moving up beside him, bending to snatch him from the ground, Robert saw Lydia Fotheringay and Anthony Durand through the interlaced branches. She was sitting on a bench in a small clearing. He was pacing the turf in front of her.
If it had been anyone else, Robert would have sneaked away at once. But the arrival of these two had shaken Flora so deeply. Robert gave in to temptation and stayed to listen. Plato maintained an undoglike silence beside him.
“This place is a dead bore,” said Durand as he paced. “Salbridge has declared there’s to be nothing but low-stakes play.”
“It’s a coveted invitation,” replied Mrs. Fotheringay. “All society longs to be here.”
The man made a slashing gesture as he moved. “You know I care nothing for that.” Every line of his stocky body expressed restlessness. “I don’t know why you do. The Salbridges don’t like you.”
“Why would you say that?” She sounded hurt.
“Because I don’t bother with polite fictions, my dear.”
“I think you are mistaken,” the thin woman protested. “Anne greeted me quite kindly.”
“Oh, she’s well-bred.” Durand looked savage. “How the devil am I to occupy myself? Play is intolerable with chicken stakes.”
“You can hunt,” offered his companion.
“Careen about the countryside with a crowd of shouting idiots chasing furred vermin? Risk my neck over the suicidal jumps they choose to call ‘regular raspers’? I think not. Christ, I hate the country!”
“You often say you’re fond of exercise.”
Lydia Fotheringay’s voice dropped easily into a kind of whine, Robert thought. He wouldn’t have been able to endure it for any length of time.
“Proper exercise,” Durand said. “Boxing. Or fencing with a decent opponent.”
Robert suspected that the man just liked to hit things.
“There are some pleasant people here,” Mrs. Fotheringay said. “I encountered the daughter of one of my oldest friends. I haven’t seen her—my friend, I mean—in twenty years.”
“Hardly a friend then.” A branch brushed Durand’s shoulder. He snapped it off and tossed it away.
“You’re always so cruel,” she complained.
Durand whirled, strode over, grabbed her upper arms, and pulled her to her feet. He loomed over her.
Mrs. Fotheringay didn’t protest. But she said, “You’re bruising me.”
He pulled her closer, until their foreheads nearly touched. “Am I?”
Robert was reluctantly deciding that he would have to offer assistance when she pressed herself against her captor, slipping her hands under his coat. Half-seen movements suggested she was undoing the fastenings of his trousers.
“Someone might come by,” said Durand. He sounded amused rather than concerned.
“I know,” answered the lady.
Not wanting to see any more, Robert stepped away. He forgot to pick up Plato, but when he looked down, he found the little dog at his heels. “So you wanted to see that?” he said when they’d put some distance between them and the scene. “I fear I must deplore your taste, Plato. And your manners. None of our business, eh?”
The little dog watched him as they walked along the path. He never stumbled, even though his eyes were so often fixed on Robert rather than the terrain. It was uncannily distracting.
They came to a crossing. Robert took the right-hand path. Plato continued straight.
“Not this time. I won’t be led astray again.”
The dog trotted off.
“If you see a badger, run,” called Robert.
As he was incapable of speech, Plato said nothing.
Within a very few minutes, Robert realized he’d made the wrong choice. This part of the grounds was a maze of twisting walks. Just when he felt he was going in the right direction, the path would turn back on itself. It was a good twenty minutes before he glimpsed rooftops through a gap in the branches, pushed through a thicket, and discovered a wider track. He strode quickly along it. A mental picture of Plato trotting up to the kitchen door and being regaled with a bowl of scraps didn’t improve his temper.
Robert rounded a final clump of yew and found Anthony Durand standing on the terrace outside the house. “Come sneaking back, have you?” the man said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did you think I didn’t see you crouched in the bushes? Like to watch, do you? Lydia puts on quite a show.”
He hadn’t crouched. He’d simply bent down to pick up his dog. And he hadn’t watched the show. But Robert knew his position was awkward. “I came upon you quite inadvertently,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Ah, that galls you, doesn’t it? Nothing worse than being forced to apologize when you don’t want to. Your father taught me that. There’s nothing like a duke for arrogance and effrontery.”
There was nothing like a duke for learning how to handle blackguards, Robert thought. Unconsciously, his jaw firmed and his usually amiable blue eyes hardened. His resemblance to his formidable father became suddenly marked. He supposed Durand was referring to the cheating incident he’d heard gossip about. He didn’t particularly care.
“You needn’t pretend Langford didn’t tell you,” the other man added.
Robert gave him a raised brow. “We don’t discuss you, actually.”
Durand scowled. His hands closed into fists. “You sounded just like him there. That insufferable tone—as if it’s such a bore that you’re never wrong.” He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Suppose I send the almighty duke a note about your spying? Or your mother. Yes, Her Grace might enjoy the story more.”
“Feel free,” said Robert with a careless wave.
“You think they won’t care that one of their precious sons likes to watch?”
“I know that they would consider the source,” Robert replied.
For a moment it seemed that Durand would try to hit him. Robert braced to repel a blow, confident the fellow couldn’t land one. But then Durand controlled himself. He took a step back and resumed his habitual bland sneer. “You Greshams, so damnably high-nosed. Think yourself invulnerable, don’t you? Perhaps I can do you a bad turn on this visit.”
“Unlikely,” said Robert. “And unwise.”
“Yet who would have expected me to be here? I’m not much invited into the haut ton. Any longer. The wolf in the fold, eh?” The man’s dark eyes glinted. “I’ve always felt an affinity for the wolf,” he said. Turning away, he walked into the house.
Robert waited a few minutes before following. He’d had enough of the man. He wondered whether he should write to his father and get the details about their past encounter. Perhaps. But he didn’t really need them to decide his approach to Durand.