Mrs. Harley echoed him. Then, as if this were what she’d wanted to say all along, said, “I hope all is well with her la’ship and the dear little one?”
“Yes, indeed. Maris is recovering nicely and the baby is as sweet as can be.”
She smiled like the grandmother she was. “The dear little thing. And a boy. This is the best news we could have had. There’s been a Danesby in Finchley since I don’t know when. So lovely to know the line will continue.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Harley said, nodding like a mandarin. “Excellent for Finchley to know there will always be a Danesby here.”
They seemed to be taking rather a lot for granted. She could think of a hundred ways in which Danesbys would be gone from Finchley in a month, let alone a hundred years. But if thinking otherwise made them happy, she would not damage their confidence.
“We are delighted that he is so healthy and strong. His cries could wake the dead.”
The draper and grocer chuckled. “Now then, that’s what we like to hear,” he said.
“Bless me, I all but forgot!” Holding her apron in two hands, Mrs. Harley hurried away out of sight behind the curtain. She came back in an instant, a soft package in her hand, white cloth wrapped up with a pale pink ribbon. “This is for the little love with all our remembrances,” she said, pressing it into Sophie’s hand. “Just a little knitted jacket to keep off the cold.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harley. I know Maris will love it. I must be off.”
They came to the door to wave good-bye. Sophie didn’t dare show hesitation in choosing a direction. She set off up the street. Glancing behind her, she saw that the Barleys had gone in, though it didn’t mean they weren’t watching her from behind the narrow shop windows. She stepped into the apothecary’s.
Strangely, no one else in Finchley had ever noticed the two girls. Sophie began to have the feeling that the two Italian maids were a shared hallucination, with herself as the center. Maybe she hadn’t brought them back with her. Horrors, perhaps her family and the Harleys were only humoring her, as one did with people who had strayed from the path of reality. Even she recognized that she’d been behaving rather oddly. Any sane woman would have leaped at the chance to be Duchess of Saltaire.
Therefore, when she glimpsed another face she knew, she nearly dismissed it as a figment of a disordered mind. What could Clarence Knox want in Finchley? She turned to watch the man enter the Royal Oak and started to cross the street, but two horsemen passed in front of her and she lost sight of the man for a moment. When she reached the inn, she saw the courtyard was empty except for a boy sweeping the yard. “Did a stranger come through the gate just now?”
“No, ma’am. I haven’t seen a soul ‘cept for you and Mr. Pye, a gentleman come to wet his whistle.”
“How long ago did he come in?”
The boy squinted up at the clock above the stableyard. Why, Sophie did not know, as it stopped working twenty years ago. “Must be an hour or so now, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said, fishing a penny from her pocket. “Maybe I am going mad,” she murmured.
“Ma’am?”
“Never mind. Thank you.”
Sophie did not care for mysteries. The world seemed complex enough without people making difficulties. As soon as she returned home, she would ask the Ferrara girls not to go to Finchley without asking. It simply wasn’t wise to disappear like this, especially as they did not know their way very well. If they became lost, they could easily flounder in a snowdrift or be lost in the woods.
Her first action, however, was to give Maris Mrs. Barley’s gift. Maris sat up on the edge of her bed and unwrapped it and smiled down on the tiny white garment. Lifting it to her cheek, she rubbed it there, enjoying the softness of the wool. “Look at this pattern. It’s so pretty.”
“You’re lucky. She doesn’t give much of her work away.”
“Yes, I bought several things at the last church sale. I snatched this pair of pillowcases right from under Mrs. Pike’s hand. She resumed speaking to me, eventually.” Maris ran a finger along the hand-crocheted edge of the pillowcase.
Sophie smiled. “Tell me, Maris. How did you adjust to this house and this position you hold? You weren’t born to be the mistress of a manor.”
“Oh, I don’t know ...” Maris put her chin up and looked down her nose. “Give me a lorgnette and a pigeon chest and I will look like every dowager duchess I know.”
“What about the Dowager Duchess of Saltaire?”
“I haven’t met her. Dominic says she doesn’t wish to interfere with his pleasures.”
“What pleasures? He doesn’t seem to enjoy being a duke.”
“I can understand that. I don’t enjoy being Lady Danesby. What I enjoy is being married to Kenton. The rest—the house, the people who curtsy, the money— that’s enjoyable for a while. Very enjoyable,” she added, with a reminiscent smile. “But none of it would be worth anything if I were married to anyone else.”
“Still, how did you learn to ...”
“Order people around?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean.”
“Kenton told me that if I meant what I said every time I spoke to a servant, then I would never have any trouble. I’ve found that to be good advice.”
“Is it that simple?”
Maris nodded happily. “I make mistakes, often. Fortunately, the staff here is very understanding. Tremlow, of course, is a treasure.”
“Would it be wrong to marry a man because he keeps a good valet?” Sophie said, half to her herself.
If Maris’s eyebrows rose any farther, they would have disappeared in her hair. She opened and closed her mouth two or three times.
Sophie smiled at her. “Have you received many baby gifts?”
* * * *
She asked Tremlow to tell her as soon as the Ferrara girls returned. He promised he would with an air of determination.
She sat down in the library, pulling a piece of paper toward her. She had every intention of writing a smooth, intelligent, and powerful piece of pleading. It must be a letter that would demand attention. She only wished Dominic were there to write it. Signing something “Duke of Saltaire” commanded both attention and respect.
The ink in her standish had sunk by half and she’d achieved little but a page that looked more like a sheet of music than a letter. Every paragraph had strong horizontal slashes running through the lines.
Irritated with herself, she lay down her pen and took up the poetry. Maybe she could find inspiration in Broderick’s work. She’d hardly begun on the first one when a soft, butlerine cough interrupted her.
“I have them, madam.”
The two girls still wore their outdoor clothing, close-fitting hats and black capes edged with broad scarlet ribbons. Except for the mark on Angelina’s face, they looked just as they always did, open-eyed and innocent.
Sophie waved to them, motioning them to come closer. “Thank you, Tremlow.”
He bowed. “Shall I wait?”
“There’s no need. I shall explain to them that it isn’t safe for them to wander off like this. They’re good, sensible girls. They will understand.”
“Very good, madam. I may as well say that their behavior has given rise to a certain sense of resentment among the other female staff.”
“Yes. I see. Thank you, Tremlow.”
Angelina had moved over to the writing desk and had begun straightening the desktop, shuffling the papers together, wiping the pen, and brushing a little spilled sand into her hand. The smile on her lips lent her a certain beauty. She seemed utterly contented to be doing this work. When Sophie spoke to her, she grew solemn, glancing often at her sister.
Looking at them, seeing them so honest, Sophie felt a great reluctance to question them about the missing ham. Though she strove for tact, for a moment she wasn’t sure if Angelina would explode in anger. Lucia took her sister’s hand, calming her. She said that they were both ignorant as to the ham’s fate.
Sophie passed quickly on to her other subject. They both seemed to understand Sophie’s difficulty when she explained it. They promised faithfully not to stray from the grounds without asking leave. She reminded them that she had only the status of guest in her sister’s house. The first duty of a guest was not to alarm her hosts with avoidable difficulties. Soon, they would retire to her mother’s house and new arrangements might be made, such as an extra afternoon off per week.
Lucia denied that they required so much liberty. There simply wasn’t enough work here to keep them occupied as fully as they would like. The staff was
“molto rapido”
—so quick, in fact, that no sooner did something need to be done than it was done. They did enjoy working on the Christmas decorations, but so many hands made very light work.
Sophie assured them that there would soon be plenty to do. In the meantime, she promised to ask if there were any special tasks that needed doing—a pre-spring cleaning, as it were. She couldn’t blame the girls for seeking more occupation. As it was, she longed for some small but satisfying work, some task that could be completed in an afternoon. She wanted to step back from a freshly painted wall or a well-sewn seam and announce that she had accomplished this.
In the meantime, however, she had a letter to write ... again.
“We shouldn’t put off visiting our friends any longer,” Mrs. Lindel said early on Thursday morning. “I’m sure they must be wondering what we are hiding.”
“Hiding?” Sophie looked up from her breakfast. “What could we be hiding?”
“Knowing our friends, anything from disfiguration to murder. I only hope Miss Bowles has been able to finish one of your day dresses, though I suppose your gown for tomorrow evening was more important. We shall stop by to check on her progress.”
“Thank heaven for the custom of not allowing a new mother out in public until she has been churched,” Maris said, with a laughing glance at her husband. “They are welcome to gossip about me as much as they choose.”
“As if they could,” Kenton replied gallantly.
“Believe me, they can. But listen, I haven’t been entirely idle while lying in bed. I have a surprise for, you, Sophie.” With something of her old lightness and quickness of movement, Maris left the table, leading her sister out by the hand.
When Sophie came down again, she wore a modish carriage dress of rich blue poplin, a deep flounce of blond lace drawing attention to her feet, matched by the collar of lace at her throat. It fit her to perfection, as did the deeper blue Levantine pelisse that she wore thrown open.
If the fit were not exact, with a pelisse it did not matter so much. Sophie paused on the bottom step, posed as if for her portrait, the large muff she’d borrowed before hanging from her hand.
Maris, watching from above, clapped her hands at the expressions on her mother’s and husband’s faces. “Isn’t that your very best bonnet?” Kenton asked.
“Yes, darling. You bought it for me.”
The deep brim of the dark blue hat was lined in cream satin and came forward like blinkers over Sophie’s cheeks. Three curling plumes in three shades of blue, the lightest one larger than the other two, gave her the appearance of impressive height.
“I like it on her, very much,” he said consideringly. From up above, a slipper struck his shoulder, followed by a giggle. With a grin, he stooped and picked up the small black shoe. “Pardon me, ladies. Enjoy your drive.”
Two at a time, he raced up the stairs, laughing. A small shriek was followed by the sound of kisses.
Sophie and Mrs. Lindel sighed indulgently. “You do look magnificent,” her mother said.
“I feel magnificent, but am afraid I look as though I am playing dress-up in my big sister’s clothes. It’s true enough.”
“On the contrary, you look as though you’ve always worn such things.”
“I suppose, muff and all, I must be wearing thirty guineas on my back.”
“Nearer seventy, my love. Kenton will have everything of the best.”
“Seventy?” Sophie paused, glancing up as she debated changing into her own clothes. “I trust I won’t spill anything.”
Mrs. Lindel, having lived in the neighborhood for most of her adult life, had many friends. Almost nowhere could they escape with only a card left with the butler, if there was one. At every stop, they were welcomed into the house and refreshment was pressed upon them. After being plied with tea or cordial, they were then subject to questioning, all perfectly polite and thus impossible to escape. Sophie concealed the unhappiness of her marriage, not wishing to give rise to more gossip, and, at a hint from her mother, remained vague upon the exact date of Broderick’s passing. When they parted at most houses, it was with the wish that they would meet again at Mr. Livery’s party upon the morrow.
Only at Miss Menthrip’s house did evasive tactics not avail her. “So,” she said, “you’ve come home again and without that wastrel husband of yours. So much the better.”
Miss Menthrip had changed but little. A little older, a little grayer, she leaned a trifle more heavily on a twisted stick of black ash in her low-ceilinged home. Her tongue had lost none of its sting. But Maris and Sophie had always known that a heart of butter beat under the stiff black silk. She couldn’t abide cringers or mealy-mouthed persons. Give her as good as she gave and she would always stand friends.
“I’m not going to argue with you, Miss Menthrip,” Sophie said. “My mother has taught me to respect my elders.”
“Hah, think I’m too old to stick to my guns, eh? Or can’t take defiance? He was a wastrel, a ne’er-do-well, a flibbertigibbet. Poet? I could write better myself.”
“I will agree that he was not a good provider, as the farmers say, and perhaps we were not as happy as we could have been, for which I am in part responsible. But he was a great poet, Miss Menthrip. One day, all the world will know it.”
“How?”
“I have sent his poems off to a publisher. If they do not accept them, I will try another and another until his genius is acknowledged.”
“Hmmph! Fine words butter no parsnips, my lass. When do you intend to do this wonderful thing, eh?”
“I’ve done it already. The parcel with a copy of his poems went off this morning.”
“Did it? Did it, indeed? You let no grass grow under your feet, miss, I’ll say that for you,” she said with the air of one snatching a single brand from the burning. “What will your new husband make of your spending so much time on the scribblings of your old one, eh?”