Silent in the Sanctuary (9 page)

And Portia was determined to stir the pot with Brisbane. I noticed his eyes sharpening as we approached, nothing more. There was no raising of his expressive brows, no naked curiosity, only the intense watchfulness of a lion lazing in the shade by a pond where the gazelle will drink.

“Father,” I said, my voice a trifle thin, “I should like you to meet our friend, Alessandro. He came with us from Italy. Count Alessandro Fornacci. Alessandro, my father, Lord March.”

Father turned to greet Alessandro, welcoming him with more warmth than I would have imagined. Alessandro accepted his welcome with exquisite courtesy, expressing his rapture at being in England and his extreme pleasure in sharing this most English of holidays.

“Hmm, yes,” Father said, his eyes moving swiftly between us. Alessandro’s hand had lingered a moment too long at my elbow, and Father had not missed it. “Your room is satisfactory?”

I suppressed a sigh. Father would not have cared if Alessandro had been lodged in the dovecote with only a blanket to cover him and a stray cat for conversation. He meant to detain him, to take the measure of him, and perhaps to let Brisbane do so, as well.

“My room is very nice. It overlooks a maze, very lovely.”

“Excellent. You will want to see the maze up close, I’m sure. Mind you take a guide. Devilish tricky to get out of,” Father said, laughing heartily. I stared at him. Father was never jolly. He was putting on dreadfully for Alessandro, and I was just about to send manners to the devil and lead Alessandro away when Brisbane put out his hand.

“Nicholas Brisbane.”

Alessandro clasped his hand and bowed formally. “Mr. Brisbane.” Father gave a guffaw. “Not just Brisbane anymore. He’s a viscount any day now, my lad. Lord Wargrave.”

“Milord,” Alessandro amended.

Brisbane waved a careless hand. “No need to stand on ceremony. We are among friends here. Very good friends, I should think,” he finished with a flick of his gaze toward me.

“Quite,” I said sharply. “Ah, I see Uncle Fly and his curate have finally arrived. Come along, Alessandro. I should like to introduce you to my godfather.”

Before I could manage our escape, Father caught sight of Uncle Fly and bellowed out, “What kept you, Fly? Damned inconsiderate to make me wait for my dinner.”

Uncle Fly laughed and clapped a hand to Lucian Snow’s shoulder. “Blame the lad. He was an hour tying his cravat. Doubtless to impress the ladies.”

Father and Uncle Fly chuckled like schoolboys, and Lucian Snow smiled good-naturedly. “Well, with such lovely company a gentleman must trouble himself to look his best,” he said, sweeping the room with a gallant nod. A few ladies tittered, but I realised Portia was not among them. She had taken herself off, and I cursed her for a traitor that she had dropped me in it so neatly and then fled.

But I had no time to consider her whereabouts. Uncle Fly had made a beeline for me, Snow following in his wake. My godfather smothered me in an embrace that smelled of cherry brandy and something more—earth, no doubt. Uncle Fly was an inveterate gardener and spent most of his time puttering in his gardens and conservatory. No matter how often he scrubbed them, his hands were always marked with tiny lines dark with soil, like rivers on an ancient map. His fingertips were stained green, his lapels dusted with velvety yellow pollen. And his hair, tufts of fluffy white cotton that stood out about his head where he had tugged at it in distraction, was usually ornamented with a leaf or petal, and on one memorable occasion, a grasshopper.

His curate could not have cut a more opposite figure. He was taller than the diminutive Fly by half a foot, and more slender, although one would never think him slight. His posture was impeccable; he was straight as a lance, with a slight lift of the chin that made it seem as if he were gazing at some distant horizon. But when the introductions were made and he bowed over my hand, his eyes were fixed firmly on mine. They were warm, melting brown, like a spaniel’s, and they were merry. He twinkled at me like a practised rogue, and I found myself wondering how a man like him had come to hold the post of curate in an obscure country village. I introduced him to Alessandro, and Snow gamely attempted to greet him in Italian. It was laboured and wildly ungrammatical, but he laughed at his own mistakes, and Alessandro tactfully pretended not to notice.

Just then I saw Portia slip in, her expression smug. Before I could accost her, Aquinas entered and announced dinner. There was a bit of a scramble for partners, but since we were an odd number with more gentlemen than ladies, Portia insisted we dispense with etiquette and instructed each gentleman to choose the lady he wished to lead in.

To my surprise, Lucian Snow offered me his arm. “My lady, I hope you will do me the honour?”

I hesitated. Alessandro was hovering near, too polite to dispute with Snow, but a little dejected, I think. Just then Portia glided over, and slid her arm through Alessandro’s.

“I do hope you will escort me, Alessandro. I simply couldn’t bear to walk in on the arm of one of my brothers.”

That was a bit thick, I thought. Lysander was already steering Violante to the door, and Plum was busy trying to lever Aunt Dorcas out of her chair. But Alessandro was too well bred to point this out. He merely bowed and smiled graciously at her.

“It would be my honour, Lady Bettiscombe.”

I turned to Lucian Snow with a smile. “Certainly.”

I took his arm, and he favoured me with a smile in return, a charming, dimpled smile that doubtless made him a great pet of the ladies. His features were so regular, so beautifully proportioned, he might have been an artist’s model. One could easily fancy him posed in a suit of polished armour, light burnishing his golden hair, his spear poised over a rampant dragon. St. George, captured in oils at his moment of triumph.

“I must tell you, Lady Julia, I was not at all pleased at being invited here tonight,” he said as we passed through the great double doors. Those warm spaniel eyes were twinkling again.

“Oh? And why not? Are we as fearsome as all that?”

“Not at all. But his lordship has been gracious enough to invite me to dine at least once a fortnight since I came to Blessingstoke, and I have gained half a stone. Another few weeks and I shall not be able to fit through that door,” he said, his expression one of mock horror.

My gaze skimmed his athletic figure. “Mr. Snow, you are baiting me to admire your physique. It will not serve. I am an honest widow, and you, sir, I suspect are an outrageous flirt.”

He laughed and gave my arm a friendly squeeze. “I know it is entirely presumptuous of me, Lady Julia, but I think we are going to be very great friends.”

I raised a brow at him. Curates in country villages were not often befriended by the daughters of earls. But our village was a small one, and Father rarely stood on his dignity. He preferred the company of interesting people, and would happily speak with a footman over a bishop if the footman had better conversation. He must have made something of Snow for the curate to have been invited to dinner so often, and Snow seemed to be preening a bit under his favour.

The curate leaned closer, his expression mockingly serious. “I have offended you by my plain speaking. I am struck to the heart with contrition.” He rolled his eyes heavenward, and thumped his chest with a closed fist.

“Gracious, Mr. Snow, are you ever serious?”

He rolled his eyes down to look at me. “On a very few subjects, on a very few occasions. I shall leave it to you to find them out, my lady.”

He was an ass, but an amusing one. I primmed my mouth against the smile that twitched there.

“I shall look forward to the discovery,” I said solemnly. We exchanged a smile, and I thought then that this might very well be the most interesting house party that Bellmont Abbey had seen since Shakespeare had spent a fortnight here, confined to bed with a spring cold. Of course, I was entirely correct about that, but for reasons I could never have imagined.

Let it serve for table-talk;

Then, howsoe’er thou speak’st, ‘mong other things,

I shall digest it.

The dining hall was an impressive, handsome chamber carved out of the space of the north transept. It had been fitted with a tremendous fireplace and a table long enough to seat forty. We entered to find the seating arrangements at sixes and sevens. I blamed Portia. Aquinas, if left to his own devices, would have manfully struggled to create some order out of our uneven family party. But Portia had absented herself just before dinner, and the organisation of the place cards demonstrated a wicked sense of mischief afoot. Aunt Dorcas had been slotted between Plum and Ly, a move calculated to unnerve both of my brothers. Hortense was flanked by Father and Fly, both of whom doted on her outrageously. And I had been book-ended by Alessandro and Lucian Snow, the two most eligible gentlemen present. In a final masterstroke, Portia had placed Brisbane squarely opposite me, where he could not fail to notice their attentions. Portia herself took a chair on the other side of Alessandro, doubtless with an aim to directing his focus wherever she fancied. It was Machiavellian, and had I not been at the locus of it, I should have admired it greatly.

As soon as we were arranged, Father took up his glass and the company did likewise. He raised his high in a patently theatrical gesture, and proclaimed in a resonant voice, “‘Now good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!’”

There was a chorus of “Hear, hear!”, but as we drank deeply, I remembered that quote. It was from Macbeth, and I wondered with a shiver if that bloody play was an omen of things to come.

Just then Father’s mastiff, Crab, pushed her way under the table, followed by her pack of pups. Mrs. King squealed—at a wet nose thrust under her petticoat to sniff her ankle, no doubt.

Father lifted the tablecloth, upsetting a few goblets and overturning a cruet of vinegar. “Down, you lot!” he thundered, and the dogs obeyed, settling themselves under chairs and onto feet, waiting docilely for a few titbits to be dropped. I smiled at how normal it all seemed. Well, normal for us in any event. I persuaded myself that I was being fanciful with my thoughts of omens, and I slipped a bit of lobster patty to one of the pups.

As we were finishing the fish course, talk turned to the wedding, and I heard Lucy chattering happily about the arrangements.

“Aunt Hermia has been an utter lamb. Before she left for London, she took me up to the lumber rooms to pillage the things that have been packed away. All the ladies came. We were the merriest party! Would you believe we found the most beautiful gown? Lyons silk, she told me. It must be quite seventy years old, but it is in very good condition. I imagine your mama must have worn it, Uncle March.” Father lifted a brow at her, but merely continued eating his lobster patty. “And there was a bit of veiling from another bride, and a tiny wreath of orange blossom, fashioned out of silk. We took the things out for a good airing. Of course, there will not be flowers in the church. One forgets that an Advent wedding forbids it. I should have so loved to have carried even a bit of greenery, some holly, perhaps, tied with ribbons, with a few great buckets of it on the altar.”

She was wistful, and Uncle Fly, who took a rather liberal view on church matters, waved his fish fork at her. “My dear girl, if you want flowers, have them. With the wedding here in the Abbey chapel and not at St. Barnabas in the village, no one is to know or care if you put a bit of nonsense here and there.”

Lucy clasped her hands, her face alight with pleasure. “Do you mean it? Really? Oh, I should love that!”

Uncle Fly shrugged. “If you will come to the vicarage tomorrow, I will show you what I have in the conservatory just now. We can do better than a bit of holly, I’ll warrant.”

She was effusive in her thanks, but Uncle Fly merely nodded and applied himself to his fish. He was a great trencherman, and nothing pleased him more than a hearty meal from the Abbey kitchens.

“The pudding!” I said suddenly, and rather more loudly than I had intended. Conversation around the table stuttered to a halt, and everyone’s eyes fixed on me curiously. “Yesterday. It was Stir-up Sunday, and Aunt Hermia was not here to make certain the puddings were stirred. And we were not here to make our wishes.”

This was a calamity indeed. As long as Christmas had been celebrated at Bellmont Abbey, the family had gathered in the kitchens after church on Stir-up Sunday to give the Christmas puddings a stir and make a wish. Traditionally, there had been one great pudding for the entire household, but with ten children, Father had quickly seen the wisdom in having Cook prepare a small pudding for each of us. We would stand in a row, swathed in aprons, some of us tottering on stools as we dragged the long wooden spoons through the heavy batter, chanting together the traditional rhyme:

Stir up, we beseech thee,

The pudding in the pot;

And when we get home

We’ll eat the lot.

As we stirred, Aunt Hermia would peer over our shoulders, reminding us to make our wishes, and to stir from east to west in honour of the Three Kings. Then she would flap her hands, turning us from the room so she might add the charms to the puddings, a thimble for a lucky life, a ring to foretell marriage, a silver sixpence to betoken wealth to come. It was one of my favourite customs of the holiday, and not just for the festivity of the stirring-up. The puddings were heavenly, richly spiced and studded with golden raisins and currants and all manner of good things. But with Aunt Hermia in London, there was little chance the puddings had been made, and the notion of Christmas without our beloved puddings was unthinkable.

“Do not fret,” Father said with a benevolent smile. “We have had a saviour in the shape of Mrs. King. She organised the stirring-up yesterday. She even made certain there would be extra puddings for those of you come lately.”

I looked at Mrs. King who had coloured delicately, a light stain of rose across her round cheeks.

“You are too generous with your praise, my lord,” she said. But for all her modesty, it was apparent she was quite pleased to be singled out for such approbation.