Mason lowered himself slowly into the nearest chair.
“She also introduced the staff to the concept of singing during tasks,” Hargrave continued, evidently seeing no reason to sparehis employer the full report. “The scullery maids are currently harmonizing during root vegetable preparation. It has improved morale. And tempo, if I may add.”
Mason stared at the decanter. The decanter, in turn, gleamed innocently.
“Tell the staff,” he said at last, “that if anyone sings in my presence, I will have them reassigned to the smokehouse.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And as for Lady Cordelia…”
He trailed off while Hargrave waited. There were a dozen things he could say.
As for Lady Cordelia, she is a menace.
As for Lady Cordelia, I want her gone by the sunrise.
As for Lady Cordelia, why do I know precisely what she smells like when she is three corridors away?
But none of those statements made it past his throat. Instead, he stood, brushing invisible dust from his coat.
“Have the kitchen prepare a fresh bottle. Preferably, one that hasn’t been laced with artisanal detergent.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Hargrave bowed and retreated, leaving Mason once more alone with his ledgers, his wounded pride, and the faint echo of distant singing which was off-key, joyful, and completely out of place in a house that had not known laughter in years.
He poured himself water instead with every intention of returning to his ledgers. Truly, he did. But the taste of soap lingered unpleasantly at the back of his throat, and the room, once his sanctuary and his stronghold, had now taken on the feeling of beingever so slightly lived inwhich was not a quality he welcomed in a study.
He paced over to the window. The panes were newly polished which was probably another likely consequence of Cordelia’s industrious rampage.
He pushed it open but not wide. He just needed… ventilation. He most certainly didn’t do it for the purpose of eavesdropping.
From his vantage point, he could see the garden below. The roses, though utterly neglected, were in late bloom. The fountain murmured with idle elegance. And on a bench near the edge of the box hedge sat two figures: his mother andher.
He frowned at the sight, not because they were speaking. After all, that was why Cordelia was there, was it not? No. It was because they were laughing. And it was not the soft, demure sort of laughter women produced in drawing rooms when someonesaid something moderately clever, and they felt socially obliged to reward it with attention.
No. It was not that at all. His mother was laughing the way she used to, expressing that sort of laughter which surprised even herself into dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. He hadn’t heard that sound in years, not since what happened with Isabelle.
Fighting the urge to do so, he leaned nearer to the window. The breeze, obliging and curious, brought with it fragments of conversation.
“…and I told him,” Cordelia was saying, her hands animated in some reenactment, “that if he wanted a wife who obeyed him without question, he should have proposed to a hat stand.”
His mother burst into laughter again, the sound muffled but unmistakably genuine. Mason felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
“I hope,” Cordelia added grandly, “never to marry anything duller than a hurricane.”
This was rewarded with another peal of delighted amusement on part of his mother. His chest tightened at the sound. He had grown used to the quiet sadness that had taken up residence in his mother after Isabelle’s… disappearance.
It was not overt. She still dressed elegantly. She still held court at dinner. She still raised a brow with practiced precision. But the music in her had gone silent. And he, who had never admitted aloud how much her silence had cost him, had made peace with it in his own quiet, bitter way.
Now, however, in the garden, with Cordelia by her side, his mother glowed, and Mason found himself watching the scene far longer than was reasonable.
Cordelia leaned forward to pluck a sprig of mint from the hedge, holding it aloft with great ceremony.
“This,” she declared, “is what I shall use to defend myself the next time I am pursued by villainous guardians. Mint in the eyes. It may not kill, but it will refresh!”
His mother let out an undignified snort.
