“My face?” To be sure, she wasn’t looking her best this morning, but she was quite certain that she hadn’t sprouted a wart on the tip of her nose overnight.
“Your face says it all. Oh, my dearest dear.”
Mariana reclaimed her hands from Aunt Dot and began to worry that she’d walked into a scene straight out of bedlam. She only questioned whether it was she or they who belonged in the padded room.
“Why don’t we all take a seat and perhaps ring for tea?” Uncle Bertie suggested in his usual proper and diplomatic manner as he settled his cumbersome body onto the sofa.
“Of course, Uncle,” Mariana replied, following his lead and perching on the edge of the opposite settee.
“And have you a dollop of French cream to accompany tea?” Aunt Dot asked, eyes wide and innocent.
Mariana nodded once toward Hortense and returned her attention to Uncle and Aunt, who watched her with twin expectant looks on their faces. It occurred to her that they may all need more than a dollop of brandy before this visit was through. “Have you recently arrived in Paris?” It seemed like a fitting question. Their disheveled appearance suggested they’d arrived this very moment.
“Have we recently arrived?Havewe recently arrived? Oh, my dearest dear. On a wave from Noah’s flood, I daresay.”
“Is it raining?”
“Is it raining?Isit raining? Oh, dearest, is it raining. We have nothing like this in England. I can assure you of that, indeed. Oh, the French—” Hortense entered the room bearing tea service, and Aunt Dot lowered her voice. “How do they live the way they insist on living?”
“Aunt,” Mariana began, resisting a sigh, “the French can hardly control their weather.” Out of the corner of her eye, Mariana noticed Hortense stiffen as she commenced her task of arranging the tea tray for service.
In a loud whisper, Aunt Dot asked, “Does the chit know how to make tea?”
“Yes, Aunt,” Mariana replied, her patience beginning to run thin.
“ProperEnglish tea?”
Impatient to redirect the conversation, Mariana turned toward Uncle Bertie. “Are you in Paris for long?”
“We do not yet know the duration of our stay.” His gaze locked onto hers and held. “And you, my dear, have you found what you must so desperately seek?”
Alarm bells sounded inside Mariana’s head. “I suppose—”
Her reply was cut short when Aunt Dot, who wouldn’t cease monitoring Hortense’s every movement, called out, “Girl—how do you saygirlin French?”
“Une fille?” Mariana supplied the word and instantly regretted it. She was only feeding the beast. “Aunt, Hortense speaks perfectly serviceable English.”
Aunt Dot, however, had had enough. She rose in a huff and rushed around the sofa, her hand extended. “I’ll take that,” she commanded, referring to the tea strainer held by a stunned Hortense. She released the instrument and took a step backward, allowing Aunt Dot ample room.
“Now,fille,” Aunt Dot said as she began advising Hortense on the intricacies of making aproperEnglish tea, enunciating every word loudly and clearly as if Hortense was both deaf and mentally slow, instead of simply French. These were one and the same for Aunt Dot.
Every so often, Aunt inserted an incorrect French word, and Hortense corrected her, saying, “Madame, I speak English fluently.” But Hortense’s protests were all for naught; staunch English ladies were neither swayed nor changed.
Meanwhile, Uncle Bertie leaned forward in a confidential manner. “I came as soon as I heard,” he intoned on a low note that wouldn’t carry beyond the few feet separating them.
A prickle of foreboding tingled down Mariana’s spine. “Heard what?”
“About Nick, dearest.”
Mariana glanced around, caught Hortense’s steady eye for a fraction of a second, and leaned in closer to Uncle. “I’ve seen Nick.”
“Alive?”
Mariana recoiled from Uncle’s narrow gaze. A sense that she’d said the wrong thing snaked through her. The glint in Uncle Bertie’s eye was keen, too keen.
He reached out and covered her hand with his. It took every ounce of her resolve to leave her hand where it lay, even as her instinct would have her snatch it away. By sheer force of will, she returned Uncle’s gaze and felt a moment of connection. A knowledge lay within his eyes . . . It was a knowledge that shouldn’t be there, unless—unless, he’d received a note, too.
Aunt Dot interrupted this disconcerting line of thought when she swept around the sofa in a peevish flurry of muslin skirts. “Oh, my dear, you simply must keep a sharp eye on that girl,” Aunt Dot proclaimed in a less than discreet voice.
