“What?” I demanded. “What’s wrong with that idea?”
“Two women, sharing a chamber? Won’t people gossip?”
“Exactly,” I grinned. A slow smile passed over Lydia’s face as she contemplated my words.
“Oh, I do adore your century.” She downed her champagne in a single gulp and held out her glass for more.
Chapter Eleven
Between them, Morrie and Lydia polished off the rest of the Champagne, and we adjourned to our separate rooms to put our things away and prepare for the day’s schedule of activities. I took a moment to text Quoth and ask him how his day was going. A moment later, my phone beeped.
“The first customer today asked for a book called Far from the Maddening Crowd. He grew irate when I tried to tell him the title is actually Far from the Madding Crowd, and insisted on speaking it incorrectly even when I presented him with the book cover as evidence. It’s not even eleven am yet and already I long to defecate on people. I fear I’ve turned into Heathcliff.
Stifling a giggle, I sent back a text telling him how much I missed him already.
Once Lydia had fixed my bonnet and demonstrated the proper way to wear a muff, we met Heathcliff and Morrie in the hallway. The pair of them couldn’t have been more different. With his stiff collar and black shirt, Morrie had an air of the clergy about him, which was hilarious given his personality. His ice eyes surveyed my outfit with a piercing attention that – were he a real Regency priest – would’ve seen him excommunicated on the spot. I couldn’t help but think all that black would look particularly striking on Quoth, as well.
The military tailoring on Heathcliff’s topcoat perfectly flattered his physique, drawing attention to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His wild hair hung free about his face, and the line of stubble along his chin that he refused to shave and the gleam in his dark eyes gave him an air of danger. His bronze buttons glittered, and at his side hung a thin sword.
“I thought Victoria had your blade?” I asked, touching the elaborate basket hilt.
“This is a spare.”
“A spare sword? In case you have more people to stab than weapons available for the task?”
Heathcliff was about to respond, but Lydia twirled around Morrie, dragging him toward the staircase. “Quickly! My new friend David is saving a seat for me.”
I linked arms with Heathcliff. “To Pemberley!”
In keeping with her word to name the event’s rooms after famous locations from the books, Cynthia had named the grand ballroom Pemberley. It was located off the rear of the entrance hall, accessed through a wide hallway between the staircases that led into a marble anteroom (Uppercross) where the refreshments and goody bags were stationed. Off either side of the entrance hall were two drawings rooms to be used for the smaller workshops – Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park, and just along from Mansfield Park was Netherfield, which we’d already had cause to visit.
We followed the train of costumed people into Uppercross, where we waited for the doors to the grand ballroom to be opened. While Lydia stole Morrie away for photographs, Heathcliff and I took a turn around the room (mostly for the benefit of scoping out the food being offered). A row of tall, narrow windows along one side let in bright light from the snow-covered lawns outside.
Although stately in proportions and decoration – the high ceiling boasted a mural of songbirds sitting amongst gilded vines – Uppercross bore more touches of Cynthia’s eclectic interior design, with some odd choices of furniture. Gilded portraits hung from the walls, and plaques beside each one described the exploits of its subject. That was where the English Heritage ended and the bling began. One wall was dominated by an enormous stone fireplace that had been gilded in gold. It reflected light from the enormous crystal chandeliers. In front of the fire, on a shaggy cream rug, stood a wingback chair in bright cherry red, the wings oversized, pointing up to the ceiling as if the chair hoped to fly away and join the birds.
“Do you think everyone in this room has their breeches up their arse?” Heathcliff muttered under his breath. “Or just me?”
“At least seven people have given me dirty looks for wearing my Docs under my dress,” I added. “We make quite the pair.”
“As long as you’re as miserable as I am,” he whispered back, “this weekend won’t be a complete turd.”
“Want to stuff our pockets full of tiny sandwiches?” I asked.
“Bloody hell, yes.”
Heathcliff and I made our way to the buffet. I lined the front pocket of my purse with tissue and dropped several sandwiches and four slices of brownie inside. Meanwhile, Heathcliff shoved macarons up his sleeves. All around me, conversation flowed, discussing everything from historical accuracy in the film adaptations to ‘fuck, marry, kill’ their favorite male characters. Gold necklaces glittered from bare throats and pearl earrings dangled from every lobe.
The Argleton Jewel Thief could be in this room right now, sizing up his or her next victim.
“… the old Don Juan is at it again. He makes me sick.”
My ears pricked at Professor Carmichael’s voice. She was on the opposite side of the food table, her head bent low as she spoke to a young Asian woman wearing a bright blue muslin dress and a string of colorful beads around her neck. They both frowned at a blonde man at the end of the table. He had his back to us, but from the way he kept bending down to touch a young Janeite on her arm and swipe a rogue curl off her face, I knew I was looking at the infamous Professor Hathaway.
Curious now, I moved closer to Professor Carmichael and the other woman. I hovered my hand over a tray of sweets and slices, pretending to be utterly preoccupied with the choice of red velvet cupcake vs miniature lemon curd tart (in reality, I had four of each wrapped up in my purse).
“…it’s the absolute last straw,” Professor Carmichael hissed to her friend. From this angle, I could see she was a slight woman with high cheekbones and strong chin of Korean features wearing a simple dress that perfectly showed off her creamy skin. “He will pay for what he’s done. I won’t sit back any longer. I don’t know if I can even wait until your article comes out.”
“Are you sure?” the Korean woman leaned toward the professor. “If you go to press with this, your own reputation will be on the line. You know how these things usually go. They will say you are jealous of his success, that you are trying to besmirch his name. If you could get a victim to speak, it would be better, but even then it is a big risk.”
