Not all of her repartee was reserved for the gentlemen. She made an effort to include Lady MacIver in their discussions, although that lady seemed far less talkative than her American counterpart. She conducted conversation according to strict custom, speaking with Tiberius during one course, Timothy Gresham the next, alternating for the duration of the meal. I caught only scraps of their discussion, Lady MacIver’s tones being elegantly modulated.
“I know you would be most interested in our work at the Milverton House for Mentally Unbalanced Ladies,” Gresham said in some earnestness as he took up a forkful of peas. “I am merely the consulting physician, but I can assure you, we take the greatest care of our ladies. We are committed to treating themhumanely.”
Sir James took note of their conversation. “A great philanthropist is my wife,” he said to me, sotto voce. “If Timothy is clever, he will get something out of her for his little hospital.” He finished this with a wink.
Across the table, Miss Gresham kept a hand pressed to her stomach and refused two of the courses and all of the wines after giving them a fastidious sniff. Sir James was not half so pernickety; he ate with the relish of a devoted trencherman, clearing his plates swiftly and with resounding and appreciative smacks of the lips as he lay down his utensils. The count tore his gaze from his lady and regarded Sir James with obvious amusement.
“James has always been thus,” the count told me, loudly enough for Sir James to hear. “Greedy for his food.”
Sir James patted the gentle curve of his belly with a rueful expression. “Much good it has done me. I am growing stouter by the year.”
“You are a fine figure of a man,” the count declared. “In your prime, my friend,” he added, raising his wineglass in a toast.
Sir James gave him a grin, clearly pleased. “Well, I do still play a bit of rugby—usually when the boys are home from school. Does them a world of good to see their old papa can still move like an athlete if needs must.”
“You have children, Sir James?” I enquired. I am seldom interested in other people’s domestic arrangements, and never in their offspring, but it is a useful topic to introduce. Parents who are proud of their children will invariably say something dismissive and change the subject to something more engaging, whilst those who are not terribly keen on them will spend half an hour enumerating their virtues, more to convince themselves than anyone else. If they are the former, they will think me polite for asking and we will discuss something diverting instead; if the latter, I can offer a blank smile and think about Papilionidae whilst they carry on.
Sir James beamed. “Four boys.” He rattled off their names in a string of Caledonian syllables I promptly forgot. All of them seemed to be named for Scottish kings, most of whom ended badly. “The eldest is sixteen, the youngest just seven. They’re at school, of course. Left for the autumn term just this morning. The eldest will have the managing of the estate in time. Our seat is in the Trossachs. Do you know the area?”
I gave him a rueful smile. “I am a lepidopterist, Sir James, and my occupation dictates my travels.”
“And Scotland has not much in the way of butterflies to entice you,” he said with an understanding nod. “Well, if you ever decide to specialise in sheep, you will know where to come.”
“Sheep and grouse,” the count put in. “James boasts the finest hunting in all of Scotland, is that not the truth, my friend?”
“ ’Tis so, ’tis so,” Sir James said with obvious pride. “The birds you’re eating came from our land,” he added with a nod towards our plates. Fresh grouse are a delicacy on their own merit, but Julien had roastedthem to crisp perfection and sauced them with a concoction one could only describe as poetry.
“How many acres is it? Thirty thousand?” the count enquired.
“Forty thousand, actually,” Sir James corrected. “And the largest grouse hunt in the country.”
“Ah, yes! The Glorious Twelfth!” The twelfth of August marked the start of the annual grouse season, and the day when the peaceful air of the Scottish moors would be shattered by the volleys from shotguns. “And what distinguished guests have you had this year?” asked the count.
Sir James pinkened with obvious pleasure. “I do not like to boast, but His Royal Highness himself numbered amongst our guns.”
There were a few dozen royal highnesses he might have meant, but only one required no further title. He meant the Prince of Wales, and I felt the usual thrust of emotion when his name was mentioned. He was my nearest living relation, but he would not—nay,couldnot acknowledge me. The fact that he had a daughter who predated his marriage to Princess Alexandra would have been scandal enough. The fact that he had entered into a form of marriage with my mother, making me semi-legitimate, would have rocked the very foundations of the monarchy itself, I had been warned. So I pretended not to have a father, and he pretended not to have a daughter, and we did not meet. It was a thoroughly unsatisfying situation on all counts.
Sir James told some anecdote of my father’s skill in the hunting field—the Prince of Wales was, according to the newspapers, very fond of killing things—before leaning towards me with a smile. “If you are ever in mind to shoot birds instead of netting butterflies, you must come to us. We would be only too glad to have you, and Augusta is the best hostess in all of the north.”
“You shall be my first port of call,” I promised.
“You will find much better hunting for your butterflies in Italy,” the count put in.
“Indeed I have,” I told him. “I spent the summer collecting in the Dolomites.”
We fell to discussing the merits of the Italian mountains—Sir James, a keen walker, had much to add on the subject of hiking in the alpine heights of that region—and the meal passed quite companionably. As soon as the sweet course was cleared, Tiberius gave me a significant look and I realised what was expected of me. I sighed. It chafed my principles to participate in so regressive a custom, but it was his house, after all.
I bared my teeth at him in what a naïve person might have mistaken for a smile and rose from my chair. “Countess, Lady MacIver, Miss Gresham.” I gestured and the other three rose. The gentlemen leapt to their feet and I noticed Stoker’s lips twitching. He knew well enough my feelings on the ladies being made to withdraw, as did Tiberius. But I understood the futility of resistance, so I took my leave with as much dignity as I could muster.
And as I saw Tiberius’ mouth curve into an inscrutable smile, I would have given the rarest and most perfect imago of a Kaiser-i-Hind to know what he was thinking.
CHAPTER
13
Collins, the butler, waited in the corridor to conduct us to the drawing room. The gold silk draperies had been drawn against the cool evening fog and a fire had been kindled, crackling merrily and smelling faintly of applewood.
“I will bring tea and coffee, Miss Speedwell,” Collins said quietly to me as we seated ourselves.
