“Well, yes,” Augusta admitted.
“You know the Prince of Wales,” Beatrice breathed. “I should so dearly love to meet royalty.”
“He would be quite taken with you,” Augusta promised. “He is very fond of the young American ladies who have married into European society, you know. He likes their high spirits and informal manners.”
At that, Beatrice gave a peal of laughter. “You mean our uncouth ways! You are the soul of tact, Augusta.” Beatrice returned to the subject of her husband once more. “But you must tell me, what was Pietro like as a very young man? Leave nothing out,” she ordered.
Augusta tipped her head, thinking. “I found him charming in the way so many Italians are. Very much obsessed by music. He was forever asking me to sing duets.”
Beatrice gave a merry trill of laughter. “He has not changed at all, my darling Pietro. He still loves music above everything. If we are not careful, we will find ourselves being made to sing Verdi until all hours of the night.”
“I can think of worse pastimes,” Augusta said kindly. “The last time we were all gathered here, it rained so much we were often forced to rely upon music and games to amuse ourselves.”
“I remember that,” Elspeth said suddenly. “You were a fair hand with silhouettes.”
Augusta waved a hand. “You are too kind, Elspeth. I merely pottered about with black paper and scissors, but it did pass the time.”
“I still have the one you cut of me,” Elspeth told her gruffly. “I look rather better in it than any photograph I have ever had made, at least that is what Timothy says.”
I felt a flicker of annoyance that Timothy Gresham should be so unkind to his sister, but Augusta looked pleased. “The fact that you kept it all these years is gratifying indeed. You know, I do not think I have cut one in years! Is it not silly how the hobbies of one’s youth simply fade away as one grows older? I ought to cut silhouettes of the boysbefore they are fully grown. They go away to school and come back complete strangers, you know.” She paused and turned to Collins. “Do you think his lordship could spare a bit of black paper?”
“Certainly, my lady. And sharp scissors?” he enquired.
“As sharp as you can find, but not very long, please,” Augusta instructed. “The blades must be short enough to maneuver easily.”
Collins sped off to do her bidding and she turned expectantly to the group. “Elspeth, I have already done yours, and I hope, Veronica, you will excuse me if I begin with Beatrice? If it comes out well, perhaps Pietro would like a paper portrait of his bride.”
Beatrice clapped her hands together and I arranged the room according to Augusta’s direction. I moved a pair of lamps onto a small table to provide strong light and with Elspeth’s help and some handy vellum unearthed by an obliging Collins, we fashioned a sort of screen onto which Beatrice’s image could be projected in shadow.
When everything had been assembled to Augusta’s satisfaction, she settled Beatrice in a chair and began. It was instructive to watch her. In spite of her protests of being an amateur well out of practice, she bent seriously to her task, furrowing her brow as she surveyed Beatrice’s outline on the screen.
“What a lovely profile,” I observed. “Classical in proportion. Praxiteles himself could do no better.”
“Not quite fair,” Elspeth said under her breath. Augusta was absorbed in her cutting and Beatrice was on the other side of the screen. Only I heard her, and I turned in some surprise. She flushed, an unattractive mottled shade, and set her mouth stubbornly. “Some people have everything is all,” she said.
I made a note to ask her to elaborate when circumstances were more conducive to private conversation. In the meantime, I read aloud from the newspaper. Florence Maybrick, accused of murdering her husband with arsenic and strychnine, had been convicted theprevious month. The death sentence had shortly afterwards been commuted to life imprisonment, and we debated the lady’s fate until, with a flourish of her scissors, Augusta finished the silhouette.
“There you are, my dear. Mind, it is nothing a professional artist would manage, but I think it has come out well enough to please Pietro.” Augusta quickly pasted the bit of black card onto a piece of stiff white paper. Beatrice gave an exclamation of delight.
“Oh, but it is wonderful! You are indeed an artist. Look how you’ve captured the way my nose tilts up just so at the end. How clever you are—Pietro will adore it.”
Just then, the door opened and the gentlemen joined us, expressing delight (Tiberius) and mild shock (Dr.Gresham) at the sight of the port decanter.
“I carried that tawny home from Oporto myself, cradled in my arms like an infant,” Tiberius said. “I am glad it is being properly appreciated.”
He glanced at the other gentlemen, but they were slow to respond. I realised then that a certain frisson had accompanied them. Sir James’ colour was higher than ever whilst Timothy Gresham twitched, his eyes darting here and there. Merry, whose innate shyness had rendered him almost inaudible during dinner, was now entirely mute, clearly distressed about something, and Stoker looked frankly annoyed. Only Tiberius seemed himself, a silent satisfaction simmering below the surface. His gaze settled on Sir James with pointed intensity.
The baronet roused himself to reply to Tiberius’ remark. “And you palmed us off with an indifferent ruby!” He finished with a laugh that trailed off weakly.
If the others were subdued, the count seemed almost aggressively talkative. He threw back his head and laughed loudly. “As if anything at Tiberius’ table could be called indifferent! Hey, now. What is this?” he asked, plucking the silhouette from his wife’s fingers. He burst into impassioned Italian, praising the effort as he studied the image.
“Augusta cut it for me,” Beatrice explained. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“It almost does justice to my bella sposa,” he said. He uttered a few phrases in florid Italian before turning to Augusta. “You are a true artist, my friend, but then you had such a muse!” He blew a kiss to his wife and tucked the silhouette carefully into his breast pocket. “Now I can have your beauty with me, always,” he said. The sentiment was romantic, loving even. But something in his tone struck me as possessive, and I found myself wondering about the count and his youthful bride.
Pietro turned to the rest of us with a smile. “Now, what were you ladies discussing? Something entirely scandalous, I hope.” He settled himself on the arm of his wife’s chair, stroking her neck absently. She twined her fingers through his before replying.
“I was saying that we would all be very lucky indeed if you did not force us to sing Verdi.”
