“Julia, dear, are you in there?”
I was tempted, sorely tempted not to answer her. But I knew she would run me to the ground eventually.
“Yes, Aunt Ursula.”
She entered, black skirts swishing, and surveyed the scene—me, woebegone and bewildered, surrounded by a load of Edward’s things, half-packed and tumbled about the room.
“Oh, my dear girl! Why didn’t you call me to help you? Packing up a loved one’s effects can be so very trying.”
Especially when one’s laundress admits to wanting to kill your brother in the midst of it, I thought sourly.
“I thought it was time,” I said.
“Of course you did. It is only one of the many tasks that you will have now that your first year of mourning is ended.”
Trust the Ghoul to mark the anniversary of Edward’s death when I had not. Really, she was a better widow to him than I was. I smiled feebly.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“After all, you will need new clothes to observe this new stage in your mourning.”
I widened my eyes. “I beg your pardon, Aunt? I thought you expected me to observe strict mourning in perpetuity.”
She gave me a sympathetic cluck. “Oh, no! Well, I admit I did think of it at first, but then I realized how much there would be to do if you put on half mourning. And I thought perhaps it might be best if you had something to occupy your days. Besides, there will be time enough to put your weeds back on when Simon passes.”
She began to burrow through Edward’s effects and I sat, trying to digest what she had just said. Naturally the arrangements of half mourning would appeal to her. There would be all sorts of doleful things to attend to, all manner of fresh new grimness to inflict upon me. I could well imagine what pleasure she would take in draping the house in purple and ordering new writing paper and candles. I opened my mouth to blast her, then stopped. Her intentions were appalling and her remark about Simon had been utterly cruel, but she was harmless enough. I complained loudly about her, but the truth was I minded her rather less as the months went by. Besides, one look at the wardrobe I had selected for my “half mourning” would likely put her into her own early grave.
I dragged my attention back to the Ghoul, who had been chattering happily the whole time, poking through Edward’s bits and probably marking out something she would ask for as a “memento.” That was another of her favorite tricks. No matter how far removed she had been from the deceased, she always asked for some small token to remember them by, usually the most expensive bibelot or costliest jewel in the house. Few people had the courage or cruelty to resist her, with the result that she had amassed a collection of jewels and objets d’art to rival the queen’s.
“And I told dear Hermia that I would be coming with you tonight.”
I jerked to attention. “Tonight?”
“Yes, to Hermia’s musical evening. Don’t tell me you have forgotten,” she said with a trill of laughter, sharp and brittle, nothing like Fleur’s silver bells.
Of course I had forgotten. I had begged off of her oratory contest, pleading a headache, but Aunt Hermia was nothing if not persistent. She had sent me a note more than a week before regarding the musicale, a note I had thrust aside and promptly dismissed. Aunt Hermia’s musical evenings were legendary within the family. Absences were rarely tolerated, and performances were strongly encouraged—or extorted if necessary. Occasionally other guests were invited, which made for hilarity and a boisterous evening. Other times it was just family, and those could be deadly. I wondered which this was to be and I was strongly inclined to send my regrets.
But I could not. I had missed the oratory contest and the last two musicales; a third and Aunt Hermia herself would come to Grey House to drag me out of it. Besides, I was not much enthused about spending another evening alone, reading and answering correspondence. For all their faults, my family were gregarious and animated, which I could not say for my books and letters. And as an added incentive, it was very possible that Val might be there. I longed to observe him without his being aware of it. He was so seldom at Grey House that Aunt Hermia’s entertainment might be the only chance I would have to engage him.
And do what? I asked myself later as I pondered Morag’s selections from my wardrobe. She had laid out a deep-necked, delicious violet velvet and a beautifully cut, tight crimson silk. I dithered between them, trying to imagine how I could possibly accuse my youngest brother of the attempted robbery of a new grave. Perhaps I could ask him to pass the gravy and make a dreadful pun…no, that would never do. I would simply have to go and keep my eyes sharp and my ears sharper. Perhaps I could delicately probe our family for their opinions on his sanity. It made me not a little nervous to think of sharing a house with a person capable of exhuming a young corpse simply to cut it open.
Shivering, I settled on the crimson and permitted Morag to dress me. I think we were both startled at the result. I had thought the violet revealed a bit of décolletage, but the crimson was nearly as flagrant. In fact, I felt it was a bit much for a family party, but as Morag reminded me, it wasonlya family party. Who else would be there to see and be shocked by the rather sumptuous display of bosom? I agreed with her, only because it was too late to change, and I made a note to myself never to wear the violet outside of my own home. What on earth had Monsieur Riche been thinking? Honestly.
I had just a few moments to spare and decided to spend them with Simon. The valet, Renard, was just collecting his dinner tray and he stepped aside at the doorway to let me pass.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said, casting an approving glance at my bosom. I drew back, ensuring that even my skirts would not touch him.
“Renard,” I said coolly. I could not help it. Every time I saw him, I thought of the odious drawings he had supplied to Henry and my skin crawled. He slipped past me, brushing as near as he dared, and I closed the door firmly behind him. I moved to Simon, my lips set in a deliberate smile.
“How are you this evening, dearest?”
His face brightened. “Julia! You are the very picture—turn around and let me see you properly.”
I pirouetted obediently. He watched, nodding in appreciation.
“Lovely. I did tell you bright colours, didn’t I?”
“You did,” I said, dropping a kiss to his brow. “I feel rather unlike myself, though. I’ve never worn anything quite so…”
