“A verified expert, I hear.” I waited a moment, then repeated: “When is the hunt?”
He held up a finger. “Take mallards. The female quacks are softer. More subdued. Males have a distinct and louder quack.”
I nodded. “That does not come as a surprise—”
“And they follow their mother from birth.”
“Yes, and then we eat them. Your knowledge must be prized at court.”
He bobbed his head enthusiastically, and I interrupted, before he could tell me more about the ducks. “Will you tell me where you will hunt this evening?”
“I can’t,” he protested. “For we are not hunting until tomorrow.”
“Shame.” I tutted. “For the party is tonight.”
But I smiled to myself as I turned away, for I had gotten the information I needed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A scheme was forming in my mind—a design steadily unfolding. It required, of all things, items that had belonged to Elin’s mother.
Remnants of Bramley’s history were tucked away in its forgotten attic, an area of refuse I had combed through countless times searching for sellable treasures. My footsteps were noisy in the dim expanse, each creak of the floorboards echoing off the aging and broken relics: an old-fashioned spinning wheel, a fractured stool, a looking glass with a crack down the center. My own battered trunk—carted from my childhood home to the Tremaines’ manor to Bramley—collected dust in a corner. As I passed, I ran a finger along its lid, looping a quickhellointo the grime on its surface.
After Robert died, when there was no one left to dust the perfumes and oils in his first wife’s quarters, when the only hands that might have fluffed the pillows and swept the floors were my own, I decided it was time to put her personal belongings away. I undertook the careful folding of her garments into cedarwood chests and the stacking of her half-finished paintings, ferrying the remainders of the unknown womaninto the recesses and hollows above our head. All her belongings still sat, neatly stacked, covered in cobwebs, under the eaves of our home.
I pulled out a few of the woman’s half-finished canvases, inspecting the artwork in the weak light. Blank circles of stiff cloth stood out against dark backgrounds. A primary hobby of Elin’s mother had been, it appeared, painting bowls of fruit. Apples.
“Naturally,” I said out loud, and tried to blow some of the dust from the canvas. I could not escape the hard fruit.
We had sold almost all the bushels Moussa had carted into market—and it had been just enough to cover the day’s purchases. Cloth for the dresses, three yards of lace, new feathers, and wages to Alice and Moussa that were so small they were solely symbolic. The earnings had not covered Wenthelen’s requested essentials—no meat, nor any cheese—let alone the recovery of my cameo.
I selected two small paintings. The incomplete canvases needed a good dusting but would suit my purposes. Tucking one under each arm, I picked my way back across the wide floorboards, and descended back downstairs.
Her mother’s apples were as good a reminder as any—I needed to talk to Elin.
I found her playing a game of patience by the window of the drawing room, the cards spread out on a small table. “Stepmother!” She stood when she saw me.
“I have brought you the fabric you needed for your train and petticoat.” I watched her carefully. “And I do think it will be a good match for the gown.” I laid a parcel upon the table. “Go ahead, open it.”
She worked on the string, and, when it had loosened, took care unfolding the paper. I continued: “I think the color will set off your hair. We’ll dye your feathers to agree. Of course, if it is not a good color match with the other pieces you’ve started, there is a trunk of yourmother’s old items in the attic, and perhaps we can find something in there.”
I waited.
“Thank you,” she said, at length.
“Is that all?”
She stared at me. “The color is pretty.”
I looked down at the maroon fabric, which had cost me my cameo—at least in part. “Do you mean to say you have not gone to the rag-and-bone man and collected the money?”
She glanced away. “I have every intention of repaying you.”
Holding my breath, I unfolded the cloth I had bought for her, covering the cards on the table. “I secured this as a kindness for you, at great personal sacrifice. I expect to be repaid.”
“Certainly,” she said, nodding. “Trust is a fragile bloom that must be nurtured in the soil of steadfast commitment. I give you my word that once I am married and have my dowry, I will repay you.”
“You are not even engaged.” I thought of my mother’s countenance, trapped beneath the pawnbroker’s glass, and fought an urge to slap her. “And you are sitting here playing cards.”
