“You should not,” Rosie cried, half horrified.
Mathilde did it again and a sudden eruption of laughter seized the both of them, all tension dissolving into shared amusement. But Rosie’s laughter quickly transformed into a series of hiccups, and fresh tears adorned her cheeks once more.
“Oh, Rosie.” I took a step toward her.
She swiftly rose, gesturing for both Mathilde and me to depart. “I am”—she got a faraway look—“quite tired.”
I quickly found myself back alone in my own chambers, sitting next to the delicate wedding sleeves. The frayed edges, the beautiful cloth—they were as fitting an emblem as any of all my joy and sorrow. Falling asleep, I wondered if their very presence was a potent symbol, or if the two slips of fabric were just remnants from a distant, better-forgotten past.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“I am cross with you,” Lavinia said, before she had even stepped from her coach. Like a dog bred to sniff out weakness, she had arrived the next day—interrupting our flurry of preparations—flushed a deeper shade of scarlet than usual. “To find out from gossip and cackle and idle chatter”—she landed in the gravel and steadied herself—“that my dearest, closest, most cherished friend has a child to be wedded to the prince?” She pushed past me, into the entry hall, which was filled with candlesticks waiting to be polished.
Finnian emerged from the carriage mouth behind her, but I did not have time to greet him. Lavinia was already inside, opening the door to a state room we did not use. It was the wrong space to entertain in—we had kept the drawing room and hall to much higher standards—but it was better than if Lavinia had marched around to the back of the house. Happy to allow her to settle far from the view of the roofline, I followed. In the briefest of moments she had been alone in the room, mydearest friendhad already established herself into one of the chaises.
“The position I was put in,” she continued, “where I could neither confirm nor deny to others, when all it would have taken was a letter.” She paused, finally, and looked around. “Did you redecorate?”
“We are in the middle of finding new things,” I explained at a brisk clip.
“Finnie! Finnian!” She craned her head toward the open door. “We are in here!”
Her son appeared at the doorway. His hair had been zealously combed and his ears had the pinkness of a recent washing. “Don’t dawdle!” his mother called. “In! In, in,in! We can’t keep Etheldreda all day, she is clearly preparing for company.” She swiveled her head and held me with a steady gaze.
I took hold of a brass bell on a dust-covered table, and rang it, hoping someone would hear and come to my assistance. I nodded. “We are indeed—”
“And my children asked me this morning if they would be included in these events, and I assured them, naturally, that there was no question of it! Not with a friendship such as ours.” She turned a shrewd eye back to the room. “My dear, where are your paintings?”
“They are being restored,” I lied.
She clicked her tongue. Finnian, taking a seat beside her, said nothing. I rang the brass bell again, more forcefully.
“It is difficult to find responsive help, isn’t it?” Lavinia sighed.
I stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go find someone to assist with some refreshments.”
She breathed out wearily. “Excused.”
The kitchen was busy with preparations for the prince’s visit. Mathilde sat in a flour-covered apron, punching dough alongside Alice, who had returned late the night before. Wenthelen was in her usual place, overseeing the bubbling dishes on the hearth and in the ovens. And at the table, a woman sat, her legs stuck straight out on the floorin front of her. She held a polishing cloth, but there was no silver or brass laid out.
“Who are you?” I asked, in surprise.
“This is Morwen,” Alice informed me.
“Morwen.” I nodded as she stood. Turning back to Alice, I asked, “Just one?”
“Just one,” she confirmed.
“Botheration.” I released a tired breath. “Did no one hear my bell?”
“Who has time to pay any mind to a bell?” Wenthelen wielded an iron poker to push a pot closer to the embers of the fire.
“The Enrights are here, and—”
“Morwen,” Alice interrupted, “this is the lady of the house.”
“We’re roasting our guts in here preparing for tomorrow’s luncheon.” Wenthelen wiped her brow on her upper arm.
Morwen, broad-shouldered and clean-haired, watched us, but avoided my eyes. From her bewildered glances between Wenthelen and myself, I deduced she had yet to make sense of our unusual dynamic. I looked her over. She was the same age as I, or close to it. Had she been younger, I would have benefitted from the authority of age. Older, and I would have the advantage of youth.
