“Laura’s girl? Laura and Duke.”
“Oh yes. Duke. The Irish boy.”
I smile, my breath coming out in a rush. “Yes. The Irish boy. I’m his daughter. Don’t you remember me? I suppose it’s been a while.” I pick up a fringed shawl hanging from the piano bench and approach my aunt slowly. “Here, let me cover your shoulders with this.”
“Laura and Duke’s girl. Laura ... she had such a beautiful voice. It’s awfully drafty for June, isn’t it?” Marguerite shakes her head, white hair falling about her shoulders in a tangled mess. Why has no one bothered to brush it? Or dress her properly?
“It’s July, but it’s been raining,” I say gently, averting my eyes as I wrap the shawl around her. “Your maid is bringing coffee. Will you come sit with me? I’ve been looking forward to our visit.”
I lead her to the sofa. She lowers herself gracefully, fanning out the flimsy peignoir as if it’s an ermine cloak. She crosses her ankles primly, knees together. Despite Marguerite’s scandalous attire, all the etiquette my great-grandmother instilled in her youngest daughter remains apparent.
“How have you been, Auntie?”
“I’ve been well. I’ve just returned from Venice.”
There’s not a chance in hell Marguerite has just returned from Italy. “Venice? You’re sure?”
“Yes, my dear. I go every year. Pia has an apartment near Campo Santa Margherita.” She winks. “That’s the saint I’m named for.”
I squeeze her hand. “Saint Margaret. The willful and rebellious one.” Although I know my saints well, I have no earthly idea who Pia is.
“Springtime is the best time to go to Venice. Summer brings miasma. Cholera. All that water.”
“I’ve never been.”
“That’s a shame. You should see it while you’re young.”
When Melva comes with the coffee service and sees Marguerite’s state of undress, her eyes widen. “Miss Thorne! My goodness.” Teacups rattle together as she nearly drops her tray.
“Here, let me help you.” I rush to the maid’s aid, taking the heavy-laden tray from her. “Why isn’t she dressed?” I whisper.
“I dressed her just this morning, miss. I promise. She takes everything right off again. She greeted the iceman last week, naked as a babe.”
“Shhh,” I say. “You’ll upset her.” I place the tray on the coffee table in front of Marguerite.
“You know, there’s not a thing at all wrong with my hearing.” Marguerite reaches for the silver coffeepot and daintily pours two cups, then adds cream and a single sugar cube to hers. “I don’t know why everyone is always in such a dither over me,” she says, tossing back her head. “I can manage my wardrobe quite well. And everything else, for that matter.”
I take my place next to her and flavor my coffee with cream and sugar. “We’re only concerned for you. Louise told me about your fall.”
“The cat got wrapped around my ankles and I tripped. You can see for yourself I’m fine.”
I look around for a cat but see no evidence of one. Melva meets my eyes, gives a slight shake of her head. “I’d better put the groceries away,” she says, edging for the doorway. “Will you need anything else, Miss Halloran?”
“No, thank you.”
“That one isn’t very bright. But she’s capable,” Marguerite says conspiratorially after Melva leaves. “The last maid didn’t change my bedclothes for a month.”
I can’t help the grimace that passes over my face. “I might stay on with you, for a while, if that’s all right. Help you manage your staff and your social calendar.”
Marguerite’s eyes light up. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.”
“But a pretty girl like you should be at parties. Courting with callers.”
“I’m through with all of that. I’m ready for a quieter life, Aunt Marg.”
“That’s too bad. I was in my prime at your age. Oh, the stories I could tell you!”
