She called for a cab and paid in advance, settling into the seat. Halfway there she realized her mistake. The party! Would she have enough time to make it to Palace Court and back and still have time to dress? Calculations flooded her mind.
It was ten minutes to Palace Court by hansom, twenty minutes gone with there and back. And it would take fifteen to walk to the Renaldi’s, so they would need to leave by quarter to seven at the latest to still be on time. That would leave just about fifty minutes for her to get ready. Would that be enough time? Especially with how particular the Renaldis were about decorum?
Goodness, Walker was still earning their esteem. What if she didn’t make it in time? Would they judge him based on her actions?
What if Byron had already left for Swan Walk? Or even worse, what if he had forgotten about the engagement and wasn’t ready himself?
The cab slowed in front of Palace Court and her nerves calmed by the slightest degree. The lights were on. That meant he was home. And she’d made good time. Perhaps she would befit to be seen for the party. She certainly wasn’t ready as she was. Her walking dress was wrinkled from unpacking all day and she hadn’t done anything with her hair. Her curls were bobbing about all over the place. But it didn’t matter. They had a lead!
She opened the door, calling for him as she came into the sitting room. “Byron? One of your letters—”
Her words caught in her throat as she took in the scene. Byron stood by the mantle, fully dressed in evening wear, eyes wide as he glanced between her and the other occupants of the room. His brother, Castel Sherard, sat in the armchair next to the hearth with a sly smirk on his face and two women sat on the sofa that faced the window. She was in full view of them all as they stared at her.
The younger of the two women had red hair with streaks of grey in it, pulled into an updo with frizzy curls cascading down. She glared at Mira, her nose wrinkling, as if she was affronted that Mira had interrupted.
The older sat closest to Castel. She was trim and petite. Her silver hair peeked out from under her lace cap and her blue eyes betrayed no emotion beneath rimmed spectacles. She simply looked Mira up and down and turned to Byron, saying, “Castel mentioned a girl. I didn’t realize she was so... familiar with you.”
Mira’s face burned, her mind going blank.
Byron cleared his throat. “Yes, Mamma. This... this is Samira Blayse. Miss Blayse, this is my mother, Mary Haughton Clarke Sherard, and my sister, Mary.”
His mother hummed. “And what is the situation that seemed more important than dressing oneself for the day? Or knocking, for that matter?”
Another rush of warmth came over her. This was not how she intended to meet Byron’s mother. Not that she had particularly thought about the prospect. Yes, she’d thought ingeneral about what a relationship with a fictional mother-in-law might be like, but it hadn’t occurred to her that it would be Byron’s mother. In fact, before this moment, she had quite forgotten that he even had one. If she were to decide on the worst first impression, this was certainly it.
“I-I...” She drew her gaze to Byron. She had intended to tell him all about Selene, but it wouldn’t do in present company. She held out the letter and Byron took it. “I brought you one of your letters.”
“It couldn’t wait?” Castel asked, leaning forward.
She glanced at the clock, trying to think up a good lie. “Well, there was also the matter of our engagement this evening at the Renaldi’s.” She looked back at Byron. “I knew you intended to arrive at quarter after and when you weren’t there...”
“You thought I had forgotten.” Byron nodded. “I was... well.” He glanced at his family. “I intend to come as soon as possible.”
“Yes. I came to make sure... well, I thought it would be best.” Mira took a breath. “I’ll see you at the Renaldi’s, then.”
She gave a quick curtsy and rushed to the door, escaping judgement, scrutiny, and Palace Court all at once, grateful, at least, that the letter was no longer burning a hole in her pocket.
February 4, 1889: Evening
Mira’s ears were still hot as Mr.Renaldi regaled the table with a story she was certain she had heard before. She stirred her soup a little, trying not to think about how terribly she had ruined her first meeting with Byron’s mother. Byron sat across from her, out of discreet earshot due to the Renaldi’s ridiculous adherence to the old traditions. Mira never understood why it was necessary for the gentlemen to sit by a different lady from the one he accompanied to the table.
Georges had been assigned to sit with and attend her. He’d never been to a dinner party before and she could feel the nervousness rolling off him. Mira had already helped him to avoid humiliation in choosing which utensils to use. Walker sat on Mira’s other side, and since he was assigned to sit with the notorious chaperone, Aunt Eleanor, he wasn’t faring any better. Byron and Liza seemed to be getting along alright, and her aunt and uncle were doing swimmingly with Mr. and Mrs. Renaldi, respectively. All in all, the party was turning out to be a success. Mrs. Renaldi would have to be congratulated. Not too much, of course, lest she think it an insincere compliment.
Regardless of the triumph of the seating arrangements, it meant that Mira hadn’t had a moment to talk with Byron abouther impropriety that afternoon, what they were going to do about it, and why his family had been there in the first place, let alone discuss Selene’s letter. He kept sending her glances across the table and every time their eyes met her embarrassment resurfaced.
“I can’t believe it myself,” Cyrus said. The conversation had moved on without her noticing. Her uncle continued, “Why would a crown prince take his own life, I ask you?”
“And his mistress as well,” Mr. Renaldi said. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors that it was a political assassination.”
“Yes, but then why cover it up by saying it was suicide?” Mrs. Renaldi asked.
“We don’t have all the facts, yet,” Byron said. “It’s been less than a week.”
“Do we know who is next in line?” Liza asked.
“Archduke Karl Ludwig,” Cyrus said. “The emperor’s brother. And then his son, I think. Franz Ferdinand.”
“The whole business is dreadful,” Loretta said. “His poor mother.”
