“We jest, of course,” Delilah added, hurriedly.
And then she bravely asked the thing that worried her most, given how kind these ladies had been. “What if the verynotionof me turns everyone away from The Grand Palace on the Thames, forever?”
“We’ve withstood worse,” Mrs. Hardy said calmly. “And survived.”
“We’ve discussed all of this and weighed the odds, Miss Wylde, and we have decided to bet on you,” Mrs. Durand told her, firmly. “We thought you could sing for forty-five minutes, with a break between, and—”
“Forty,” Mariana countered. “With an intermission to meet the guests.” Mainly because she liked to negotiate.
“Done—we thought surely you canbreaktheir cold black hearts during the show, and then win them during the intermission?”
She smiled slowly. Mariana frankly thought she could do exactly that. A few light ballads, then a hanky-soaker of a popular ballad, an aria from Giancarlo’s opera,The Glass Rose, the one that would simplyscourtheir souls, and leave the more tender-hearted members of the audienceprostratewith emotion, then perhaps a Rossini aria...
And then, during the intermission, by God, she would enchant them. She would unleash all of her native charm, well-seasoned with a little skillful acting and flattery. She would be so genteel and gracious and witty and so clearly noble of spirit that they would all depart thinking,There’s no way that angelic creature is capable of a single indiscretion, let alone shagging her way through the House of Lords. The newspapers must have gotten it wrong.
Because it was all she had in the world. That was it: she was pretty, she had charm, she could sing. It seemed a rather thin layer of protection between her and the abyss, but it would have to be enough.
Even before the duel, her career had begun to seem like an endless plow through a thicket—her path would clear a bit, and then she’d come across another dangling, tangling vine. She was growing weary of brazening her way through conversations she only partly understood, because they were a meld of English and Italian, a language she’d never learned, which meant the only wayshe could perform arias was by imitation. And she was weary of managing men as skillfully as a conductor directs an orchestra: dodging their hands while flattering them, keeping them at bay while still keeping them interested. She wasverygood at flirting, but it seemed terribly unfair that it had become something of a grim chore.
All she wanted to do was sing. And maybe make one thousand pounds per season, like Madame Catalani, who could make her own rules. And make sure her mother was safe and happy and comfortable in her own house. Entertaininganydesire beyond those things was a sheer luxury.
So they all shook hands on it, she and Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand. She liked their confidence; it was bolstering and contagious, and somehow, she knew it was built from experience, which was the best kind of confidence.
She’d needed to agree to The Grand Palace on the Thames rules, too, in order to stay here, and so far she’d found every one of them delightful. She had never lived in a place so exclusive it came with a list of requirements for guests printed on a little card. This thrilled her, rather, and she kept it on the desk so she could look at it.
All guests will eat dinner together at least four times per week.
The food here washeavenly. It was all she could do not to seize her plate and lick it after every dinner. Helga, the cook, was a genius. One had to be quick, however, to keep up with Mr. Delacorte, who created foodscapes, mountains of potatoes and rivers of gravy, on his plate, which he then swiftly, cleanly demolished the way a vengeful God might with a tornado. It was an awe-inspiring thing to witness.
All guests must gather in the drawing room after dinner for at least an hour at least four times per week. We feel it fosters a sense of friendship and the warm, familial, congenial atmosphere we strive to create here at The Grand Palace on the Thames.
She wouldnotbe flirting with anyone’s husbands, though when she got a look at Captain Hardy and Lord Bolt, she had cause to be grateful indeed for their sheer decorative appeal. But there was a sort of sealed, inviolable contentment to people deeply in love; she’d recognized the same quality in her parents. It made her wistful and restless. The whirlwind world in which she found herself now was full of the window dressings of it, the flirting and sex and flattery and drama. When all of that was cleared away—say, by a gunshot—emptiness remained. She wasn’t certain whether it was a mercy or not that she knew this.
All guests should be quietly respectful and courteous of other guests at all times, though spirited discourse is welcome.
So far the spirited discourse involved how they intended to decorate the ballroom for the Night of the Nightingale and whether they ought to play Whist or read aloud fromThe Ghost in the Attic.
Mr. Delacorte was jolly and pleasant, and his lovely blue eyes were twinklingly appreciative of Mariana’s feminine charms, but she got the sense he preferred a cozier sort of female, rather than the more sparkly sort, which she was. They recognized in each other a fellow card, and became fast friends. He imported remedies from the Orient and India, which he then sold to surgeons and apothecaries up and down England, and he’d shown her the samples in his case, little pills, vials, teas, and powders. “Ground-up herbs and animal whatnot!” he’d said. “Most of ’em work a treat.” He’d entered a business partnership with Captain Hardy, who owned a ship, and Lord Bolt, who already had a successful enterprise importing goods from the Orient. He resembled a sturdy, well-fed Welsh pony, and laughed a good deal.
Mrs. Pariseau, a dashing widow with snapping dark eyes and wonderful silver stripes in her dark hair, was clever and worldly but quick with a laugh and a wink. She’d played Faro with Mariana last night; they’d placed wagers using buttons, and Mrs. Pariseau had lost nearly all of them. And now Mariana was learning to play chess from Dot, who had learned it from Delacorte.
She’d learned that Dot was a collector of vocabulary words, too, another person who was compelled to learn by listening.
They all got on famously. No one seemed to mind that she had been in the gossip columns. After all, Lord Bolt lived here, too.
There was also, unfortunately, an epithet jar, however. It always seemed to hover accusingly on the periphery of her vision, as if it knew how often she wanted to let fly with a “bloody,” which would cost her a pence. She couldn’t risk it.
Guests may entertain other guests in the drawing room.
Which was the genteelest possible way of saying that bedrooms were for sleeping, not for orgies.
Curfew is at 11:00 p.m. The front door will be securely locked then. You will need to wait until morning to be admitted if you miss curfew.
She quite liked knowing she was securely locked in at night. Dot might have opened the door to one gently pleading woman, but surely she wouldn’t be tempted to allow in a mob howling for her blood? She amused herself briefly by imagining the proprietresses calmly conducting interviews with people holding torches and pitchforks, one at a time.
If the proprietresses collectively decide that a transgression or series of transgressions warrants your eviction from The Grand Palace on the Thames, you will find your belongings neatly packed and placed near the front door. You will not be refunded the balance of your rent.
She could notimaginedoing a thing to jeopardize those rules, in light of the kindness of the ladies of The Grand Palace on the Thames. She could well understand why Mr. Delacorte and Mrs. Pariseau never wanted to leave, if their rooms were anything like hers.
