“Khleb da sol. I call for the bread and salt.”
Mr. Steele leads servers into the drawing room. Like these footmen, my steward wears traditional boots, glossed and shining. The liveries are Russian-styled with frogging similar to the ones I wear, but the braids are silver over blue wool. The combination should appeal to my very English guests. The large woven trays made of Wongo cane from Logon, West Africa, the place of Gannibal’s birth, and banana leaves from Jamaica hold sliced rye bread and crystal bowls of salt.
Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Randolph stand to the side with Carew and Scarlett. I see them, pointing and smiling. They notice the brown and tan plaited trays, my attempt to blend cultures. I’m embracing all parts of my family.
Little Lada pulls a tiny wagon. It’s a sizable job, but Steele’s training is superb. The kitten heads to Katherine, but I lift the small basket of rye and salt Lada ferried. The sliced bread smells of molasses and crusty deliciousness. Caraway seeds flit off in my fingers as I take a piece. “The bread is dense and represents strength and resilience. Dip it in the cleansing salt. Then eat.”
I give a piece to Lydia. “This is a wish of respect.”
Turning to Katherine, I put a piece to her lips. “This is for peace.”
She covers my hand with hers to shield her mouth. Tears of pride are in her eyes, but for a second, only a second, my finger rests on her tongue.
Surprised, I have to blink and retreat. This is serious, reverent … no time for playful Katia. I rotate back to my guests. “Khleb da sol, na zdoróvye,” which is to say,Bread and salt, to your health.
Those familiar with the custom bow and say “spasibo,” which is Russian forthank you.
Lydia stoops for a moment to pat Lada, but Steele whistles and his orderly companion pulls her empty wagon back through the drawing room doors.
My child looks a little disappointed, but then she mimics her mother, donning a noble and peaceful countenance.
“And to my dear daughter, happy birthday. Your mother and I bless you.”
“But who is her mother?” The cranky voice sounds loud.
People turn and look.
I don’t have to. I know my enemies.
The Marquess of Prahmn applauds. His tone gets louder. “This ceremony is beautiful, but why do all this for an illegitimate daughter—and for her mother, a woman married to two men at once? I think that’s English forbigamist.”
The Marchioness of Prahmn leaves his side. She waves a fan, blocking her face. “I want no part of this, Prahmn. Thank you all for a lovely evening, Your Grace. I suggest everyone else who wants peace should leave as well.”
A few follow. Most stay.
Carew tries to get the aunties to leave, but they shake their fingers at him.
“No, Stephen. I want to see His Grace defend Lady Hampton,” Mrs. Smith says as she smooths her jeweled turban.
Mrs. Randolph crosses her arms. “Yes, nephew. I want to see how the other half feuds.” She’s not budging.
I step forward, out of the protective circle forming about Lydia and Katherine. “Prahmn, you’re back after your exile to Spain. Most neighbors would bring fruit or at least a cask of Jerez, that wonderful sherry from Frontera.”
“How did you know I’d … Oh no, Torrance. No distracting me from your comeuppance. Tell everyone why you’ve taken over the Court of Chancery and made them recognize an illegitimate child as a girl of society.”
“Make him stop saying that, Jahleel.” Katherine pulls Lydia behind her. She glares at the marquess with daggers in her eyes. “Or I will.”
“I’ll take care of this, Lady Hampton. Prahmn must admit to this being his fault.”
Waving his hands, the man steps closer. “You’re lying. Did you find the girl in a brothel? Is she just a by-blow?”
The crowd gasps. Someone yells, “What’s wrong with brothels?”
Noting that Lord Mark and Carew are now standing with my two loves, I charge forward, ready for battle. “Prahmn, your hatred for me, for my parents, frightened all who cared for me. As I fought for my legacy, Katherine watched how you and your pack of jackals tortured me in the press. She knew if it had become public knowledge that I had a Blackamoor wife and that she was expecting, you’d defraud me. My wife hid in secret, but the strain of what you and your colleagues put us through caused my wife to miscarry one of our twins.”
The whispers in the crowd now become deafening, but I want them to chant with me, “The blood of Andrew Jahleelovich Charles, the Viscount Audben, is on your hands. Pregnancy is a difficult venture. It’s too often deadly. Your vileness and hate killed my heir.”
Fans flutter. Necks stretch to look at the spectacle.
