Page 30

In her room the filmy theatrical costumes, airing on clotheslines, swayed gently, releasing their lavender scent. Behind her dressing screen, Cordelia dropped her wrapper, stepped into a hip bath, and rinsed the salt water from her body. If only it were that easy to rinse away the angry feelings Graymont stirred in her. She closed her eyes, trying to unsee his arrogant shoulders, his throat, and muscled chest. Instead, her mind conjured an image of him slicing through the waves, dressed like Adam. At the thought, her body, cold the moment before, warmed instantly. A knock at the door made her grab a towel.

“It’s me,” Viola called softly.

“Come in,” Cordelia invited. Viola shuffled across the floor. The bed creaked as she hopped up onto it.

Cordelia continued dressing.

“Do you ever need help, Cordelia?” Viola asked. “At Lady Hester Britt’s, all the girls help each other in the morning and at night.”

“Everyone needs help,” Cordelia said. “How wise of Lady Hester Britt to encourage you girls to help one another.”

There was silence. Cordelia layered on her drawers and shift and worked the hooks on her front-closing corset. She had become quite skilled at self-dressing since Papa had begun his spending spree. “Viola, do you need some sort of help?” she asked.

“Not really. I don’t think so. I have an idea, though.”

Cordelia froze behind her screen. Viola having an idea before the sun was even properly up did not bode well for the day. “Yes?”

“I know you don’t want me to go to the castle …”

“Right.” Cordelia tied a petticoat and skirts around her and slipped her arms into her bodice.

“Especially not as a girl, because of the impropriety. Especially now that Lord G has a guest … because who knows what debauchery gentlemen may get up to in numbers.”

“Debauchery? Two gentlemen?” Cordelia asked. Lord G? “Seems unlikely. I am much more worried about the arrival of an engineering crew with tools to take down Delamere.” She stepped from behind the screen.

Viola looked hopelessly young, her nightgown pulled over her drawn-up knees, her long hair in a braid, loose strands sticking out this way and that, her expression keen, her eyes dancing with the rapidity of her thoughts. “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that, but my idea works perfectly to prevent it.”

“What idea?” Cordelia asked. She pictured her sister lying in the road to prevent the wagons passing.

“Actually, Mother’s old costumes gave me the idea. We need a porter, and we can’t use Basset, because he’s known to be our man, not Lord G’s.”

“Lord G?”

“Graymont, our Oppressor.”

“What do you imagine this porter would do?” Cordelia collected her shoes and stockings and sat on the edge of a chair to put them on.

Viola bounced a little where she sat. “Don’t you see? He’d be like the porter at the gate in the Scottish play, you know, very talkative. He’d meet the workers and let them hear all about the castle’s ghosts and the dungeon, and the curse. And he’d get information from them about what their plans were.”

“The curse? Where did you get the idea that the castle is cursed?”

“There’s an old gypsy woman who lives on the heath near Lady Hester Britt’s Academy. She knows the best curses. Even if the castle doesn’t have a curse, we should invent one. You know something like …” Viola stood on the bed, extending an arm and pointing a finger. She intoned in her deepest voice, “He who moves these stones will … find stones in his bread all the days of his life.” Viola plopped back down on the bed. “What do you think?”

“I admire the sentiment, but how is the non-curse going to keep Graymont from tearing down our walls? Which, by the way, he won’t do before our ball.” At least Cordelia did not think he would. He was enjoying their wager too much.

“Won’t he? You’re sure? You have his word? You saw him again this morning?”

Her sister was too perceptive. Cordelia leaned down to tie her shoes. “As good as. Our task must be to prepare for the ball. There’s much to be done if we are to turn these costumes into gowns and manage all the rest of it—refreshments, music, invitations.”

Cordelia straightened. That was her sister’s cue to make an offer of help. Viola’s face wore an abstracted expression that meant she was hatching a plan.

“Viola?” Cordelia asked. “Will you come with me to the village today?”

Viola’s gaze returned to Cordelia. “Yes, brilliant! It’s a plan. Turn the costumes into gowns, and we must remind Mr. Hartley of how beautiful Miranda is.”

“And Lady Frome of how respectable we are. We don’t want to lose her support,” Cordelia added.

*