well in hand. He gave a quick laugh and flashed Plum a charming smile.
“Ah, you have been in Italy, Mr. Eglamour, where I will wager you learned a philosophy or two.”
“Indeed not,” Plum returned, his handsome mouth twisted with sarcasm. “I think little of a man whose morality may be swayed by his company. A man ought to think for himself and know what is right, and what I know to be right, Mr. Snow,” he added with deadly precision, “is that those Roma have as much right as you or I to rear their families as they see fit.”
I sighed. I had forgotten how rabid Plum could be on the subject of the Gypsies. He simply adored them. Once, when he was eight or so, and Father had confined him to his room for some transgression, he had packed his most treasured possessions into a tiny bundle and slipped out, scaling the Abbey walls with the aid of some helpful ivy. He had turned up at the Gypsy camp, thoroughly soaked from swimming the moat, and insisting defiantly that he would never go back.
The Gypsies dried his clothes and fed him, and when he was full and content, they brought him home, explaining patiently that if a lord’s son was found among them, they would be taken in for kidnapping. Plum was an impetuous boy, but not a vicious one. He saw at once his new friends would suffer if he insisted upon staying. Reluctantly, squelching water out of his sodden shoes with every step, Plum returned. But he never forgot the kindness they had shown him, and whenever a question of Gypsy rights was raised, he was passionate in their defence. He made Father promise always to let them camp in the river meadow, and insisted the rest of us call them by their proper name, Roma. More than once as a lad he had engaged in fisticuffs when one of the village boys had taunted the Gypsies or thrown stones at them. I only prayed he would not brawl with the curate over the dinner table.
But Mr. Snow was determined to avoid a quarrel. He raised a hand, his expression genial. “Peace, Mr. Eglamour! I would no more spar with you than with your lovely sister. And indeed, who could be at odds when we have such good food, such fine company, and such a festive occasion?”
He raised his glass to us then, and we responded in kind, although I noticed Plum still looked faintly murderous.
Father settled back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “I propose a visit then. Tomorrow. We shall gather our party together and go to Blessingstoke. Fly can show off his church and his vicarage garden, what’s left of it at this time of year at least. And we can call on the Romanies as well. The gentlemen can look over the horses, and what lady does not like to have her fortune told?”
There was a flash of excitement, murmurs from every quarter. Only Aunt Dorcas spoke audibly. “You oughtn’t mix with them, Hector,” she said to Father. “Some here might be unbelievers, and the presence of sceptics will disrupt the vibrations of their psychic gifts.”
“For God’s sake,” I heard Lysander mutter, “has she been at the whiskey again?”
“Gin,” Plum murmured back. “That was always her drink.”
Unfortunately, Aunt Dorcas, like most of the aunts, had a tendency to tipple. None of them admitted to it, of course. Most of them sipped whiskey genteelly by the spoonful, claiming it was medicinal. Aunt Dorcas took a more forthright approach. She carried a flask, filled every morning by her devoted maid. For many years, the flask was tucked into her knitting bag, but when Plum was a boy he had poured out her gin and substituted vinegar instead. After that, she took to carrying it in her garters.
Aunt Dorcas opened her mouth again, but Father was too quick for her. “We shall make an outing of it. Any who do not wish to go may stay here, of course, but the rest of us mean to enjoy ourselves, vibrations be damned. Now, let us speak of something else. I am thoroughly bored with this subject. Mrs. King, have you read Lord Dalkeith’s paper on the use of classical allusion in the sonnets of Shakespeare? It’s rubbish of course, but I wondered what you thought of it.”
Aunt Dorcas lapsed into furious silence, or rather into furiously muttering at her vegetables. But as her complaints were not audible to the rest of the company, we ignored her and turned our attention to Mrs. King.
She had ducked her head at Father’s question and was blushing furiously, darting little glances from under her lashes. “Oh, your lordship, I hardly think I possess either the education or the natural intelligence to speak on such matters in such company. But I did think Lord Dalkeith’s point about the Parthenon to be very well-argued, did you not, my lord?” she asked, turning to Brisbane.
Brisbane, in the middle of a very fine gâteau, paused. “Naturally I would defer to Lord March’s opinion. I believe he has already questioned Lord Dalkeith’s sources, is that not correct, my lord?” he asked, returning the question neatly to Father. Portia had mentioned his recent attendance at Father’s society meetings, but to my knowledge Brisbane had no great love of literature. The only books I had seen in his rooms had been of an eclectic and scholarly bent. There were volumes on the natural sciences, history, warfare, and—oddly enough—lives of the mystic saints, but no plays, no poetry, no novels. Why then this sudden attachment to Shakespeare?
I looked from Brisbane, newly enthusiastic on the scriptures of the Bard, to my father, their greatest prophet. And in between them sat Mrs. King, a picture of pink-and-white innocence, wearing a betrothal ring from Brisbane on her left hand and chattering happily with both of them.
And I wondered precisely what my father had been doing while I was away.
After the conversation about Shakespeare had wound to a close and the gâteau was thoroughly savoured, Portia rose and gestured for the ladies to follow. At Bellmont Abbey, ladies withdrew, but not in quite the same fashion as in other great houses. Here, ladies were taken to the lesser drawing room to drink their own spirits and smoke a bit of tobacco without the gentlemen present. Hoots always fussed about the smell getting into the draperies, but Aunt Hermia just told him to open the windows and sweep the carpets, that the dogs were worse. Usually, the ladies greatly enjoyed a chance to “let down their back hair”, and even the primmest of women was seduced into conviviality by our habits. Confidences were exchanged, little jokes made, and many ladies later claimed that the evenings they spent at Bellmont Abbey were among the most amiable of their lives.
I, however, was in no mood to be amiable. I was tired from the journey, and more than a little eager to gain the privacy of my room and turn over the many questions that had been puzzling me all evening. But I did not have the energy to make my excuses to Portia. She could have taught Torquemada a thing or two about extracting information, and I knew I would not escape her without endless questions. It seemed simpler just to follow along and endure.
As we withdrew, I noticed Violante, lagging behind, her hand pressed to her stomach. I slowed my steps to match hers.
“Violante, are you quite all right?”
She nodded. “The English food. It is not very good. Heavy. Like rocks.”
I bristled, but did not mention how perfectly inedible I had found gnocchi. “I am sorry you are unwell. Won’t you join us for a little while? I can have Aquinas brew up a tisane for you.”
She shook her head. “I have the fennel pastilles in my room. They make me right. Buona notte, Giulia.”
I kissed her cheek and sent her on her way, envying her a little. The poor girl looked every bit as exhausted as I felt. But as I entered the lesser drawing room, I noticed an undercurrent that immediately piqued my interest. Lucy and Emma were seated on a sofa, their heads close together as they darted glances about the room and murmured softly. Portia was busy fussing with decanters and glasses, and Aunt Dorcas had entrenched herself firmly in the best armchair. Hortense had
