The Gates of Sleep

Unless, of course, she could sufficiently cow her charge to make her think that Mary Anne could not possibly be dispensed with.

So—the removal of the “serious” books might be on Madam’s orders, to ensure that Marina concentrated on learning social graces and didn’t bury her nose in a book. But Mary Anne would find it in her best interests to remove anything that would help Marina do without her. Having confiscated books once, she certainly wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

Definitely, Marina had better hide her latest acquisitions.

Where? Not in among her clothing—Mary Anne would be sure to find them there. And the first place anyone would look for hidden treasures would be under the bed or the mattress.

In my room—

The thought was parent to the deed; within a moment, she had gathered up her purloined books and whisked them into Sebastian’s old room. She shoved them under the mattress, smoothed over the dust-cloth, and hurried back to the sitting room. When Mary Anne returned, she was putting her instruments and music away.

“Do you suppose there would be a music stand I could have here?” she asked the maid diffidently.

“You should practice in the music room, miss,” Mary Anne replied with a frown. “That’s what it’s for. You wouldn’t want to disturb people with your practicing.”

So, music practice was among the permitted activities—though who she was going to disturb was a mystery, since she hadn’t seen anyone but servants except Madam since she arrived, and this wasn’t the servants’ wing.

Well, perhaps Madam was planning to entertain soon, which would put guests in this wing. Hmm. She must have taken my parents’ suite. It would, of course, be the largest and best-appointed. Somehow she couldn’t imagine Madam settling for anything less.

And I certainly wouldn’t want that suite. This is cavernous enough for me, thank you.

“Yes, but changing temperatures are very bad for lutes,” Marina replied. “The necks crack very easily. It shouldn’t be in a room that doesn’t have a constant fire in it in winter.” This, of course, was not true—but Mary Anne wouldn’t know that.

The maid sniffed. “I’ll have someone find a stand,” she said, as if conferring a great favor. “In the meantime, miss, it’s time for luncheon.”

Marina followed the maid to the dining room again; she was glad to see Peter there, but even happier that she’d had a chance to study one of those etiquette books last night. The number of supercilious coughs was far fewer, and if the food was just as bland and tasteless as before, at least she got a bit more of it this time.

Madam joined her at luncheon as well; Marina could only watch her covertly, marveling that she actually seemed to enjoy what was set before her—as much as Madam Arachne ever appeared to enjoy anything.

Halfway through, Madam cleared her throat delicately, “I should like you to meet my son Reginald this afternoon,” she said, as Marina looked up quickly. “He can help immeasurably in instructing you in polite conversation. And as we have a grama-phone, he can also teach you to dance properly. I am assuming you have never learned?”

She shook her head. “Only country dances, Madam,” she replied truthfully. “And not often.”

“Well, you’re not completely ungraceful; I think he can manage,” Madam Arachne said coolly. “Mary Anne, please show miss to the music room when luncheon is over.”

“Of course, Madam,” the maid said, with a servility she had not demonstrated until this moment.

Luncheon was very soon deemed to be over, with the arrival of a blancmange; since Marina detested blancmange, she toyed with her portion and was not displeased to have it taken away when Madam rose and left to go back to whatever it was that she was doing. Work, presumably. Something to do with the estate, perhaps. Accounts. Whoever reigned over Oakhurst would have to be an estate manager as well as the head of the household; there were the tenant farms to manage as well as the home farm, and the household accounts to run.

Or perhaps she was dealing with her own businesses—after all, hadn’t she said that she had three pottery manufactories? Or was it four? Marina could not imagine Madam leaving the details of her businesses to anyone other than herself.

Another trek through the house brought them to the door of the music room, which had a fire in the fireplace, but which, by the chill still in the air, had not had one there for long. There was a harp, shrouded in a cover and probably out of tune, and a piano in the corner, a grouping of sofas and chairs about the fireplace, and an expanse of clear floor for dancing. There was also, more prominently, an expensive gramophone on a table of its own, and records shelved beside it.

Mary Anne simply left her there to her own devices; she thought about examining the recordings for the gramophone, but if the device was Reginald’s rather than belonging to the house, the young man might resent her touching it. So instead, she examined the harp. As she had expected, it had been de-tuned, but by the amount of wear on it, someone had been used to playing it often.

Mother, probably. Marina didn’t really remember if Uncle Thomas had ever said anything about her mother playing the harp, but it was the instrument of choice for young women of her mother’s generation.

“Not a bad instrument, but I’d rather play the gramophone,” said a careless-sounding male voice from the door. She turned.

And there he was, leaning indolently against the doorframe. Posed, in fact. There was no doubt that Reginald was Madam Arachne’s son; he had her pale coloring, black hair, and finely chiseled features—but where it was impossible to decide what Madam Arachne felt about anything, Reginald wore a look of sardonic amusement and an air of general superiority as casually as he wore his impeccably tailored suit. “Hello, cuz,” he continued, sauntering across the room and holding out his hand. “I’m Reggie.”

“Marina,” she replied, not particularly wanting to offer her hand, but constrained to by politeness. He’s going to kiss it instead of shaking it, she thought grimly. He’ll make a flourish out of it, to impress me with how Continental he is.

And he did exactly that, taking the half-extended hand and kissing the back of it, letting it go with a mocking little click of bootheels.

“So, the mater thinks we ought to have a turn or two around the ballroom,” he continued. “I understand you don’t dance?”

“Only country dances,” she repeated reluctantly, as he cranked the gramophone and selected a recording, then mounted it on the machine, dropped the needle in the groove, and held out his hand to her imperiously as a waltz sounded from the horn.

“You don’t dance,” he repeated, dismissively. “Well, I’m reckoned handy at it; you need have no fear, fair cuz. Just do what I do, only opposite and backwards.” His eyebrow raised, drawing her attention to his cleverness.

Annoyingly enough, he was a good dancer, and didn’t make her feel as if she had no more grace than a young calf. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the not-altogether-hidden smirk of superiority he wore, she might have enjoyed herself. He was not only a good dancer, he was a good instructor. She was good at country dances, and her skill carried over into the popular and ballroom dances that he showed her.

Fortunately, the other half of the program—that polite conversation he was supposed to be teaching her— didn’t require much on her part except to listen attentively and murmur vague agreement while he talked.

And how he talked—she had to wonder how much of it was true and how much boasting.

Not that it mattered much; whichever it was, so far as she was concerned, his general attitude was so detestable that she was hard put to conceal it from him—and she did so in the only way she could think of. She stared fixedly at him as if she hung on his every word, while all the time trying to work out how she could get away from him.

In the end, she didn’t have to; Mary Anne arrived to announce the advent of teatime, and Reggie sprang to his feet with an oath that wasn’t quite muffled enough.

“You won’t catch me sipping that cursed stuff!” he laughed rudely. “Well, cuz, I’ll be off; I’ll have my tea down in the village pub. I expect this will be a regular meeting for us from now on. Mater wants you to be ready for