‘In a different meaning of the word, yes, Rafe, it does,’ Constance says.
‘I will not dress as a saint this year, aunties. I am too old for it and will wear my best suit. The Italian one.’
Despite their worry, the sisters share an amused glance.
‘All right then, you had better change into your suit or we shall be late to Mass,’ Verity reminds him.
He no longer wants to be a child. The boy has matured upon visiting the towns and cities of Europe. He is naturally curious and has a voracious appetite to learn, which made him an excellent travelling companion. He was drawn to every strange and beautiful morsel of culture the sisters had carefully curated.
Verity slips her hands into a pair of grey, kid driving gloves while Constance places a blue cashmere long shawl around her sister’s shoulders.
‘I’m taking the stanhope. Thomas has hitched the horse. Are you sure you will not join us?’ Verity asks her.
‘No, I shall help the girls with the feast preparations. That petite one, she is a terror with the china. Thomas should drive you to St Mary’s.’
‘No, you may need him here today. It’s not far and I would quite like to drive myself. No virtue lost driving at my age. I do love a feast day, solemn as this one is. What a shock to hear about Bertie and the men. Do you think he exaggerates?’
‘No, he is always truthful. We will speak to Percy as soon as possible. And I shall write to Benedikt and have a word with Thomas, too. Oh, there he is!’ Constance beams.
‘How handsome you look,’ Verity says.
He looks like a painting standing on the landing. The sisters will remember it so. A finely tailored black coat cinches his waist, then flares out and flows down below his knees, revealing his first full-length trousers, starkly white.
There is something else. A rose gold chain flickers against the gold buttons. He squirrels around in his pockets. There are two more, one in each of his hands. And a smile to go with them that brims with self-satisfaction. He places the chain around Constance’s neck. She bends down to accommodate him and he repeats his offering with Verity. It is then they notice the delicate rings: two golden hands joined together in the centre of the band.
‘The day at the zoological gardens – and I will never go back there, never – when I was very bad and ran off and then found you again by searching for your blue and lavender cloaks, remember?’
Yes, they nod.
‘You must always wear them and also these neck chains. Place your rings on them, look, just like mine. So that we will find each other if we are separated.’
‘Why Rafe, what thoughts,’ Verity says.
The sisters have no need to look at one another for they share the same trepidation in the pit of their stomachs. His intensity shakes them.
‘Thank you, darling boy,’ Constance says. ‘It is a very good gift, a generous one, too. And such a clever idea.’
‘Yes,’ Verity says. ‘How you must have saved! You are full of surprises. I hope you are not too grown up for a kiss from your aunties.’
With more seriousness than they would care to witness, he embraces them both, crooking his arms tightly around their necks.
‘Now, you really will be late. More gifts when you return.’ Constance chokes slightly on her words.
Constance passes a busy hour, and in spite of the butter-fingered maid, has almost completed the feast day arrangements. Their gifts to Rafe create a towering pile by his bed. The table by his window heaves with barmbrack. Downstairs, the pottage, his favourite dish, is ready for searing and the boxty pancake mixture awaits the sizzling griddle. She has changed into her new silk day dress, the colour of a heather field.
‘I relish the thought of learning to pin my hair.’ Constance offers a pin to the maid.
‘’Tis not done, madam.’
‘Don’t be foolish. My mother pinned her own hair until … until the day she died.’
‘It is the only thing I do well. You don’t sniff when I am finished,’ the girl says, wounded.
‘I do not sniff at all.’
‘Yes, madam.’ She smiles.
‘And you do many things well …’
Someone has come down hard on the door knocker.
‘Are you expecting visitors, madam?’
‘None.’
The other maid raps on the bedroom door and pokes her head in.
‘Madam?’
‘Yes, come in.’
‘A Mrs Fowler requests to see you.’
The glass pin holder crashes to the floor and splinters at Constance’s feet.
She grabs the edges of the dressing table and holds on until her knuckles glare white. A perfect rage quells her panic. When she stands, the chair falls back and thumps against the floor.
‘Madam?’
She cannot stop the tremors in her shoulders. The words repeat and repeat in her head until she has no other impulse than to expel them in a nasty stream of vomit. But she holds it back, even as it rises up in her.
I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.
All of those dear to her who said it would never happen, who were so certain that the Fowlers would die in prison, or would at least be gaoled until Rafe came of age, God help her, they were all wrong.
What shall I do with her? She paces the floor in an effort to command her shaking body to stillness.
Oh God no. Not yet, not yet.
‘See her to the drawing room,’ she says in a hoarse whisper. ‘Ask her to be seated and then close the doors.’
‘Yes, madam.’
Downstairs, Clovis Fowler examines every inch of the path from the foyer to the hallway that leads to the drawing room’s double doors. She observes the maid is a well-fed, well-dressed young woman who nervously leads her through the corridor. Clovis makes no pretence in the presence
