Although Russell had sought to reassure his mother with this comment, she was more unsettled than ever to discover Flora was proficient in a foreign language. For years she had despaired of her daughter’s inability to learn French. If only the recalcitrant child would apply herself! The subjunctive was not that difficult to master.
Uncle Horace was just as astonished and stared at her as if trying to comprehend her unprecedented erudition. Finally, he said with bemused wonder, “He’s right. It means ‘seize the present; trust tomorrow e’en as little as you may.’ It’s from the Odes. I must confess, Flora, that I do not recall Miss Higglestone including Horace on your syllabus. And yet she must have, for your accent is uncommonly good.”
Flora preened at the compliment while Vera extolled the virtues of their former governess, whose skills she had never doubted though she might have questioned them once or twice.
Unable to allow his sister to bask in the glow of filial approbation alone, Russell launched into a catalogue of the many Latin phrases he had learned during his brief yet distinguished career at Oxford: Georgics, Eclogue, Aeneid.
He had barely made it through the complete works of Virgil when the door opened and the Countess of Abercrombie swept into the room on a cloud of sweet-smelling perfume.
“Oh, my dear,” she said with unrestrained emotion as she beheld Beatrice by the fireplace next to Kesgrave, “you are a most beautiful bride.” She sighed deeply and dabbed delicately at her eyes, which may or may not have been filled with tears. Then she walked across the floor until she was mere inches from Bea, wrapped her in a gentle hug and murmured softly, “A most, most beautiful bride.”
Familiar with her ladyship’s penchant for drama, Bea submitted unprotestingly to this treatment. For her aunt, however, it was an irresistible provocation and she ceased trying to determine if her daughter had a fever to stare with wide-eyed amazement at the lovely widow.
“But…but…her cheeks are so sallow,” Vera exclaimed in confusion, “and her dress is…is…so…” But she could not come up with the right word to describe the serviceable gown of an indeterminate blue and abandoned the effort, settling on a vaguely articulate grunt of despair. “You may see for yourself how inadequate it is. One does not have to wear one’s presentation gown to one’s wedding but surely something better than…than…” Again, her vocabulary failed her as she waved her hand at her niece. “We must send home for something more appropriate or—and I believe this is the more auspicious plan—wait for one of Madame Bélanger’s lovely creations to be ready. I am sure you agree, my lady, that Bea cannot marry the Duke of Kesgrave dressed in that…that…”—here, finally, inspiration struck and she latched onto the word her daughter had used earlier—“rag of a gown.”
Now it was her ladyship’s turn to affect astonishment, for she could not perceive anything to complain about in Bea’s appearance. Indeed, pushing the young woman back so that she may inspect her properly, she noted nothing but the radiance of excitement.
“Yes, yes,” Lady Abercrombie said with blissful contemplation, “a most beautiful bride.”
To say that Bea wanted the whole lot of them gone, that she wished they would simply vanish from the room at the waspish snap of her fingers, would be to grossly understate the case. She’d lived a mostly quiet life—quietly reading, quietly sewing, quietly listening to her aunt grapple with her children’s unerring ability to increase her anxiety with their excessive demands for money and attention—and she could scarcely comprehend how it had altered so profoundly in such a brief span. A mere six months ago she had been sitting in the Skeffingtons’ dining room in the Lake District quietly eating eels à la tartare, and now she was in the Dowager Duchess of Kesgrave’s drawing room besieged by an almost painful cacophony.
All she wanted was to be alone with the duke.
And yet it was impossible to smother the gurgle of laughter that rose in her throat at the expression of utter bewilderment on Aunt Vera’s face as her relative tried to make sense of Lady Abercrombie’s stunning reversal. Only five days before, her ladyship had stood in the Hyde-Clare’s breakfast room—entirely uninvited, of course, for nobody was ramshackle enough to entertain guests over eggs and kippers—and insisted that Bea and the duke wait until at least May to make their vows. First, she must throw a ball to introduce Bea to society with all the pride, pomp and circumstance befitting a future duchess, a development that her relatives had failed to anticipate when they hosted their own indifferent affair seven seasons before.
Naturally, Aunt Vera had found the prospect of her niece’s reintroduction to society horrifying, for it would imply to all and sundry that she’d inadequately performed the task the first time around. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the countess’s support in delaying the nuptials and felt her opinion had helped convince the pair to wait a week.
But now…now she was smiling fondly at Bea and wiping maudlin tears from her eyes as if nothing would make her happier than to witness her hasty marriage to Kesgrave.
Did her ladyship not understand what was happening? Was she incapable of comprehending how the passage of time worked? Perhaps she had fallen into a fugue state and believed she’d emerged a full week later?
Although the latter would provide a plausible explanation, it seemed highly improbable, for Lady Abercrombie appeared to glow with vibrancy and health. Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction as she murmured yet again, “A beautiful bride.”
Vera’s brows drew impossibly closer at each repetition of the sentiment, which was truly inconceivable, and Bea imagined her ascribing some very secretive, very cunning motive to her ladyship’s behavior. Clearly, the countess was playing a deeper game than anyone could imagine.
Ah, but what could it be?
While Vera applied herself to detangling the many strands of Lady Abercrombie’s wily
