by Sara Rosett
“Yes. I’ll give it an attempt.”
I thought I heard a snort from Monique’s vicinity, but when I looked her way, she was absorbed in her Twitter feed.
The butterfly reappeared, drawn to our table again, but this time it floated close to Toby and dropped down to the flagstones near his foot.
“I wonder if Michael could tell us what kind it is?” I asked, looking toward Michael, but he was writing in a notebook.
The butterfly’s wings pulsed open and closed, displaying deep black and yellow spots on a field of orange. A tiny line of pale blue dots ran along the edge of the wings. Toby had one leg crossed over the other and waved the polished toe of his dress shoe above the butterfly’s wings. It shifted away, made a little circuit of the flagstones, flying under the legs of the iron chair, then returned to the spot near Toby.
The movement had caught Michael’s attention. He came over for a closer view.
“The wings are so gorgeous. Those colors are so rich. What kind is it?” I asked Michael. “Do you know?”
“Aglais urticae,” he said. “A small tortoiseshell.”
“But the body, look at it,” Monique said. “It’s still an insect. I don’t care how nice the wings are. Look at the antenna and those creepy legs…” she trailed off as Toby moved his foot, pinning one of the butterfly’s wings to the flagstone. The butterfly struggled, the other wing flailing. He released the pressure of his foot. The wings moved, the bright yellow and orange flickering in tandem, as the butterfly rose, then Toby again caught one wing under the sole of his shoe for a second. He flexed his foot, lifting it again. The butterfly synched its wings and rose a few inches. Toby brought his foot down squarely on it, squishing it into the flagstone.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, the question popping out, my disapproving tone carrying across the terrace so that heads turned our way.
Monique, her face furious, swiped up her sunglasses from the table and scraped back her chair. “Because he can.”
Chapter 4
“THE TEA PARTY BROKE UP pretty quickly after that,” I said to Alex on the phone as I contemplated the three dresses Ella had put on the bed for me. I was to pick one to wear to dinner.
“He sounds like a real charmer,” Alex said.
“You know, I would have said he was fairly nice until he stepped on the butterfly. Nicer than Monique, anyway. She was quite snotty. Toby tried to explain that Monique didn’t like bugs and that she always had him kill them when she spotted any, but it didn’t go over very well, especially with Michael.”
“The bug guy?”
“Butterfly guy, specifically. He pulled out a pair of tweezers and transferred what was left of the butterfly to a tissue from his pocket.”
“Hmm…I think I need a cast list.”
“So do I.” I looked at the pages of the packet that were spread across the desk. I’d skimmed the bios when I got back to my room and written up a set of notes for Elise, but soon it would be time to go down to dinner. From the amount of clothes Ella had laid out, it was going to take me a while. “So did you go to the ruins?”
“No. Grace didn’t want to. All she wants to do is slackline.” He sighed. “I put her off until tomorrow, but I can’t see how walking on a flat rope beats out climbing on a ruin.”
“She is on her break. Maybe in a day or two she’ll want to go.”
“Maybe.”
Ella tapped on my door. I waved her in and told Alex I had to go. “Time to dress for dinner.”
“Sounds very grand.”
“It’s rather intimidating, actually.” We made plans to meet the next day in the gardens around lunchtime. “Maybe I can interest Grace in the maze,” Alex said, his tone doubtful.
“We can try,” I said saying goodbye.
“Okay.” I looked over the gowns. “So it’s either white, white, or white.” The dresses were all made of delicate white silk, which was Regency appropriate for an evening gown for an unmarried woman, but each one had a different accent color for the sash and the trim edging the neckline and the short puffed sleeves. I had my choice of pale green, blue, and rose.
“Yes, miss,” Ella said and waited.
“So…the bathroom—er, loo. Is it down the hall? I think I’ll take a quick shower.” I knew Parkview Hall had modern bathrooms. I’d seen them on the tour.
Ella moved to the wall of built-in cabinets and opened two of the doors, revealing a bathtub with a flexible shower head attached and a sink with a lighted mirror over it. Another door hid a toilet with the water tank mounted high over it with a dangling chain.
“How wonderful. And clever, too. It doesn’t take up much space, but gives the room a private bath.”
“It was added after World War One,” Ella said, “but if you’d prefer, I can have a hip bath brought up. If you want to stay historically accurate.”
“Bathing is the one area where I don’t want to be historically accurate.” I told Ella to come back in fifteen minutes and had a refreshing soak in the tub.
Ella returned as I was tying the cord of my cotton robe. I picked up the dress with green trim, then looked doubtfully toward the pile of undergarments. “So…how does this work?”
Ella shook out a plain cotton garment. “The chemise is first.”
And it was only the first of many layers. A short corset-like garment went over the chemise, then several petticoats to give the skirt the proper flare, and then—finally—the dress. By the time I was dressed, I was beginning to understand the breach between the upper classes and their servants. It was quite humbling to strip down and then be dressed again. Servants would have seen their masters in all states—physically and emotionally, which could have been quite embarrassing. I mean, once you’ve seen someone naked, the relationship is definitely on a different footing. Maintaining the belief that the servants were beneath them, putting up a philosophical barrier, must have allowed the upper classes to maintain—at least in their own minds—their superiority.
Once I was laced, tightened down, then layered up, my hair was next. “It’s sadly straight,” I said. “It won’t hold a curl longer than a nanosecond. No ringlets for me.”
“I’m sure I can figure out something, miss.”
As Ella brushed, combed, and twisted my hair, I watched her in the mirror. “Ella have you ever felt…uncomfortable here at Parkview?”
She took a pin out of her mouth. “I don’t understand.”
“Has anyone ever made…um…advances?”
“No,” she said definitely. “And if they did, I’d be out of here in a flash.” Her subservient manner had vanished. “There’s plenty of other good jobs. I don’t have to put up with that…miss,” she finished, returning to her more subdued manner.
“That would be the best course,” I agreed. “And Sir Harold and Lady Stone? Do you ever see them while you’re working here? Maybe on the grounds?”
“A few times. Last week, they walked with me along the drive as I was coming in to work. Lady Stone was taking her dogs for a walk, and Sir Harold was with her. He tripped and fell right against me. It was ever so lucky I was there. He could have been hurt badly.”
“I see.” I held out a hairpin for Ella, and she went back to work on my hair. It wasn’t that I doubted Beatrice’s version of the story, but I’d found that it never hurt to double check facts.
Ella finished and stepped back. She’d swept my hair up into a soft chignon fixed in place with several pins decorated with pearls. I turned my head, admiring her work in the mirror. “Wow. You’ll have to show me how to do that.”
Ella bobbed a curtsy and helped me into cream-colored silk shoes that looked like ballet shoes. They were a bit tight, but the material was thin and had a drawstring-type tie, so I loosened them as much as possible. How had women danced in shoes with such thin soles? I fastened my own pearl earrings on before working my hands into the gloves that went with the dress. They came up to my elbows and completed the Regency look.
I checked
the mirror. “I think I’ll do.” I looked terrific, but with the corset, layers of fabric, and the tight-fitting gloves, I felt like a sausage.
I managed to find my way to the drawing room on my own, noticing that heavy gray clouds had rolled in, casting the corridors in gloomy light. It should have been cooler with the cloud cover, but a sticky humidity filled the air, even in the vastness of Parkview.
By the time I neared the drawing room, one of my slippers was loose and nearly flopped off my foot. I sat down in a chair with thickly carved arms and a red velvet seat near the dining room and retied the drawstring on the shoe. While I was hunched over—not an easy feat to accomplish in a corset—Waverly glided out of the dining room and walked in the opposite direction from me, whistling softly and juggling three silver serving spoons.
I blinked, but the image didn’t change. Waverly made his stately way along the hall, the spoons flashing in the light as they sailed over his head, the whistling fading as he progressed away from me.
I stood and tried out the shoe, walking a few paces, which brought me even with the door to the dining room. I paused to take in the sight. A pristine, white tablecloth covered the table, hanging all the way to the floor. Peaks of elaborately folded napkins at the center of each plate marched along the table, a mountain range of linen. Masses of silver, crystal, and china glittered in the flickering candlelight from the line of massive silver candelabras that lined the center of the table.
The curtains at the dining room’s tall windows were still drawn back, and a movement at one of the glass doors on the side of the room caught my attention. A figure blocked out the view of rolling hills and distant woods. It was a man in formal Regency wear. He turned the handle slowly, stepped into the room, and lifted his phone, taking several quick photos of the table. He spotted me and came to a guilty stop, his hand holding his phone still poised in the air. White spots danced in my vision from the flash. I was surprised the butterfly guy was interested in the table setting.
“Mr. Jaffery,” said a voice to my right inside the room. Both Michael and I jumped. It was Holly, still in her navy uniform, her computer tablet and a stack of folders in her arms. She had entered from one of the doors on either side of the room. Besides the door to the hall, the dining room also opened to rooms that adjoined it on either side. “Can I help you?”
“Just wanted a few pictures. For my mum.”
Holly hadn’t seen me, and I backed up, intending to slip away without drawing more attention, but as soon as I was out of the doorway, I turned and bumped into the solid chest of Simon Page. “Excuse me,” I said.
“Lost?” he asked. “The drawing room is that way.” He tilted his head, indicating it was behind him.
“No, just admiring the dining room.” I stepped around him.
Simon murmured something about forgetting his phone and made for the staircase, but I noticed he also paused at the open doors to the dining room for a look.
The green and gold silk of the drawing room glowed with understated light of candles and oil lamps. The electric lights were off, and the corners of the room were in darkness. No wonder all those Regency books talked about chaperones having to keep a sharp eye on their charges. Even the far corners of the room could be used for stolen moments—no balcony needed.
The ropes that normally blocked access to the furniture had been moved, and I took a seat beside Audrey, who was wearing another more formal gown in a deep royal blue. Now that her bonnet was gone, I could see her curls were short and peeked out from under the edge of her matching silk turban. She’d gone all-out with her outfit. A couple of feathers nodded as she bobbed her head. Simon, arm seams straining on his dark cut-away coat, entered and moved immediately to speak to Sir Harold, which surprised me. They seemed to be in a deep conversation. I caught the words “kerosene” and “generator.”
“You look lovely,” I said to Audrey. “Another of your creations?”
“Yes, thank you, but I think Monique’s dress overshadows everyone’s.”
Monique stood near the polished wood of the harpsichord. She wore a white silk column dress, but it was miles away from the simple lines of the dress I wore. The dress with a plunging v-neck and deceptively simple skirt was cut in a way that managed to accent her figure. Pearls and sequins must have been worked into the fabric because the dress glittered with every movement. A pearl and diamond choker encircled her neck and jeweled combs sparkled in her elaborate mass of golden curls. She looked stunning. Beside her, Toby lounged against the harpsichord, a drink in his hand, wearing a dark cutaway jacket. The jacket was his only concession to Regency attire. He’d skipped the neckcloth, and his outfit looked a little off as he wore a plain white shirt, open at the throat.
Monique was deep in conversation with Beth, debating a recent fashion show in Milan. Beth was again flanked by her two attendants. All three of the bridal party—I’d begun to think of them that way—wore white dresses with different shades of trim. The deep neckline and frills suited Beth’s curvy figure. Torrie looked uncomfortable and kept tugging at her neckline. I wanted to do the same thing, but made myself keep my hands in my lap. Odd that during the Regency every other part of a woman had to be covered, even down to her fingertips, but a deep neckline and exposed bosom were perfectly fine. Despite all the other fabric swathing my person, I felt a bit exposed in that area.
Amanda, her petite figure looking adorable in the puff sleeves and ruffles, stood a little back from the other women in the group, her gaze fixed beyond Monique on Toby.
Toby took something, a small card case it looked like, out of an interior pocket and checked something inside it, then looked toward Amanda, catching her watching him. She turned and joined the conversation between Monique and Beth.
With a small smile, Toby watched the three women then his gaze moved around the room to me. Slowly, his smile widened as he stared. I was more aware than ever of my gown’s low neckline. I gave him a perfunctory smile, then shifted to speak to Jo Funderburg, who had sat down beside me.
Jo and I complimented each other on our gowns—her gown was an exquisite turquoise silk trimmed in peach and white, and she, too, had matching feathers in her hair, but her feathers curved over her ear instead of standing up straight like Audrey’s headgear. I’d read in Jo’s bio that she worked in the travel industry, and we chatted about that. I learned that she lived in Miami and worked for a hotel there, managing the desk clerks. She looked up to the chandelier that glittered in the candlelight. “Nothing as luxurious as this, though.”
“It is quite an amazing setting,” I said. “I wonder if we’ll go historical and have Mr. Woodhouse’s rich food at dinner or if it will be modern food.”
“Mr. Woodhouse?” Jo glanced around uncertainly.
“The father in Emma. The hypochondriac who was always worried about rich food and cold drafts.”
“Oh, of course,” Jo said quickly. She looked across the room to her husband, who was standing off to the side by himself, his hand held close to his chest. The faint glow of a screen lit up his waistcoat. She sighed. “Baseball season. Why does it have to be so long? I should have known better than to book a vacation to a place that limits digital communication. Excuse me, please.” She hurried across the room, her skirt swishing.
I tactfully turned away as the Funderburgs had a muffled disagreement. “But they’re in extra innings…” Jay said, his voice carrying. Jo must have won the argument because he put the phone or tablet away, and they moved to get drinks.
Michael was the last to arrive. He headed immediately for the drinks, head down, but he scanned the room until he spotted Amanda. When Michael took up a position next to the wall, Sir Harold wandered over to chat with him.
Beatrice, turned out in a purple dress with a rather alarming concoction of ribbons, feathers, and flowers threaded through her hair, joined me. “Are you enjoying it, Kate?”
“Yes, very much. It’s quite an experience.” I lowered my voice as I said, “Although,
I’ve been a bit distracted with meeting everyone. And the clothes…it’s been quite a learning curve. I’m afraid I don’t have anything to—” I almost used the word report, but amended it since we were in a crowded drawing room and someone might overhear, “—mention.”
“You’ve only been here a few hours. You deserve some time to settle in. As far as the clothes,” she paused to push a drooping ribbon behind her ear, “I feel as if I’m at a costume party. Hard to feel like oneself when wearing clothes from another century.”
I noticed that Jo had moved to join Sir Harold and Michael. “If you have a few moments, later tonight or tomorrow,” I heard her say to Sir Harold, “I’d like to discuss something with you.”
“Of course,” Sir Harold said. “Perhaps after breakfast?”
Michael shifted away from Sir Harold and Jo then accidentally bumped into Amanda. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I noticed that Michael wasn’t ducking his head or studying the floor. His attention was focused on Amanda, who looked more attentive than I’d seen her be all day.
Torrie meandered over and joined Beatrice and me. I lifted my chin toward the pair. “It looks like Amanda has an admirer.”
Torrie watched them a moment, her head cocked to one side. “Maybe. It’s always hard to tell with Amanda. She plays everything close to the vest. It might be that she’s just relieved to not be talking about flowers and food, or she might like him. I hope it’s the second. Michael seems like the kind of guy who would treat her right.”
Beatrice said, “These modern relationships are so complicated.”
“Especially if the guy is married,” Torrie muttered then flushed, seeming to realize she’d spoken aloud. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know anything for sure, just that Amanda went all secretive for a while. I knew she was going out with someone, but she wouldn’t tell me who or let anyone meet him. So I figured the chap had to be married. He hurt her badly, I think. She slipped up once when she was upset and said he was a manipulative bas—” she stopped and amended what she was going to say. “Ah—he was manipulative. A nice, normal, guy like Michael might be just what she needs.” Torrie switched her gaze from the couple back to Beatrice and me. “Please don’t say anything to her about what I said.”
