by Liz Carlyle
Xanthia laughed. “Yes, but with more minarets—and fewer cherubs,” she said, gazing up. “Remind me, brother dear, to give up my pudding when we get home. I should hate to begin to resemble that plump, pink fellow wearing nothing but a white banner across his belly.”
Kieran lowered his gaze to hers. “What nonsense, Zee,” he said. “You are rail thin, and always have been.”
Xanthia dropped her chin. “But I shall be thirty in a few months’ time, Kieran,” she said quietly. “And I begin to feel as if life has—” She stopped, and shook her head.
Kieran stepped nearer. “It’s Nash, isn’t it, Zee? You may as well admit it.”
Xanthia swallowed hard. “I…yes, I guess it is,” she murmured. “Kieran, I—I might be in too deep this time.”
His face was worried. “Well, I’m hardly qualified to give advice, my dear,” he said. “But I do know this—if you find someone you love, you must seize hold of that love with both hands. Fight for it, Zee, if you must.”
Xanthia looked at him, and smiled faintly. Then she bounced out of her chair. “Come on, old thing. Let’s get this over with, shall we? I shall be ready to go down in fifteen minutes.”
“I can think of little worse than tea in a roomful of prattling females,” Kieran said, tacitly agreeing to drop the subject. “But coming here was my idea, was it not? And so I must bear my punishment with grace, I daresay.”
Unfortunately, the arrival of a Polly—whose name was actually Rose—delayed rather than expedited Xanthia’s departure. Rose was a pleasant girl with hands no rougher than Xanthia’s own, and a great help unpacking Xanthia’s bags but inexperienced with ladies’ hair. Xanthia had to wait until the girl was gone before redoing it herself. By the time she arrived in the Chinese salon, with a bright smile plastered on her face and wearing her best blue day dress, she found that Kieran had already found a way to avoid his prattling females. She could see him through the long French windows strolling about in the gardens as one of Brierwood’s retainers pointed instructively at first one plant, then another.
Lady Nash met her at the threshold. “Your brother professed such a fondness for roses,” she twittered. “I could see that he was keen to go outside and have a closer look.”
“Yes, Kieran loves nothing better than a rose garden,” Xanthia lied. “How kind you are to indulge his eccentricities.”
Together, they strolled deeper into the room. Two young ladies awaited by a low, elegantly carved table, which held a silver tea service of epic proportions. They made very pretty curtsies when Xanthia was introduced.
Lady Phaedra Northampton was thin and dark, and wore a pair of gold spectacles on her nose. She appeared to be in her early twenties, but perhaps it was just her serious demeanor. Phaedra’s sister, Lady Phoebe, was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, with a vivaciousness which belied her age.
“It is a pleasure to meet you both, I am sure,” said Xanthia.
They exchanged pleasantries about the trip down from London for a time, but that topic was soon dispensed with. Lady Nash was clearly more interested in the festivities to come. She began at once to rattle on about the guests who would be expected, what day they would arrive, and what gossip they might be expected to bring from Town. Then she began to describe her last half dozen birthday dinners; who had attended, and what they had worn. In the midst of it all, she began serving tea, saying that she did not expect Kieran to leave his beloved roses anytime soon.
“So we may as well go ahead, do you not think?” She did not pause for breath as she tipped the impossibly large pot. “I find that men do not really like tea all that well. What do you think, Miss Neville? My late husband—Stefan’s father, of course—was fond of saying that tea was for ladies and that men only pre—”
“Goodness, isn’t the weather lovely today?” interjected Lady Phaedra. “Do you think it shall rain tomorrow, Miss Neville?”
Xanthia’s head jerked up. “Why, I daresay it might.”
“Jenny says it will,” chimed Lady Phoebe. “She says the roads will be nothing but mud by tomorrow afternoon. That is why she must leave for Southampton today.”
“Well, at the very least, she might come down and say hello to Miss Neville before she goes,” said Phaedra.
“Yes, I am very sorry not to have met your sister-inlaw,” said Xanthia. “I gather she is delightful.”
Phoebe laughed. “Mamma thinks everyone is delightful so long as they will listen to her talk.”
Lady Nash pounced at the opportunity to speak. “Jenny is delightful, you little minx,” she said. “And she will be here very shortly. She promised me.” Lady Nash then began to describe how her son had met his wife, how long they had courted, and every minute detail of her wedding dress.
She was calculating aloud the inches of Alençon lace on the gown’s hem when Phaedra interrupted again. “I think the weather will be fair tomorrow, Miss Neville,” she said. “If it does, would you care to go riding?”
“I should love to,” said Xanthia. “What about you, Phoebe? Do you ride?”
The girl’s lower lip came out. “Not so well as Phae,” she said. “Everyone likes to point that out.”
Phaedra drew herself up an inch. “Complimenting me is not the same, Phoebe, as insulting you,” she said. “May I not be allowed to do at least one thing well?”
“You do everything perfectly,” retorted her sister. “And everyone loves to say so.”
Lady Nash frowned. “This is a tea for adults, Phoebe, so if you cannot behave as one, you must go back up to the schoolroom.” It was the first sensible thing she had said. “Miss Neville cannot possibly wish to hear you quarrel.”
Phoebe fell back into her chair. “I wasn’t quarreling,” she said. “But I shan’t say a thing if that’s what you wish, Mamma.”
“I wish nothing of the sort,” she began.
But at that very instant, the butler threw open the salon’s doors. A beautiful young woman with brilliant red hair strode into the room. She wore a carriage dress striped in shades of deep green and carried a dark green cloak over her arm and a pair of matching gloves in her right hand.
“That’s Jenny,” whispered Lady Phoebe.
The butler followed as if to take the cloak, but she shooed him away. “Thank you, Fedders, no,” she said. “I’ll be but a moment.” Then she turned, and beamed a brilliant smile upon Lady Nash. “Mamma-in-law!”
“Jenny, dear, do join us.”
The woman came at once to kiss Lady Nash’s cheek. “And hello!” she said breathlessly. “This must be Miss Neville. How pleased I am to meet you.”
Swiftly, Lady Nash made the introductions.
“I met your husband, Mr. Hayden-Worth, some weeks past,” said Xanthia. “He seems a brilliant man.”
Jenny’s eyes appeared to glaze over. “Oh, to be sure,” she murmured. “Quite brilliant.” She took the seat next to Phoebe but remained on the very edge of the chair.
“Here is your tea, Jenny.” Lady Nash offered the cup at her daughter-in-law. “I have already put your extra sugar in.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Jenny vaguely.
Xanthia set her own cup down. “Lady Nash was just telling us about your wedding dress,” she said leadingly. “You are newly wed, I collect?”
“What?” Mrs. Hayden-Worth looked up from the plate of biscuits she was picking over. “Oh, Lord no. We’ve been married an age.”
“Five years in July,” said Lady Nash. Then her face fell slightly. “Jenny is leaving for France this afternoon. A prior commitment.”
Mrs. Hayden-Worth looked sheepish. “A prior commitment which I forgot,” she explained, selecting a biscuit from the platter. “Something I simply cannot miss. Isn’t it perfectly dreadful? Mamma-in-law must never forgive me.”
Xanthia hid her surprise. “Will you be back in time for the party?”
“I shall try very hard,” she said, glancing down the tea table at Lady Nash. But even Xanthia could see she had no intention of doi
ng so—indeed, it would hardly be possible unless she sprouted wings and flew.
Lady Nash cleared her throat abruptly. “Jenny has a great many friends abroad,” she said. “It is such a quick trip to France from here, you know. And no, I shan’t fuss, Jenny. I have had the pleasure of your company for some weeks now.”
“Thank you, Mamma-in-law,” said Jenny fervently. “You are always so very understanding.”
Across the table, Xanthia saw Phaedra roll her eyes.
They made casual conversation over tea and biscuits for the better part of half an hour. But each time Lady Nash went off on a tear, Lady Phaedra would make some innocuous but sharp remark about the weather. Her mother would instantly fall silent. It did not take long for Xanthia to comprehend precisely who kept Brierwood organized—and it wasn’t Lady Nash.
For his part, Kieran strode in just long enough to make a civil bow to Mrs. Hayden-Worth, then begged the ladies’ indulgence. “Xanthia, I am studying the most fascinating gallica rose out by the terrace,” he said in a voice most unlike his own. “Do have a look later. It is a—a—well, dash it, I forget the name. But it’s a beauty.”
“La belle sultane,” murmured Lady Phaedra, lifting her gaze to Kieran’s. “The head gardener’s latest conquest. But I prefer the rosa damascena bifera, myself. Which is your favorite of the damasks, my lord?”
Kieran faltered. “The—the damasks?” he said. “I am by no means an expert on damasks, but I prefer the—ah, the red one, I suppose.” Here, he paused to glance out at the garden. “I’m afraid I forgot its name, too.”
Lady Phaedra elevated a pair of dark, finely etched eyebrows. “The celsiana, perhaps?”
“Yes, by Jove!” Kieran agreed. “The celsiana.”
“Well!” said Mrs. Hayden-Worth. “This has all been perfectly fascinating. But I daresay I ought to be going.”
“Oh, Jenny! So soon?” Lady Nash looked crushed.
Kieran seized the opportunity to vanish again. Jenny was already tugging on her gloves. “Fedders, has the carriage been brought round?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the butler. “Your things have been loaded.”
Jenny brightened and bent to kiss Lady Nash again. “Have a lovely party, Mamma-in-law,” she said. “If I miss it, I shall never forgive myself.”
“Nor shall I,” said Lady Nash, only half in jest.
“Why must you rush away this minute, Jenny?” said Lady Phaedra flatly. “You cannot get a ferry ’til morning, you know.”
Jenny laughed. “I must think of my coachman, Phaedra,” she said. “He is not as young as he once was. And the rain is coming. There might be ruts. I really think I ought to go.”
“You had best wait for Nash,” said Lady Phoebe, poking out her lip. “Mamma says it is his house, and we must show due deference. I cannot think it very deferential for you to leave before he even arrives home—not to mention Tony.”
Lady Nash smiled nervously. “Hush, Phoebe,” she said. “Nash will be sorry to have missed Jenny, and that is all.”
“He will not notice I am gone,” Jenny assured her.
“Perhaps not,” said Lady Nash. “Now, have you a hot brick for your feet, Jenny?”
“Mamma-in-law, it is May,” said Jenny, bending to kiss her again. “Now I am off. Miss Neville, it was a pleasure, I am sure.”
They watched Mrs. Hayden-Worth cross the room with neat, quick steps. “How lovely she is,” said Xanthia, when Jenny had vanished. “And her voice—she is American, is she not?”
“Yes, indeed,” said her ladyship. “Did Nash not mention it?”
“The subject never came up.”
Lady Nash laughed. “No, Nash would not bother,” she said, almost to herself. “Jenny’s father is a wealthy industrialist. He brought her to London to marry a title.”
Phoebe leaned forward conspiratorially. “Yes, and she had a monstrous dowry,” said the girl. “But then she met Tony, didn’t she, Mamma?”
“What can I say?” Lady Nash lifted her shoulders. “My son is a politician, Miss Neville. He could charm the birds from the trees if he set his mind to it.”
“I am sure he could,” said Xanthia. “What sort of business is Mrs. Hayden-Worth’s father in?”
“Oh, I cannot recall.” Lady Nash made a vague gesture with her hand. “Metals, perhaps? Steel or iron or smelts or some such thing.”
“Smelts are fish, Mamma,” said Phaedra.
“Perhaps he smelts iron,” Phoebe suggested. “One can do that, I think—whatever it means.”
Phaedra shrugged. “Well, in any case, he has factories,” she said. “Pots of them.”
“Yes, in Connecticut,” said Lady Nash, undeterred. “Or is it Massachusetts?”
The girls looked at one another and shrugged. Clearly the mysterious industrialist was not a topic of much interest at Brierwood. “So she will go from Southampton to where?” asked Xanthia. “Calais?”
“I am not quite sure,” said Lady Nash vaguely. “She has friends everywhere.”
“I see.” Xanthia reached for another biscuit, but remembered the pink cherub on her ceiling. It was odd, really. She had never before given much thought to keeping her figure.
Lady Nash was still rattling on about Mrs. Hayden-Worth’s friends. “Of course, I told Jenny that it was all very well to have friends,” she was saying. “But some of them, I fear, are a little racy. And they do spend an awful lot of money on clothes, and on frightfully lavish entertainments.”
“Oh, I am sure the well eventually runs dry for everyone,” remarked Lady Phaedra. “Even for rich American industrialists.”
“Not for Jenny’s papa,” said her sister. “He spoils her shamelessly.”
Lady Nash scolded her daughters for gossiping, and returned to the topic of her dinner party. Lady Phaedra was required to invoke the weather-warning on but four or five more occasions, and eventually, tea was concluded.
“Oh, dear!” said Lady Nash as they rose. “Nash and Tony still have not come, have they?”
“Yes, Mamma, they slipped in amidst your recitation of the dinner menus for the next five days,” said Lady Phaedra dryly. “You simply did not notice.”
“Oh, you wicked girl!” Lady Nash frowned disapprovingly. “They did no such thing—oh! The dinner menu!”
“What now?” said Lady Phaedra.
“I forgot to tell Cook we were to have the asparagus, not the sprouts!” Lady Nash had clasped a hand to her forehead theatrically. “Nash does quite loathe sprouts. He really will never forgive me.”
“Oh, Lord, it will be out on the street for us!” said Phoebe. “Phae, get your gypsy dress and your tambourine. We shall have to go down to the village and sing for our supper.”
Phaedra set a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Just go downstairs, Mamma, and tell Cook to put the sprouts back until Saturday,” she said patiently. “Sprouts will keep nicely. At your birthday dinner, we shall have so much to choose from, Nash will never notice.”
Lady Nash was nodding intently. “Yes, quite so, quite so,” she said. “My dear Miss Neville, will you excuse me? Phaedra will show you back to your room. I will go down to the kitchens.”
They parted company near the grand staircase, Lady Phaedra at Xanthia’s side.
“Well, that was interesting,” said Xanthia as they started up the steps together.
Lady Phaedra laughed. “It always is,” she said. “Mamma is a dear, but she never stops talking.”
“I find her most gracious,” said Xanthia. “But I do have one burning question, Lady Phaedra.”
Lady Phaedra shot her a quizzical look. “Yes?”
“Just what color is the celsiana rose?”
The young lady grinned. “Oh, that!” she said. “Your brother’s impressive horticultural abilities aside, I fear the damascena celsiana is always pale pink.”
Xanthia laughed and looped her arm through Lady Phaedra’s. “My dear, that is so cruel,” she answered. “I think you must share your brother�
�s black humor.”
“Well, you know what they say,” answered Phaedra equivocally. “A sharp wit is a dangerous weapon.”
By the time they reached Xanthia’s suite, she and Phaedra were laughing like old friends. Phaedra went directly to the door which opened onto Xanthia’s bedchamber, and threw it open. “Ugh!” she said, recoiling in disgust. “That smell must be driving you mad!”
Xanthia followed her inside, and sniffed. The musky scent, which had been barely discernible upon Xanthia’s arrival, was indeed powerful now. The late-day sun was streaming through the wide bank of windows, warming the air. Phaedra sneezed violently and headed straight for the windows.
“I am not terribly bothered by the scent,” Xanthia reassured her.
Phaedra, apparently, did not agree. She was already throwing up the sashes. “Ugh!” she said again, straining at one of the windows. “I cannot bear it.”
Xanthia went to help her. “What is it?”
“Nutmeg mace,” she answered as the sash gave, and went rumbling up. “And some sort of musk, I think.”
“It certainly is unusual,” Xanthia remarked.
Phaedra was looking about the room as if she suspected vermin. She headed straight to the heavy mahogany wardrobe, threw open both doors, and pushed Xanthia’s gowns aside. “Pardon my familiarity, Miss Neville, but you will thank me for this.”
“By all means,” murmured Xanthia, looking on.
Her nimble fingers went sorting through the wardrobe’s contents. “Ah-ha!” Phaedra finally said, turning around. A round latticed ball on a pink ribbon dangled from the tip of her forefinger.
“What is it?” asked Xanthia. “Some sort of pomander?”
“One of Jenny’s,” said Phaedra in a put-upon voice. “She gets the scent in Paris. ‘Tis bad enough she wafts it all over the house, but I wish she would not leave these lying about after she’s gone. I think it is disgusting.” As if for emphasis, she sneezed again.
“Oh, dear,” said Xanthia. “I hope I did not take Mrs. Hayden-Worth’s room?”
Phaedra hesitated. “No, she and Tony have a large bedchamber attached to his private study in the east wing,” she said. “But Jenny often takes this one. She says she likes to see the front gardens.”
