“You think this room is bad?” Anathea broke into her thoughts. “State dinners cannot be hosted because the floorboards in the dining room are beyond repair.”
From a side door, Biscuit the dog barrelled in and ran for his mother. She cuddled him and buried her face in his fur.
Saving Anathea felt like such an impossible task, until a stray thought took root in Ondine’s brain. “Vincent’s got money now, if he’s so determined to take all of this. Get him to start paying for repairs.”
That made Anathea stop for a moment and look at Ondine. “Did Vincent send you?”
“I’m not working for Vincent.” Ondine tensed. “As if that would ever happen.”
Guilt swamped her and she looked at the floor.
“I won’t be lied to,” Anathea said.
Gulp. “I’m not lying. And I’m not working for him.”
“But?”
Since when was Anathea so astute? With a sigh of defeat Ondine said, “I helped him. But only a bit. And I wasn’t really helping him, I was helping Ruslana. All I did was grab our makeup and hair lady to make Ruslana look presentable. Because Vincent said if I helped him, he’d help my sisters get in to Pop Euro Tube.” It felt so good to get that off her chest.
“People can be persuaded with the right motivation,” Anathea said.
They walked back to Anathea’s office. Somebody had turned off the little bar heater while they’d been out. It was the kind of cold Ondine felt right between her shoulders after she’d been sitting at her desk for an hour, doing homework.
“Rurururu,” Biscuit barked. Anathea let him down and he trotted over to a little bed underneath her desk.
“Where are you daughters, by the way,” Ondine asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because they should be here, working for you. That way they will save you money on hiring staff, and they’ll learn what’s involved in being Duchess. And you can do a media charm offensive yourself, so people will see your daughters here, putting in the hours, and they’ll get used to them being around.”
“Why should my daughters work?”
Ondine scrunched her brows in confusion. “Everyone needs to work. I’ve worked for my parents my whole life. It’s normal.”
“Ah but Ondine, your normal is very different to my normal. And my daughters will not be subjected to merchant-class expectations of normal.”
“But . . .”
“Mm?” Anathea’s eyebrow rose in smugness.
Ondine couldn’t help staring at Anathea for longer than was strictly polite. Now they were back in her office, the duchess was back to being obscure and a little rude again. “Are you sure you’re not under some kind of spell?”
“Positive.”
Ondine’s hope deflated like a day-old balloon. “That’s a real shame.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I don’t think you’re taking the threat from Vincent seriously enough. And . . . I don’t know! You’re not you any more.” If this was Anathea’s real nature, how had it taken Ondine so long to see the Venn diagram, where Anathea appeared in one circle and ‘The real world’ took up another, but they only crossed over in the middle for a millimetre?
“My dear Ondine,” The Duchess said, her face tightening, “There is so little we agree about, I can’t see why you’re still here.”
Chills buzzed her system. “I guess I should go then.”
“See yourself out, there’s a good girl.”
Numb with shock and disillusionment, Ondine staggered towards the door. “Oh, before I go. Thank you for your time, My Lord Duchess.”
“Keep the door closed, you’re letting the heat out.”
“What heat?” Ondine said as she shut the door with a snick.
The whole way home on the train, Ondine couldn’t help wondering where it had all gone so horribly wrong. She may have backed the wrong horse in Anathea, but there was no possible way she’d transfer her allegiances to Vincent. If Anathea was batty, Vincent was positively poisonous.
Which left her exactly where?
THROUGH THE KEYHOLE in the wardrobe door, Lord Vincent watched as his aunt took her position behind her desk. The dog slept beneath, barely snuffling when Anathea placed her stockinged feet on him. “Nicely done.” He stepped into the room and gave a slow clap. “I thought you’d never get rid of her.”
“That poor girl’s had her heart broken. I hope you’re happy.”
“Very. Now, where were we?”
“My daughters’ educations, my clothing allowance and the restoration of this crumbling old pile.”
Looking around, all he could see were the faded signs of a once proud room. “If we get started on the renovations, it should be ready by my twenty-first birthday.”
She gave him one of those looks, it silently said, “I have so much to say I don’t know where to begin.”
He waited. Eventually she said, “Those renovations should have been done by your father.”
“We both know he was broke. That’s why he married my mother.”
“Ah yes. We come from a long line of marrying into money. I see the tradition is being carried on.”
“I’m nothing if not practical.”
The dog under the desk stirred.
When he was sure she had nothing else to say, Vincent asked, “Speaking of daughters, where are my beautiful cousins?”
Another sigh from Anathea, making the dog wake up and grizzle. “My daughters are in school, as you know. Have the tuition fees been paid for the term?”
Vincent stroked his chin where a beard might one day be. Should he grow the split moustache like his father? “They have been enrolled for the past year, have they not?”
“They’ve been home for holidays and such. They have not completely lost touch with Brugel. What’s your point?”
“My point is, you enrolled them before you had any known way of paying for it. What would you have done if I had not become engaged to a means of income?”
A shrug. “Their father would have been petitioned. In fact, I think your father was petitioned as well, and he didn’t get back to me before . . . well, before he was poisoned by your mother. My, what a lovely family we have.”
“My father’s passing was to your benefit as much as mine.” He couldn’t help a little snort of contempt escape. He could have sworn he saw a plume of steam from his nose it was so cold in here. “Let’s take a walk, dear aunt.” He offered his arm. It wasn’t so much that he thought a stroll in the gardens would change things, but standing around in this cold room did nothing for his circulation.
“Everyone can see what you’re doing, you know.” Anathea said as she walked through the doorway.
“I’m doing what’s best for Brugel,” Vincent said.
“You keep telling yourself that.”
“Because it’s true.” Why couldn’t she see that? “It’s far better to have stability at the helm.”
“Saying stability implies I am unstable. Anyone can see I am being actively undermined.”
“All I propose is a smooth transition period and a respectful handover, which will be beneficial to everyone.”
They reached the double doors that lead out to the parterre garden. It crimped his heart to see the overgrown edging of the flower beds where once had been laser-straight lines. He held his arm to the side in the hope she’d take it. She did, and he drew her closer as they stepped out into the weak spring sunshine. If there were any photographers around, they would capture them looking friendly and comfortable. The pictures would also capture the dilapidated garden, which would not hurt his cause one bit.
“How are my darling nephews?” Anathea asked.
“The nannies at Bellreeve tell me my brothers are doing well.”
“Are they taken to see their mother?”
“Yes. I’m told they have supervised visits to the asylum on a regular basis.”
“How often has Kerala been visited by you? I’m sure you’re m
issed.”
Something dried his throat, but he had to look calm and in control, just in case somebody in the public saw him. Because he had his public face on, the one that told the world that everything was all right. “As much as I miss her, it will do none of us any good to be seen with her.”
“You’re sounding very grown up about it.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“There are choices. You could retire from public life to grieve in private. To deal with the mess your mother left behind. To help your brothers. Instead you pursue attention as if the death of your father were a springboard to be taken into public life.”
“It sounds so calculated, coming from you” he tucked his head down and caught sight of another overgrown garden bed. Green shoots of . . . something . . . fought through a tangled blanket of weeds. He tried to remember what was there last year. They were red and white flowers of some kind.
“The first thing you’re going to do is hire a gardener. Or ten. Send me the bill.”
“Dearest of nephews. The building is falling to bits, and you’re worried about geraniums?”
“It’s the first thing people see when they visit. That’s another thing. You’re going to open the gardens to the public.”
“I don’t think that should be done,” she pulled up short and glared at him.
“Dearest of aunts,” he shot back, “This garden is public, therefore it should always look its best.”
“There are so many more pressing things that need to –”
“– There always are, but they are on the inside, and the public will not see it.” He felt so proud of the way he didn’t let any of the disappointment or upset show on his face. At least, he was fairly sure it wasn’t showing on his face. Those muscle relaxants he’d borrowed from Ruslana were really messing with his head.
IF ONDINE HAD A THESAURUS with her for the train journey home from visiting the Duchess of Brugel, she would have found herself feeling flat, cheerless, dejected, despondent and all-over generally blah.
But she didn’t have one with her, so she had a hard time knowing exactly what she should call the melancholy settling over her. It was the kind of thing that made her want to listen to sad songs.
Once she reached the warm embrace of the family pub, she followed her nose to the kitchen. It wasn’t her eyes that told her something was wrong but her nose. There was nothing on the cooker. (Nor were there any people).
The only thing she could detect were remnants of cold scrambled eggs and toast scrapings. They carried the distinct scent of having been cooked some time ago and were now congealing.
Peeking into the dining room, she found her family helping Margi with some vague ideas of choreography that would allow her to move around while also singing and hitting her notes. [325] Cybelle, of course, was excused from any dancing because she would be on piano the whole time. No sign of Hamish anywhere, which added to her growing list of disappointments. Nor Old Col. Maybe they were at the dance hall.
“You look like you’re at a loose end,” Ma said as she came into the kitchen and turned the coffee maker on. “There are always dishes to do.”
“I have a stack of homework.” Which was absolutely true.
“Everything all right?” Ma gave her a funny look, as if she knew something was up but was waiting for Ondine to confess.
“Just tired I guess,” she said with a shrug. The tremble in her jaw gave her away.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” Ma put one arm around her and directed her to their private room behind the kitchen. Then she did the most bizarre thing. Ma closed the door to the kitchen, blocking out the sound of her sisters’ music to give them real privacy.
“Everything.” Ondine slumped into the nearest chair.
“Did the meeting with the Duchess go badly?”
“How did you know?” Of course her mother knew everything.
“You’ve had so much excitement this past year, it’s not surprising you’re feeling flat now. Best get your homework done while there’s time. Thank goodness Every Pop Top will be over soon.”
“PopEuroTube.”
“That’s the one. I never thought I’d say this but, hooray for Slaegal.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my mother,” Ondine said. Then she pulled herself together. “Seriously. The pub’s closed; you’re being wonderful and understanding and . . . really calm. Are we all under some kind of spell?”
Ma sighed and slumped her shoulders. “Not a spell, exactly.”
Ondine forgot to breathe as she waited for Ma to tell the truth.
“Ruslana is being very supportive.” Ma’s palms went up in a defensive-yet-shushing motion to keep Ondine from jumping to conclusions. “Don’t jump to conclusions. But she wants Margibelle to do well and for that to happen they need time to rehearse, which means turning customers away from time to time.”
“You don’t have to call them Margibelle when it’s just us at home, you know.”
Ma shrugged, “It’s kind of catchy.”
Ondine got up and said, “I have homework to do.” As she reached the foot of the stairs she turned back. “Exactly how much support is Ruslana giving us?”
“Enough. She wants Slaegal to win. And you have exams soon so you’ll benefit with more time to study.”
Shaking her head, Ondine knew she should be grateful. All the while she felt a horrible sense of unease, as if the very ground had shifted under her feet.
Chapter Ten
The next few weeks of April passed in a blur of essays, assignments and exams for Ondine, rehearsals and costume fittings for Cybelle and Margi and a whirl of chiffon and feathers for Col and Hamish. Great-Auntie Col was the one in chiffon, obviously, and she paraded herself around the closed dining room showing the gown to its best advantage. The dress had fluffy white ostrich feathers at the neckline, collars and hem; many of which became ensnared in Hamish’s hair as he held her hand and practised their ‘walk’ they had to do for the presentation. The peach-coloured dress draped and flowed over Old Col’s body like water over boulders (being as old as Old Col was, there were a several boulders). When she twirled, the skirts fluttered outwards, delicate and shimmery like a hibiscus flower. It hurt for Ondine to look at Hamish in his impossibly gorgeous suit. It was the same suit he’d worn to Margi’s wedding, except now he had a matching peachy cummerbund and a rose bud in his lapel. It wasn’t a real rose, because it wouldn’t last the distance between the rehearsals and the big night.
Having finished her second last assignment in Brugelish Literature, Ondine had time to watch Hamish and Old Col rehearse. It was still light outside, thanks to Brugel’s two-hour jump in to daylight saving time. This time of year they’d normally have customers in the dining room and the garden, if it were warm enough.
In the closed dining room, Margi and Cybelle had created something of an impromptu party. The girls were singing while Chef and Thomas clapped out a beat. Hamish and Old Col were performing a Brugelish three-step.
“Hey, Ondi!” Hamish said. At which point his footing slipped and took Col for a tumble.
Everyone gasped, all eyes turned to Old Col to see if she was hurt.
“Sorry Col,” Hamish said, “I got distracted.”
“Yes.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut fabric. “Don’t do that again.”
“Aye-aye captain.” He gave mocking salute, deflating some of the tension. Then he turned to Ondine and her heart melted a little more. He was under so much pressure to be the perfect partner for Old Col; the lady should be thanking him, not speaking daggers.
“Ondi, help me out of my dress,” Old Col said as she approached her. “I can’t let it get wrinkled before the big night.”
“Of course. Auntie Col, when is the do-over deb?”
“Didn’t I tell you? It’s May twelve. Hamish you should have told her.”
“The twelfth?” Hamish said, “I thought you said it was the Sa
turday afterwards?”
“No, they brought it forward.”
Margi, Cybelle, Ondine and Hamish all looked back and forth to each other. Eventually Margi expositioned, “But that’s the same night as PopEuroTube!”
“Is it?” Old Col gave a nonchalant shrug. “I guess you won’t be able to come then. No matter, I know my debutante ball is hardly something you younger folk’d be interested in.”
“I don’t think that’s what she means, Aunty Col,” Ondine said. “I think we’d all like to be at both events.”
Another shrug. “Be a dear and get my zippered apparel bag would you, we’ll need to put the dress in it the moment I take it off, so that it doesn’t get any dirt from the floor. Come along.”
Ondine followed Old Col to the private room behind the kitchen.
“I have a bone to pick with you, child. What is going on with Hamish? The more we rehearse, the worse he gets.”
“Nothing,” Ondine said feeling terribly disappointed. Because they’d been doing a whole lot of nothing lately, and she’d been rather hoping that they could have at least been doing a little bit of something. “I’m sure he’s trying his absolute best. And I think you should have told us earlier that your dance would clash with PopEuroTube. Is there any way you could hold over the deb until next year?”
The woman scowled and her cheeks turned red. “There won’t be a next year!”
“Are they not having one?” Or was there something about her great aunt’s health she wasn’t telling them?
“Stop pestering me,” Old Col said.
Old Col had always been a fixture in the family. If she was sick, if something was wrong, she should tell them. Ondine’s hands shook with worry as she helped her great-aunt out of the dress. Ostrich feathers came loose as she breathed in, causing her to splutter.
“Mind the dress!”
“Yes Col.”
“Stop spitting on it!”
“I have feathers stuck in my mouth.” It was a wonder Ondine didn’t yell back. In fact, she could have sworn she was using up her very, very last reserves of nice. Right, the dress was safe. She handed it to Col and tried to keep her voice calm. “Something is wrong. You’re being mean, and that’s not like you. And I didn’t want to worry you but your magic isn’t as strong as it used to be so Hamish has been sleeping as a ferret.”
The Ondine Collection Page 67
