Silent in the Sanctuary (18 page)

I was surprised she thought so. Most people were horrified by our upbringing, and Father had received regular letters from clergymen and meddling society mothers detailing how we were being ruined. I felt a rush of genuine, if somewhat tepid, affection for Mrs. King.

“How very kind of you to say. It puts most people off terribly, you know. We are scarcely received in society at all. I love my family dearly, but we hardly know how to behave properly.” That was appallingly true. Our manners had changed little from my grandfather’s day, when gambling and drinking to excess were the norm, and duelling and philandering were the sports of kings. I had elderly aunts who still turned quite misty with nostalgia whenever the scandals of the past were raked over again. They complained bitterly that society had all but ended with the Regency, and that the queen was nothing more than a dull German hausfrau. They mourned fancy-dress balls that lasted a week, and affairs with lords and their valets alike. Their adventures were the stuff of legend, and few of us managed to equal them. My own murdered husband and burned house were the merest peccadilloes in comparison.

I smiled at Mrs. King. “We cannot even manage a simple dinner without throwing the table of precedence completely out of order. But we mean well enough.”

She hesitated, nibbling at her bottom lip. Then, in a rush, “My lady, I wonder if you might call me Charlotte.”

I hesitated and she hurried on. “No, I am sorry. It is a presumption. Please forgive me.”

I put a hand to her sleeve, giving her a sweetly duplicitous smile. “Of course it is not. You are betrothed to Brisbane, and I like to think I shall always count him a friend. I must think of you likewise. I should be very pleased to call you Charlotte.”

The lovely lips curved into a seraphic smile, and her entire face seemed illuminated with pleasure. “And may I call you familiar as well?” she asked shyly.

“I should be disappointed if you did not,” I told her. I looped my arm through hers. “Now, let us go inside. We haven’t much time until the dressing bell, and I do not mean to be late for dinner. I have it on good authority that Cook has roasted ducks in perry tonight.”

She followed me in, but just as we were about to mount the stairs, I spied Lucy, staggering under the weight of one of the great buckets of heather. I sent Charlotte along and hurried down the nave.

“Dearest, one has footmen for this sort of thing,” I reminded Lucy, taking up one handle of the bucket.

She heaved a sigh of relief and straightened. “Bless you, Julia. I know the footmen are supposed to carry these, but they managed to drop the first one and crush half the heather! It simply will not do,” she said, and for an instant I was reminded of the stubborn child she had once been. She had always been more obviously willful than Emma, although she was often the one made to give way. Emma had a gift for getting what she desired without ever appearing to want it at all. Lucy, on the other hand, was more forthright in her demands, and was just as often punished for her acquisitiveness.

Still, every bride wants her little pleasures, I reminded myself, and perfect flowers were a small enough thing to ask. We carried them to the chapel, the one part of the great Abbey that had remained completely untouched after the Dissolution. Virtually nothing had changed in the three hundred years since the monks had fled.

Except for the bucket of sodden heather on the floor, I thought sourly. I righted the bucket and began stuffing the crushed blooms into it.

“I shall have one of the footmen fill the bucket and attend to the spilled water. It has done no damage, except to the flowers, poor things.”

Lucy left the altar and spun slowly on her heel, taking in the shadowy chapel. It was chilly in the darkness with only the great iron candelabra on the altar for warmth.

“I’ve never been in this part of the Abbey. It is so cold here. How did they bear it?” she asked, rubbing her arms.

“I suppose they were accustomed to it. None of the Abbey was heated, you know. The monks used to complain that the ink in the scriptoria froze when they were trying to copy manuscripts.”

Suddenly, her eye alighted on something, an iron ring fixed to the wall. The iron plate behind it was wrought in the shape of a mask, like some gruesome relic of Carnevale. It looked like a throwback to pagan times, like some wicked creature out of myth, its hair wrought into the rays of a burning sun, the empty holes for its eyes staring in sightless menace.

“What is that?” she demanded, moving closer to it in the flickering shadows.

“A sanctuary ring. This was the Galilee when the Abbey was still a church, a sort of vestibule where the faithful would gather before the mass. We are just below the bell tower here. It was consecrated ground, and the ring was put there for the use of felons who might claim sanctuary from the law. The bell rang out whenever the right of sanctuary was invoked.”

She touched it lightly, then turned to me. “What became of them? They stayed here? Forever?”

I thrust the last sprig of heather into the bucket, snapping it in two as I did so. Lucy did not seem to notice. Hastily I shoved it behind the others.

“No. A felon being pursued by the law could, if he reached that ring, claim sanctuary for forty days. At the end of that time, he had to turn himself over to the authorities for trial or confess his guilt and be sent into exile.”

Lucy turned back to the ring. “Astonishing. And people actually did that here?”

“Naturally,” I said. “Murderers, thieves, heretics, they all came here and clung to that ring, invoking the right of sanctuary.” Lucy showed no inclination to leave, but from far away I heard the familiar chime of the dressing bell. I moved toward the great oaken doors leading to the nave. “If you are really interested, you must ask Father. There is a book somewhere in the library. It lists the criminals, with all the ghoulish details. You would enjoy it thoroughly,” I finished in a brisk, nursemaidy tone. “Now if you will excuse me, I must dress for dinner.”

“Oh, Lord! That was the dressing bell, was it not? I must fly!”

She gathered her skirts in her hands and dashed out, hurtling down the nave. I followed, feeling a hundred years old and wishing Sir Cedric the very best good luck. I had a suspicion he was going to need it.

*

Once in my room, I had very little time to dress, and everything seemed to conspire against me. Florence was sitting up on a hearth cushion, yapping at nothing in particular while Morag bustled about, dragging things from the wardrobe and shoving them back again.

“No, not the black. The décolletage is too severe without a sizeable necklace, and I’ve nothing that will do. Fetch the bottle-green velvet. That will serve.”

Morag heaved a sigh. “I have only just sponged it.”

I dared another look at the mantel clock, then began shoving pins into my hair myself. “The dark pink satin then.”

She folded her arms over her chest, puckering her lips. “I have not yet finished whipping the hem.”

“Whyever not, for heaven’s sake?” I jammed another pin into place.

“Perhaps because I spent the better part of the day playing dressmaker to that wee beastie,” she countered, pointing at Florence. The dog, sensing we were talking about her, fell silent and cocked her head. She put me greatly in mind of Charlotte King just then.

“Then the black will have to do.”

Morag shot me a darkly triumphant look and spread the heavy black satin onto the bed, smoothing it with a proprietary hand. When she was finished, she pointed to a box on the dressing table that, in my haste, I had not seen.

“Mind you don’t forget to open that. Mr. Aquinas was very specific. He brought it up after breakfast and said to be certain you opened it before you went down to dinner.”

I tucked the last pin into place and took up the parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper and secured with a bit of ordinary tape such as solicitors use. There was a small piece of card tied to it, penned with two words in my Father’s hand: Wear me.

“What the devil is he up to now?” I muttered. Father adored little japes of any sort, but I was in no mood to play Alice. I wrenched the wrappings free and found a box—a familiar box of dove-grey velvet.

“It cannot be,” I said softly. I stared at it a long moment.

Morag came to peer over my shoulder. “Well, it is. When did you see them last?”

I did not open the box. “Before Edward’s death. They were still in the bank vault when he died, and I did not wear them during my period of mourning. I had half-forgot they were there.”

Still I made no move to open it. Morag finally gave me a little push, and I flicked open the clasp. Another moment’s hesitation, and I opened the lid.

There, nestled against a bed of black satin, was the most perfect collection of grey pearls in England. Even the queen had nothing to touch them. They had been assembled at great effort and expense, by Edward’s forebears. Known as the Grey Pearls, they were a sort of gemological pun. They had been given to each Grey bride on her wedding day. My own motherin-law had bitterly resented giving them up, and it had taken every bit of Edward’s considerable powers of persuasion to convince her to part with them. I had worn them that day, but I had never liked them. I always associated them with Edward’s sour mother. Much later someone mentioned to me in passing that for every pearl a bride wears she shall shed one tear. They had been only too prophetic in my case.

But even I was forced to admit they were magnificent. I stared down into the box where they nestled like pale sleeping serpents. There was a great collar, earrings, and matching bracelets. The collar was fastened with a heavy silver filigree clasp, worked with an Imperial eagle, the red eyes of its double profiles a pair of winking rubies. The bracelets had been copied from the collar; the earrings were simpler. There was a final piece as well, an enormous rope of pearls that, when hung straight from the neck, reached to the knees. Every pearl in the set was enormous, and perfectly matched to its brothers.

I turned over Father’s note, but there was nothing else. He had gone to some trouble to remove these from the vault in London—not in accordance with proper bank policy, but then there were advantages to being an earl—and by the time I had puzzled out his motives, dinner would be a distant memory.

“Fine. I will wear them. They will suit the black in any case,” I said finally, thrusting the box at Morag. She clipped and fastened and looped until I was weighed down like a Michaelmas goose.

Just as she clasped the last piece into place, I gasped. “You’ve scratched me.”

She peered at the collar. “Not I. One of the eagle’s heads is bent. His beak has nipped you, it has.”

She reached to meddle with it, but I waved her away. “I’ve no time to bother with it now. I will wear them tonight, and then send them to the jeweler to be mended.”

Morag fetched my slippers then, dainty things of thinnest black kid, overlaid with exquisite Spanish lace and perched on black velvet heels. I had paid a fortune for them, and was giving serious thought to having all of my evening gowns shortened by an inch to show them off to best advantage. I wriggled my feet into them and tucked a handkerchief and small box of violet cachous into the tiny pocket sewn into the seam of my gown. Morag reached for a small fur tippet, and as she scooped up the bit of fur, Florence began to howl.

Morag had the grace to look abashed. “She thinks it is her friend. They’ve spent the afternoon together, and Florence has grown rather attached.”

I took the fur from her and dropped it in the basket. “Then she may keep it. It smells of dog now, in any case.”

Morag snorted indignantly. “It does not. That dog is as clean as you or I.”

I had little doubt the animal was as clean as Morag, but I knew it was more than my life was worth to say so.

Florence grabbed at the tippet with her tiny teeth and dragged it farther into her basket, growling happily.

Morag leaned over and clucked at her. “Haud yer sheesht, wee a body.”

I stared at her. “Have you gone completely daft? You cannot teach that dog Scots.”

She rounded on me, hands firmly at her hips. “I certainly can. You are teaching her English, and Scots is just as good a language.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but she held up a hand. “You will be late for dinner, and I’ve had a long day. I am in no humour to be hauling trays up at midnight because you’ve not had enough to eat. Off with you.”

I took my leave, grumbling under my breath. Between my family, my maid, and my pets, my life was clearly no longer my own.

Yet men will murder upon holy days.

—THE EVE OF ST. AGNES, KEATS

Dinner was a spirited and lively affair. Conversation and wine flowed in equal abundance, and everyone seemed in high spirits with only a few exceptions. Violante sat next to Father, nibbling at pickled chestnuts and bestirring herself only to reply to questions. She kept her hand firmly at her belly, and I began to wonder if there was not perhaps a happy event in her future.

Hortense had survived her day with Violante and Aunt Dorcas and was seated at Father’s other hand, coolly elegant in ice-blue satin trimmed in silver ribbon. She looked like a pale snow queen, rimed in frost, a few tasteful diamonds winking out from her hair. Emma and Lucy were dressed in the same gowns they had worn the previous evening, as was Charlotte, although she had added a scrap of purple lace to the bodice, a perfect foil for her roses-and-cream complexion. Portia was resplendent in jade green, her wrists heavy with carved jade bracelets purchased from the hold of a Chinese merchant ship. My jewels were by far the most extravagant, and as the soup course was served I began to feel a little embarrassed by them. Father had shown no flicker of recognition when I entered the room, and if he had heard the exclamations of delight by the ladies, he betrayed no sign of it. For his part, Brisbane flicked one glance at the spectacular jewels draped over my skin and turned back to his whiskey.

We talked of many things that night at dinner: our venture to the Gypsy camp (which caused Aunt Dorcas to shudder into her consommé muttering about vibrations) and the Irish question (a subject Father changed as quickly as possible) among them. Alessandro was prevailed upon to answer questions about Italy, and from there the conversation turned to travel.