She was booting the problem to a higher authority.
“We are forever out of the house,” Viola said. “I never see Mr. Marlowe, so how can I answer his questions except through an occasional note?”
Lavinia had been sifting through fabrics and held up a swatch of dark blue twill. “This would be perfect for a riding costume for you, Aunt Knowe.”
For once, she was suggesting a subdued color. Louisa had enjoyed being in the forefront of fashion twenty years ago, but at her age she would prefer to be unremarkable. “An excellent idea,” she said. “That is a very respectable blue.”
Ever since Lavinia had taken to designing her wardrobe, “respectable”—not to mention “unnoticed”—was a fond fantasy. Lavinia’s clothing sense ran more along the lines of “unexpected.”
“We have not been corresponding for weeks,” Viola protested. She paused. “Well, perhaps two weeks. I didn’t notice. Anyway, it’s not correspondence, because Mr. Marlowe is here in the house. We merely exchange notes because it’s easier to share information this way.”
“My brother would be very displeased to discover that you have been carrying on a clandestine correspondence with a young man,” Lady Knowe stated. “You, Viola! Of all the hooligans who’ve gone through the Lindow nursery, I wouldn’t have expected you to behave outrageously.”
Lavinia held up a swatch of bright green lace. “I will pair the blue with this lace, Aunt Knowe.”
“I knew the blue was too good to be true,” Lady Knowe groaned. “That green is far too fashionable for me, Lavinia, darling.”
The truth was that she had lost control over her own wardrobe. For the previous decade, she had scarcely left Lindow Castle, living happily in Cheshire and raising her brother’s horde of children.
But the children began marrying and leaving the castle.
North and his wife lived not far from Lindow, but Alaric and Willa sailed in and out the port of Dover. Betsy had debuted in London, and her husband was often in the city. Parth had to manage his bank and all the rest of his businesses. Somehow Lady Knowe kept finding herself on the road to London.
Every time she arrived, Lavinia would have a new gown waiting for her, a garment she hadn’t chosen, wouldn’t have ordered, and would have never thought to wear.
Before she knew it, reporters had begun watching for her wherever she went. She couldn’t attend the opera at Covent Garden without being besieged by newspaper correspondents working for The Lady’s Magazine, or its French equivalent, Galerie des Modes.
“The green will clash,” she said, trying in vain to regain some control over color, if not design.
“This is not mere green, but acid green,” Lavinia corrected her. “I shall frame the bodice and large turn-back cuffs with an extravagant amount of this lace. And I mean to have some satin dyed to match for the lining.”
Lady Knowe groaned. “Everyone will look at me.”
“That’s the idea,” Lavinia said. “Viola and Joan must dress like perfect young ladies, albeit the best-dressed debutantes of the Season. But with you I can be creative!”
“Why can’t you expend your creativity on your own clothing?”
“Because I’m married to Parth,” Lavinia replied. “He’s getting to be terribly powerful. Oh, no, Barty. Don’t sit on that satin.” She just managed to snatch the scrap of fabric away before Barty fluttered down and nestled next to her leg to take a nap.
“I don’t see why that means you can’t wear an acid green,” Lady Knowe said.
“If Parth decides he wants to stand for the House of Commons, or accept one of those titles they keep offering him, I don’t want the fact that he has an outrageously fashionable wife to stand in the way,” Lavinia said. “You know what people are like. I already attract far too much attention.”
“Parth doesn’t agree,” Joan said. “He thinks you should be known as the most fashionable lady in London. He told me that last night.”
“I am wiser to the ways of polite society than my husband,” Lavinia said, even though her smile showed how much she appreciated Parth’s unwavering faith. She clasped her hands and put on a beseeching look. “Please, Aunt Knowe, allow me to design your riding costume. I promise that it will be flattering.”
Lady Knowe bent over a pile of fabric to give Lavinia a hug, being careful not to dislodge Barty. “This family is lucky,” she said, feeling misty. “The day you married Parth was one of our most fortunate moments of all.”
“Does that mean you’ll wear my blue and green riding costume in Hyde Park?” Lavinia’s eyes were bright with excitement. “I promise you that the combination will be extraordinary.”
Lady Knowe winced. But they both knew that she wouldn’t refuse.
“Let’s return to the question of clandestine letters,” she said instead, looking over at Viola.
Viola stared back, fruitlessly wishing that she could raise a sardonic eyebrow. It would be so useful!
“There is nothing improper about our correspondence,” she said instead. “Mr. Marlowe asked me if I knew the source of the unfortunate odor in the library. As it happens, I do. A weasel died in the attic and was undiscovered for some time.”
“Disgusting,” Joan said with a shudder.
“The smell seeped through the floorboards, and the only way to remove the smell will be to rip them out. I said as much to Father Duddleston before he passed away, but he thought the repairs would be too burdensome. His solution was to stop using the library altogether.”
“Mr. Marlowe could have figured that out himself,” Joan said, rolling her eyes. “He merely wanted an excuse to write to you, and never mind the fact that his fiancée is hovering in the background like a bird of prey. Wait until Miss Pettigrew finds out about these notes you’re exchanging.”
Viola felt a twinge of guilt and looked down at her letter. If the truth be told, she hadn’t even mentioned the weasel. Mr. Marlowe’s last sermon, preached in the townhouse chapel, had addressed marital love, and she was trying to compose an intelligent response to prove that she was worthy of being a vicar’s wife.
Her lack of success was evidenced by the crumpled pieces of paper at her feet.
Miss Pettigrew certainly wouldn’t approve.
Dear Mr. Marlowe, she’d written, I wish to congratulate you on the perspicuity of your recent sermon on marital harmony.
She wasn’t quite sure what “perspicuity” meant.
I shall take to heart your point as regards avoiding using another human being as an instrument for one’s own pleasure, thus making a spouse an object of indulgence.
That was as far as she’d got because, frankly, what did she know? Lavinia and Parth had joined them for the Sunday service, and she was quite certain that Parth had been laughing because she heard Lavinia hushing him. Her stepfather and mother had just looked straight ahead with mildly interested expressions.
Lady Knowe looked as if she might confiscate the letter, so Viola hastily folded the draft. It felt improper, even if it wasn’t improper.
As if her aunt could hear her thoughts, Lady Knowe said, “The very fact you are corresponding is improper, perhaps even more so because you are abiding under the same roof. Darling, don’t you see that it doesn’t say much for Mr. Marlowe that he has engaged in, let alone encouraged, your correspondence? As Joan pointed out, he is betrothed. Miss Pettigrew surely has no idea that you are exchanging missives, no matter how innocent the subject.”