Eustacia put down her magazine. “We did hope, didn’t we Blanche. Mr. Burnell couldn’t keep his eyes off you on the train. It was très romantique.”
“What are you wearing today, dear?” Blanche looked about for her slippers. “I know it’s rather chilly but something showing a little shoulder would be flattering—or some supplémentaire décolletée?”
“Stop it, both of you! I won’t be walking around half naked, risking catching pneumonia, just to lure a man; and certainly not that man in particular. Moreover, there was nothing romantic about his proposal.”
“Proposal?” Her aunts squeaked in unison.
“Enough! If I’d realized I was going to be forced into such games I never would have agreed to come. As it is, I shall inform Mr. Burnell that the idea is preposterous, and I want no part in it.”
Blanche looked crestfallen. “But, darling, it really is rather a good plan—especially the part about making other men sit up and take notice. They’re terribly competitive creatures; Mr. Burnell is right.”
“Eavesdropping is beneath contempt!” Cornelia stood up, marching back towards the door.
“But very useful, on occasion. We meant no harm.” Eustacia sniffed and buried her face back in The Strand.
There was nothing for it but to depart, before Cornelia said something she would regret.
The Abbey was a veritable labyrinth of passageways and staircases, the walls bare stone in places and oak-panelled in others, the level of the floor changing as one moved through the various wings. There were unexpected steps in the middle of corridors and dead ends containing only locked doors.
In a house of such size, there might be fifty indoor servants, but they’d obviously been well trained, for none crossed Cornelia’s path.
At last, she located the wide staircase they’d climbed the night before, the sweeping oak balustrade taking her downward in gentle spirals before opening to a suspended vestibule overlooking the entrance hallway. By evening light, she’d hardly taken in its expansive proportions, nor the richness of its furnishings.
While red velvet draped at every window, the walls were tapestry covered, depicting the usual hunting ensembles and chivalrous gentlemen escorting maidens through pastoral scenes. Higher up, several fearsome stags looked down with bulging eyes, flanked by arrangements of vicious-bladed weaponry.
Clearly, the interior had been updated since its days as a monastery, for there was nothing to denote austerity, and the double-headed axes mounted so prominently had surely not been used for devotional purposes.
A chandelier of the old-fashioned sort hung by a long chain, while sconces of candles lined either side. It appeared electricity was yet to be installed at the Abbey, though Nancy had mentioned there being a proper bath adjacent to Cornelia’s room, with a modern boiler to provide the water—an amenity she intended to make full use of.
Most breathtaking of all was the tree—a fir perhaps thirty feet in height—placed to the right of the main entranceway. Covered in every sort of bauble, from individual wrapped sweets and glass-blown balls to miniature toys and brightly-coloured ribbons, it was a feast for the eyes.
How she’d avoided noticing it the night before, Cornelia had no idea! She must have been in a daze, consumed by her desire to escape Mr. Burnell’s dominating presence and to seek the comfort of a much-needed bed.
Pausing at the foot of the staircase, she pondered where her hosts might be. Blanche and Eustacia would be at least another half hour in having their hair dressed, and she ought to introduce herself before wandering any further in the house.
From somewhere beyond the nearest row of antlered heads, Cornelia caught the sound of children. It was doubtful their mama or papa would be with them at this hour but they’d have a governess surely, and she might direct Cornelia in where to go.
Luckily, the door was ajar, enabling her to listen in before committing herself fully.
“That’s it. The ribbon has to pull tight or it won’t hold the mistletoe fast. We want it to stay up until twelfth night, so you better tie the knots properly, Tom.”
A rather cross voice responded. “I know how to tie a knot. You needn’t always be telling me what to do.”
Leaning forward a little, Cornelia saw the room was wonderfully bright, receiving the full morning sun—an effect exacerbated by the walls being a pretty shade of pale yellow. The children, both very fair-haired, sat side by side on green sprigged sofa.
“It’s only natural that I know more than you. When you’re nine, you’ll understand.” The sister’s voice was decidedly disdainful. “And you’re wrong about the song. On the tenth day, it isn’t drummers or pipers, it’s lords a’leaping.”
“It’s a daft song anyway. What are they leaping over for a start? It’s all nonsense.”
The girl gave a loud sigh. “It’s fertility rites, silly. Almost everything is. You have to imagine yourself at a medieval feast, with swordsmen jumping about, over a fire pit probably, showing the ladies how virile they are.”
A feminine voice wafted from an unseen corner of the room. “Good Heavens, Melinda. Where do you hear such things?”
“I read it,” came the peremptory reply. “It was in one of the books Uncle Ethan sent last Christmas from Hatchards; the other was about conquistadors. Papa said I could look at the pictures, but I was able to read most of it perfectly well.”
“So I see…” The woman’s voice trailed off.
“All this green stuff is pagan as well—just ask Reverend Nossle. The church adopted most of the old customs centuries ago, to keep congregations happy.”
Smiling to herself, Cornelia gave a cough before stepping inside but, no sooner had she done so than a flurry of furry bodies leapt up from the rug before the hearth and bounded over. Tails wagging, they sniffed at her skirts and licked furiously at her hands. The smallest barked excitedly as one final canine—a sleepy-looking spaniel whose belly almost touched the floor—brought up the rear.
“Lie down, naughty things! And stop that Hercules! No one wants to hear you making that horrible racket.” The voice was that of the woman whom, Cornelia now saw, was half way up a folding ladder, attempting to attach one end of a garland to a hook. With her back to Cornelia she called down, “Put the extra ribbon on the table please Betsy, and can you ask Carruthers to come and help after all. I’m just two inches short of reaching and I daren’t climb higher.”
Turning, she blinked, peering down at Cornelia. “Oh Goodness, you’re not Betsy!” Giving a wan smile, she stepped carefully from the ladder. “And you’re besieged by beasts; I’m so sorry.” At the click of her fingers, the dogs trotted back to where they’d been.
Cornelia extended her hand. “I’m Cornelia Mortmain, and it’s I who should be apologizing, walking in without knocking. I was looking for our hostess.”
“Then you’re in exactly the right place.” Despite her obvious weariness, the woman gave a smile which lit her face. “Delighted to meet you.”
“Oh, your Grace.” Cornelia fell into a bobbing curtsy. “I didn’t think…and I wasn’t expecting.” She took in the gown of dark grey, made not of serviceable serge but of fine silk, and the bodice delicately embroidered in violets—a bodice which sat high above a prominent roundness.