“I must say I admire your fortillitude, Mrs. Mortmain.” Lady Pippsbury turned to Cornelia again. “To have endured so much. The passing of time cannot ameliorate such mortifillication, cannot wash clean the putridifying stain of scandal. The only blessing is that your mother and husband died before enroasting themselves in further degradation. We must be thankful for small mercies.”
Cornelia stood quite frozen, her stomach clenching. Though her father had found Mortmain quickly enough to save her from the worst sort of cutting behaviour, she’d endured enough such condescension to last a lifetime.
“Now, now, Myrtle. Children cannot be blamed for the misdeeds of their parents. Nor can we berate our sex for the ignominies visited on us by wayward husbands.” Eustacia spoke in her usual jaunty manner but Cornelia could see her eyes flashing with barely concealed ire.
Lady Pippsbury sighed. “To err is human, to forgive divine, as they say. For myself, I would never dream of blaming your niece for her mother’s wicked ways, nor for her husband’s lack of decorum, but her story provides a valuable lesson to all young women of virtue.”
She linked her arm through Penelope’s. “A woman must exert her magnetissimo not just to entice a man but to keep him by her side, while remaining steadfast in her wifely loyalty.”
Penelope made a study of her slipper.
“Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Bongorge’s advice in the matter, since her charms have won not one but four husbands—of conveniently elderly age and financial surety.” Blanche inclined her head towards the door.
“Estela Bongorge?” The marchioness’s head swivelled.
The woman entering the room was indisputably elegant and fashionably attired. Her expanse of creamy bosom, encased precariously in black guipure lace, would have stopped a regiment in its tracks.
Cornelia had known her by quite another name the year of her first season. At the time, the beguiling Estela had been newly married to her third husband, a soap-millionaire. Nevertheless, her wedded state had done nothing to dampen her popularity among the bachelors.
“That hussy can sniff out an eligiboble man from the next county.” Lady Pippsbury’s grip tightened on poor Penelope’s arm, causing her to squeak.
“Probably true,” mused Eustacia. “But one can hardly fault her ‘magnetissimo’ as you put it Myrtle, dear.”
“Sex appeal,” mouthed Blanche.
“And isn’t that little Esther behind her?” Eustacia squinted.
Lady Pippsbury’s lips pressed in disapproval. “The vixen must be touting her about, though the girl is barely of age.”
“Now, Myrtle, such vulgarisms are beneath you,” chided Eustacia. “If Mrs. Bongorge has bothered to travel this far, it’s more likely she’s looking for herself. Although her husband isn’t quite ready to drop off the perch, I hear it won’t be long.”
Cornelia’s stomach lurched again. The whole business was distasteful, and she’d no desire to hear more. Clearly, the various young ladies gathered were there for Mr. Burnell’s benefit, just as he’d foreseen.
She was about to make some excuse and drift away when the gong sounded and Lady Studborne invited everyone to walk through.
“Jolly good.” Eustacia guided Cornelia to fall in line. “I hear the Duchess’s cook is exceptional, particularly when it comes to pastry. Her game pie is praised far and wide.”
Cornelia smiled weakly. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat anything at all, and there was still no sign of Mr. Burnell.
“Blanche and I are seated on either side of Colonel Faversham.”
Cornelia believed he was the one wearing the rather awful toupée.
“You’re placed between the vicar’s wife and Baron Billingsworth,” her aunt went on. “He looks pretty harmless, but watch out for his hands. I know his sort. No female posterior is safe.”
“He’s a reasonable catch.” Blanche added. “Though a dreadful one for the drink, so he’ll probably die soon. At least you wouldn’t have to put up with him too long if things didn’t work out. Still capable of fathering children, though rather quick to the finish line, I’ve heard.”
Eustacia elbowed Blanche in the ribs. “Ignore her, Cornelia. He’s far too long in the tooth. You can do markedly better.”
As in the drawing room, the walls were papered in pink silk, the rose hue echoed in velvet curtains swagged at windows sufficiently tall to balance the height of the ceiling. Quite in contrast to the darkly ornate decoration of the entrance hall, the connecting rooms had a lightness which spoke of a feminine hand.
Above, the stucco ceiling was most prettily finished, its cherubs carrying garlands of roses between them, surrounding a central chandelier of magnificent proportions.
The window panes were patterned with frost and the snow was falling harder than ever, piling deep against the French doors leading to the terrace. The grand vista over open parkland was blanketed white, the lake iced beyond.
Nancy had been right. In this sort of weather, no further guests would be arriving; nor would any be leaving.
Taking her seat, Cornelia realized that not only was Mr. Burnell absent but Lord Studborne also.
The duchess rang a little bell to summon everyone’s attention and, looking to each in turn, gave her welcome. “It gives me great pleasure to have gathered so many dear friends to our home. Be assured we have much fun planned and, despite the not-far-off-arrival of another Studborne—” Here, she rested her hand upon the swell before her, “I intend to join in the festivities.”
There were a few titters and a murmur of approval about the table.
“Please accept my apologies on His Grace’s behalf.” She indicated the empty seat at the far end. “He asks us not to delay. Despite the inclement weather, his Grace took my brother on a tour of the estate and they came across some sheep in trouble in the lower meadow. Not wishing to be bested by a snow drift, the two set about hauling out the livestock by hand. They returned a few minutes ago, and should be with us shortly.”
Another wave of respectful mutterings greeted the announcement, alongside a cry of ‘Hoorah for his Grace, Saviour of Sheep’, which met with subdued chuckles.
“Thank you Lord Fairlea.” The duchess smiled benignly. “I’ve been wondering what to embroider upon his Grace’s handkerchiefs; now, I have my answer.”
The laughter came freely at Lady Studborne’s joke and, at her nod, the footmen stepped forward to serve the soup.
“Oh, courgette and pea, my favourite.” The matron next to Cornelia inhaled appreciatively. “It was a rather tricky walk up the lane from the rectory but I’m so glad we came. The duke and duchess are wonderful hosts. Have you known them long?”
Cornelia observed Mrs. Nossle taking note of her name card, balanced within a holly sprig at the head of her place-setting. Nothing in her demeanour indicated that the name Mortmain was familiar, and Cornelia couldn’t help but feel relief. “Some small acquaintance when I was a child, though my aunts have a long-standing correspondence with the duchess. I haven’t met the duke as yet.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll like him very well. Everyone does.” Mrs. Nossle lowered her voice, so that Cornelia was obliged to lean a little closer. “A vast improvement on his father. One doesn’t like to speak ill of the dead but something wasn’t right there. For a time, Reverend Nossle helped place some girls from Weymouth orphanage in the old duke’s employ but none of them stayed long. Always a sign, don’t you think, that all isn’t well in a house.”