“Yes, you’re very brave; now, out you come before we both freeze.” Cornelia stamped her feet.
With another happy bark, Minnie launched herself out again, giving a good shake. Before she could take off again, Cornelia grabbed her, holding the bundle of furry mischief to her chest.
“No more adventures for you. It’s far too cold to be messing about.”
Cornelia buried her face in Minnie’s fur, wishing she’d had the forethought to wrap a scarf about her.
She was about to return the way they’d come when she noticed they were standing directly in front of a rather large orangery and someone was inside. With a quick tap on the window, the little door was soon opened and Cornelia stepped inside, to welcome warmth and the scent of citrus blossoms.
“Goodness, ye be shivering, ma’am.” The gardener gave a worried frown. “Here, take off that’n coat and rest beside the woodstove if it please ye; quickest way to get dry. I can send for your’n maid.”
“No need.” Cornelia smiled, pulling off her gloves and settling on the little stool he pulled forward for her. “I’ll just sit here a few minutes as you suggest, then I’ll go and change.”
“If ye be sure, I’ll leave ye be, then. ’Tis a pleasant spot, in any case; best in the Abbey, I do think.” Having placed another log within the burner, he turned away, taking the watering can with him.
Cornelia was inclined to agree. The garden room was filled with trees in bloom and others in fruit—oranges and lemons on one side and apricots on the other. And, she had it all to herself.
Not far off, a fountain was playing, blocking her view of what lay beyond, but she guessed the orangery extended the length of this side of the house. Truly, it was like some Mediterranean haven. She would have to bring Blanche and Eustacia to see.
Unlacing her boots, she stretched her toes towards the stove, grateful to let its heat work on her damp stockings. Minnie seemed to have the same idea, laying prone on the warmed terracotta tiles. Cornelia closed her eyes. With all that had happened, she’d been feeling rather cross but this place was wonderfully soothing.
So much so that Cornelia found herself jerking awake as her chin nodded forward.
The snow had ceased falling and the Eastern horizon was now tinged violet through broken clouds. Even her feet were almost dry.
No matter how comfortable she was, she ought to return to her room. However, she was just lacing her boots again when a voice drifted to her from somewhere beyond the fountain.
“If one of you doesn’t catch his eye over the coming week, I simply won’t believe you’re trying. That Mortmain woman may have attached herself to Mr. Burnell for the time being but she’s unsuitiboble to become any respectable man’s wife. Everyone knows that Mortmain wouldn’t have touched her if it weren’t for the dowry her father put up.”
Ice gripped Cornelia’s heart. The voice was Lady Pippsbury’s.
“The Everlys like to think themselves a cut above, but they made their fortune little differently than my father made his—importing wines and spirits no less. Their connections cannot be compared with our own. You, my dears, have good breeding and gentiliquette.”
One of the girls interjected. “But, Mama, wasn’t Lady Sturgeon an Everly before she married the viscount? She must have had some qualities to recommend her, to make such an excellent match.”
“Piff paff! An animomoly! She was pretty enough in her youth and had a handsome dowry. Like all the Everly women, she lacks true refinement, as that business with the footmen amply demonstrated. Lord Sturgeon is a fool, or he’d have cast her off years ago.”
“Footmen, Mama?”
“Not for you to know, Paulina!” Lady Pippsbury was making no effort to lower her voice, the words carrying quite clearly to Cornelia’s burning ears.
“You need only cast your mind to the actions of Mrs. Mortmain’s mother. Throwing over her husband to abscondicate with a penniless artist! I ask you! Flighty and featherbrained! Such recklessness runs in the blood. Mark my words, the daughter will come to a bad end herself. No loyalty, no integrity, and no sense.”
Cornelia didn’t want to hear the poisonous words. Hadn’t she berated her aunts for eavesdropping on the train? One rarely heard good of oneself, as the saying went. But, how could she not listen?
“Remember, girls. A true lady is not ruled by passions—for that way calamitysm lies. Now, we must hasten to the drawing room. Lady Studborne wishes us to hear her brattish offspring recite some twaddle, and we must oblige. The duchess’s good favour is sure to count for something with her brother, and there are other gentlemen to practise upon. None are as wealthy as Mr. Burnell, but Lord Fairlea is no paltry catch and the baron is not without means. We must cast our nets where the fish are flipping, my dears.”
As their footsteps retreated, Cornelia let out a great gulping cry. She was familiar with smirks and smug expressions, titters behind fans, amused whispers, and sudden silences as she passed. She’d hardly ‘fitted in’, even before her mother’s departure. Afterward, women like Lady Pippsbury had treated her as if she were unworthy to associate with them; as if she were tainted—like a mud-spattered slipper.
Men had regarded her with a more speculative eye. Her father had asserted that his wife was visiting an elderly relative in Paris, and continued to send Cornelia to dance parties and soirées. She hadn’t understood, at the time, why men who’d previously ignored her now stood much closer. Stray hands would touch her bottom; an arm would brush her breasts. She’d learnt to avoid quiet passageways and dimly lit terraces.
Thus had Cornelia first learnt what it was to be the subject of sordid gossip, and to know that she was viewed as an apple falling from the same tree.
And, all the while, her father had been negotiating—finding someone who’d take her regardless of the rumours, fishing for a man who wouldn’t be fussy, baited by a large enough dowry.
Brushing aside her tears, she tiptoed after the Pippsburys. One thing was certain; she couldn’t face joining the other guests for whatever frivolity was underway. The duke and duchess would be busy and wouldn’t notice her absence. She’d retreat to her room, pleading a sore head if necessary.
Only as she crossed the great hall, making her way towards the stairs, did she remember her arrangement to meet Burnell in the library.
Meanwhile, in the duke’s study…
Studborne clapped Ethan on the shoulder in sympathy. “Not a problem, old man; leave Rosamund to me.”
Ethan hadn’t thought to confide his plans, but his brother-in-law had been effusive in his congratulations—asking even if they needed to send an announcement to The Times. He’d felt obliged to confess.
Truth be told, he’d thrown himself into the whole make-believe with more gusto than he’d intended, and Cornelia’s irritation about it had been the icing on the cake. She was an easy one to rile. He hadn’t realized how easy it would be to convince everyone at the Abbey.
But now they were panting for a formal announcement of engagement. If it weren’t so out of hand, he’d be finding it amusing. As it was, no matter how he was enjoying the charade, he’d have to wrap this thing up pretty fast.