Soil and Ceremony

by Julia Byrd

  The pre-dinner hour passed in a blur. No one seemed to find anything unusual about attending a party at Maida House, probably because Mother was a charming hostess. She acted as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She asked about people’s gardens and sick relatives and a new curricle. It was easy to imagine the past eight years had been merely a strange interlude in the otherwise smooth course of her life.

  I spent a few moments with each of the landowners in turn, and I left each with his own envelope containing my offer. They would find time to read and consider the proposition, and I would be paying calls over the next few days to make my case. One of the men, Emberton, seemed especially averse. He pinched the envelope as if it were distasteful and found a reason to exit the conversation. The others, however, were neutral. I had to trust that their desire for a quick, sure profit would win out over the annual gamble of farming.

  A chime rang from somewhere in the house to signal that dinner was ready. I didn’t know we possessed a dinner bell, but I hid my surprise and offered Mother my elbow. Greeley had not shown himself, and I was disappointed on Sarah’s behalf. She might conclude her father did not care to repair their break.

  Mother and I led the party from the library to the dining room. I glanced back to enjoy the surprised expressions conjured by the empty space. Then I opened the door to the hot house, held aside the curtain, and gestured for Mother to precede me. The inviting scene Juno had created with her tall grasses and lush, natural centerpieces sparked a wave of appreciation among the guests.

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Emberton upon entering. “Oh, how charming.”

  I seated Mother at the end of one table and myself at the other. We had mismatched numbers of ladies and gentlemen, but the trestle benches and casual atmosphere smoothed the brief confusion over seating.

  After the soup was served, I reached for my spoon, but all the faces in the room turned to me. They waited expectantly. My blood turned cold, and I dropped my silverware with a shaky hand.

  “Benjamin,” Mother mock-whispered. She was at the other table, separated from me by at least four feet of silverbeet and raspberry. “Would you like to say a few words? A toast, perhaps?”

  I stared around at all the patient, kind faces, all watching me. The thought of addressing the group was horrifying. To stutter and stumble through awkward phrasings and looping syllables—no. I would rather have got up and danced atop the table.

  “Erm, n-no,” I mumbled finally into the quiet. “W-welcome. Eat.”

  Silence ensued, interrupted only by the evening wind whistling in the narrow gaps between glass panes. Candle flames flickered in the draft.

  Finally, my mother spoke. “Indeed! Welcome and eat are the only sentiments that need voicing. We’re so pleased to have friends with us this evening. Thank you for traveling to see us, and we hope you enjoy yourselves.”

  With that, she charged her wine glass, and both tables followed suit. I took a gulp of wine to mask my quivering hand. From halfway down the opposite bench, Juno looked at me steadily, her features composed in a purposeful expression. Pull yourself together. Her pitiless stare gave me a perverse sense of strength. I dipped my head in acknowledgment. I am fine.

  After the first course, I glanced at the doorway, in case Branch should come to alert me of a latecomer. But by the time the roast was served, no one else had arrived, and the people at the tables were full of cheer—along with a fair amount of wine.

  The roast platter was accompanied by an enormous bowl of leaves.

  “I say, is this the vegetable course?” grumbled Johnston, one of the landowners. He prodded at a piece of greenery on his plate.

  “Yes, dear,” said his wife. “It’s the French style, you know. We saw this sort of thing in Paris last year.”

  “Hmph. Looks more like part of the décor.”

  In fact, he was right. The salad, at Juno’s insistence, had been harvested from many of the hot house plants surrounding us.

  “Try it, Mr. Johnston,” Juno urged. “You might enjoy the oil vinaigrette. And it’s very healthful.”

  The man began to complain again, but his wife lodged her elbow in his ribcage. From my own plate, I speared a robust piece of something green and crunched. Juno smiled beatifically.

  I focused on a snippet of conversation between my mother and Mrs. Wright.

  “Rebecca, I must congratulate you,” the woman said, “on maintaining the character of the ancestral home. Many of the newer structures these days are so gauche, lacking in all sensibility. But Maida House wears its long lineage on its face. You need never fear being confused with a member of the nouveau riche class.”

  I covered a cough with my linen napkin. We were no sort of riche whatsoever.

  “Yes,” Mother murmured. “Such a blessing.” Her mouth twitched with a suppressed smile.

  When Branch appeared at the edge of the curtain partition, I rose so quickly I alarmed the lady sitting beside me. I offered a hurried apology as I edged around the table to exit the room. Greeley, finally.

  “Someone is here,” I stated.

  Branch nodded. “In the foyer, as you instructed.”

  “Thank you.” I strode through the dining room and towards the hallway. “Stay with me, if you don’t mind, while I converse with Mr. Greeley, in case he wants to speak with his daughter. If so, I’ll send you to fetch Miss Greeley. You know her?”

  “Sir, it’s not—”

  “I hope he’s polite, but if I sense he wants to shout, you’ll stay with me. That will encourage him to mind his manners. Do you understand?” I wanted Greeley sufficiently repentant, and maybe Sarah could downplay her irreligious fervor. Then, hopefully, she could go home.

  “No, sir, I don’t believe you understand—”

  I halted abruptly at the threshold of the entrance hall. Branch stumbled into my back.

  “The late arrival is a young couple, sir,” he finished. “Mr. and Mrs. Mofflin.”

  Mofflin. They were the fourth and final name on my list. The parents of the girl whose grave Everett had dug less than a month ago. I hadn’t had a chance to meet them, and I had not invited them to the dinner party.

  I stared at the couple in my foyer, at a momentary loss. “I—hello,” I stuttered. “Good evening.”

  “Mr. Hood, sir,” said Mofflin. He stepped forwards and reached for my hand. His grip was damp and wiry. “We heard about your investigation. It’s about time someone looked around. You need to know.” The man leaned closer and lowered his voice. “It wasn’t our fault. We miss our daughter. I cannot explain what happened to Sarah, but it was not our fault.”

  “No,” I agreed. “Do not blame yourselves for her death, please.”

  “I want my daughter back,” Mrs. Mofflin whispered. In her reddened eyes, I saw a fevered grief, a look I had witnessed in Alfred Roberts.

  I could offer them little solace. “Please, come join us for dinner.”

  Smoothly, Branch relieved them of their overcoats, then led the couple along the hall. I turned back to the front door. After cracking it open, I peered out into the night. A sudden gust threatened to tear the door from my grasp and made my eyes fill with moisture. Moonlight obscured by fast-moving clouds turned the sky a silvery gray. The torches I had planted earlier stood bravely against the wind, but they illuminated no one else approaching the house. Maybe Greeley had decided to stay away after all. Would his daughter forgive his absence? I shut the door and strode back to the dinner party.

  Chapter 26: Rite of the Dance

  The noise of half a dozen simultaneous conversations reached us as I caught up with the Mofflins in the empty dining room. If the party was to be judged on the enjoyment of our guests, it was already a success. Mrs. Mofflin cast me a doubtful look, but I only smiled and indicated the doorway to the hot house. I reached behind her and pushed aside the curtain so she could enter.

  My eyes went to Juno’s face. She was conversing with two others, nodding attentively as Mrs. Johnston expounded. Her gaze me
t mine, and her expression relaxed as she noted my return. To have travelled from the depths of my former solitude to see a beautiful, powerful woman exude happiness just because of my presence was staggering. I could never deserve such a marvel, but I could try.

  Then the direction of Juno’s gaze shifted to Mr. and Mrs. Mofflin. Her face flickered with confusion, and her eyes narrowed to a squint in the low candlelight. After a moment, her expression cleared, and she rose from the bench.

  Juno evidently knew Mrs. Mofflin, for the two embraced as friends and exchanged a few quiet words. “Both of you, come and sit beside me,” she said. “Do you know Mrs. Roberts?”

  I let Juno pull them into her sphere and watched as she made introductions, then slid back onto my bench.

  “Welcome, welcome, my dears,” said Mrs. Wright, who had been enjoying my wine selections. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. The more, the merrier. Shouldn’t there be dancing? Mr. Hood, when do we adjourn to the ballroom?”

  I twitched upright and forced out a laugh. It was cruel to force unplanned merriment on the grieving Mofflins. “Oh, not this evening, I’m afraid. But we do have chocolate-cherry biscuits with cream—”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Wright said with a slight waver. “All of these young people and no dancing? Nonsense, I say. I danced here at Maida House fifteen years ago.”

  Then, to my growing dismay, Mrs. Hargreaves took up the plea. “A splendid notion! A few country dances would be no trouble, surely? We don’t require a fuss.”

  Mother looked frozen in her place at the end of the bench. She gaped at me. The ballroom hadn’t been reopened yet. I hadn’t even been inside to check for damage. It was never a priority.

  “Ladies, ladies,” I said, lifting my hands to quell their excitement. I didn’t want everyone to stop and stare at me. “You may not require a fuss, but dancing generally does require music. Sadly, we have none. However, as I mentioned, I will ring for the dessert course—”

  “There’s a pianoforte in the ballroom.” I scanned the room for the traitor’s voice. It was Sarah Greeley. I glared daggers at her, but the girl was undaunted. Had she been poking her nose into closed rooms? If the instrument was still present in the ballroom, it was only because Joe hadn’t thought of a way to carry it downstairs and sell it. “I’ll play if you like,” she said.

  “Oh, you must dance, Miss Greeley,” said Emberton, the one who had been reluctant to take my offer letter. Now, however, he had his elbows on the table, and his cravat was loosened. “I’ll play the pianoforte. You may all compliment me on my skill.”

  I could hardly refuse him without causing offense. The tide seemed to be rising against me. Mrs. Toth was beaming, and Everett gave me a loose grin that said he would be no help. Juno, when I silently begged for her help, only shrugged.

  “Sir.” Branch, standing behind my shoulder, bent to catch my attention. “Shall I fetch some candlesticks up to the ballroom?”

  I tilted my head back to stare at the glass panels overhead. Surely the soirees of my parents’ generation had never been quite so unstructured. I sighed and dropped my chin. “Yes, fine. Get one of the girls from the kitchen to help you with the candles. Don’t light the damned fireplace, though. Let them keep warm with their dancing.”

  And we didn’t have time for chimney sweeping, although I didn’t want to say that in front of everyone. Sarah and a few of the other ladies clapped at my pronouncement. They would understand soon enough that the ballroom was not prepared for guests.

  Half an hour later, after the chocolate-cherry biscuits had been served and eaten, Branch returned and signaled that his tasks were completed.

  “How bad is the ballroom?” I asked under my breath when he hovered beside me.

  His stony face revealed nothing. “It is…perhaps less than ideal, sir.”

  I could only hope I wasn’t exposing the family name to ridicule. Rising, I nodded to Mother that she should lead the way. Emberton offered her his arm. The others filed out after them, and soon I heard the echo of footsteps on the stairs.

  Everett, with Sarah by his side, paused in the doorway where I held the curtain. “Any other late guests besides Mr. and Mrs. Mofflin?” he asked quietly.

  “No.”

  He searched my face, his eyes focused as always. Neither of us had done more than taste the wine. Then he nodded and walked on.

  Juno lingered until we were the only two remaining in the room, and I offered her my arm as we turned to leave.

  “Has this evening succeeded?” she asked softly. “It seems that all factions are at peace. No one has called me a witch to my face, at least. And no one is muttering about a hex.”

  “I’m not certain. The bereaved parents are gracious and dignified, but I haven’t seen Mrs. Toth exchange a word with Mrs. Roberts or Sarah.”

  We trailed after the group as they clambered up the stairs. The air cooled as the first-floor fireplaces grew more distant, and the clean smell of lemon polish gave way to dust.

  The entire third story was given over to the ballroom. At the landing, the double doors had been thrown open. I stopped and stared, unsure whether to laugh or cry at the faded ruin before me.

  An expansive parquet floor was tracked with dusty footsteps where the others had entered. A dozen wicks flickered in candelabra placed at intervals around the floor, but darkness outside the tall windows along one wall seemed to absorb the light. The opposite wall was set with mirrors in ornate frames. Three unlit chandeliers hung from gilt chains. In the center of the room, a haphazard flock of sofas, settees, two chaise longues, three armchairs, and a high-backed wooden bench made an awkward seating oasis. One of the settees was draped in a dust cloth. Everett reached for a corner and whisked it away, sending up a cloud. The furniture had been abandoned there, perhaps intended for the attic storage or to be repaired or sold.

  The effect was eerie. I shivered from more than just the cool, damp air. Through two centuries at Maida House, how many passions had been sparked or quenched in the dim corners of the ballroom? How many dreamers had stolen kisses or dashed away tears? I could almost see ghostly couples whirling across the floor.

  Our group of guests, which had seemed such a crush in the library, was swallowed up by the space. It took me a moment to realize everyone had gathered near the far wall. On the musicians’ dais, Emberton removed a dust cover from a pianoforte. Overlapping conversations echoed oddly around the bare walls. It was utter folly to have allowed the party upstairs, but they were in high spirits.

  Juno squeezed my arm. “Did you dance here, Ben? When your parents hosted parties?”

  She was attempting to distract me from my thoughts. I shook my head. “I had dancing instruction here with Joe, which we both despised. At the only ball I remember, a year or two before my father fell ill, I did not stand up with any young ladies. I was nearly silent that year, and I’m sure they did not miss my company.”

  “Their youthful oversights lay all unknown to them,” Juno said loyally, “but not to me. Try to be civil for another hour or two.”

  She smiled to soften her chiding. I inclined my head. “Wise as ever, my beautiful girl.”

  “Good. Now, will you excuse me so that I may rescue Mrs. Mofflin from Mrs. Wright?”

  She strode away with another quick smile. Across the room, Emberton plonked a few keys. To my untrained ear, the lower register of the instrument was fine enough, but the higher pitches fell flat. He launched into a lively variation of a popular air. Sarah Greeley called a figure. She and Everett fell into a set with two other pairs. Mrs. Toth’s brow creased as she watched.

  Wright and two other gentlemen landowners made free use of the clump of abandoned furniture in the center of the room, sprawling quite at their ease. I joined them, perched on the edge of the bench, and made a poor attempt to follow their meandering conversation. The informal attitude of the dinner service seemed to have relaxed the demeanor of all my guests. Johnston had carried his own wine glass up from the table, and he l
oosened his cravat. London events with their rigorous standards of decorum gained in appeal as the evening wore on.

  “Hood,” said Wright.

  I turned to him and belatedly realized he’d said my name more than once. “Yes?”

  “This is fine.” He patted the breast of his jacket. “Your offer for the land. Damned fair. The parcel is too far from the bulk of my land if I’m honest. You’ll get better results than I have. Send me the papers next week.”

  “I…yes, certainly. Excellent.”

  “Same for me,” said Johnston. “I’d be a fool not to sell for that price. Write up the contract, I’ll sign.”

  I nodded, full of the possibilities their agreement would open for me: I can hold the Maida Estate again. After all my years of gravedigging and saving…

  No, best not to get too far ahead of myself. It was a good start. The talk shifted in other directions, but the gentlemen’s desultory chatter did not keep my attention. I watched Juno mingle and smile from across the room. My mother was in fine social form, and I returned her wave when she caught my eye. At the second change of tune, Johnston abandoned his glass and stood, declaring his intention to join the dancing. I did not want to dance. I itched with some unburnt energy that measured paces, and smooth turns could never assuage.

  Under the pretense of moving a candelabra, I crossed the room and went to peer through the window. Unfortunately, the ballroom only had a view of the rear lawn. Fallen leaves scudded before the gusting wind. Out front, the torches in the courtyard would be guttering in another hour. I wished I could see them and the gravel drive.

  A shadow shifted behind me. I whirled, on the edge of a shout, with the three-armed candlestick still clutched in one hand. “Branch!” I said, panting from a sudden restrained movement. The footman paled and stepped backwards. “For God’s sake, don’t startle me.”