Clara shoved her plate at me and skipped away.
“I’m sorry if I upset you. Can we call a truce?”
Isabel shook off my apology.
I gestured to the table. “You needn’t have sent Clara hunting for food. There’s plenty here.”
“Gives her something to do.” Isabel picked up a cheese square. “Have you ever noticed how silly adults sound when talking to kids? My nanny used to do that. It’s embarrassing. But kids Clara’s age are the absolute worst. They want to be treated like adults, like you could actually be friends with them, and yet they demand almost as much attention as a toddler.” She turned and surveyed our compatriots. “I hope she doesn’t ruin this.”
“She’s eight, Isabel. She can’t ruin anything. Besides, Austen had plenty of small kids in her books.”
“No, Sylvia was right.” Her right ended with a hard t. “Other than Fanny’s sister in Mansfield Park and Catherine Morland’s barely mentioned sisters, there’s only one real girl and a few boys by name; none got any page time.” Isabel leaned closer. “But if she doesn’t ruin it, he’s sure to.” She sent a smile Herman’s direction.
“He’s lovely,” I whispered back.
“He’s completely unaware. Probably Alzheimer’s.” Isabel mumbled the words.
“Isabel.” Again I whispered her name, but she didn’t hear. She’d turned away and, without missing a beat, replied to another of Herman’s concerns.
I studied the plate Clara had left in my hands. There was one pâté-laden toast point left. I put the whole thing into my mouth and chewed.
Clara returned with another plate. This one carried four cheese puffs.
“Duncan has these now and Papa said we’d like them. Mama said I could only take four.”
“I hope you don’t mind; I just ate the last pâté. I think I liked it. What did you think?”
“It was not my favorite.”
I smiled; she wrinkled her nose.
“That’s what I’m supposed to say if I don’t like something.”
“Very polite. And to be honest it wasn’t mine either.”
After a round of more personal introductions, I decided that I liked Sylvia and Aaron Lotte, and I adored Clara. I was about to ask her what we should eat next when she tugged her dad’s sleeve.
“Now?”
“Fine.” He crouched to address her eye to eye. “You may go, but you must meet us back here in one half hour. Do you understand? Where is your watch?”
“One half hour.” She clasped her wrist and nodded at each word. Then she skipped away.
I looked at Aaron.
“Gertrude said she should act as if the house is hers and assures me there is nothing off limits. So, naturally, Clara wishes to test the theory.”
“Naturally.” I smiled—and excused myself as well.
Clara had almost made her escape with me only a few steps behind when Gertrude walked into the room. Rather than the waxed coat and bright-pink boots of earlier, she was now dressed in a black sheath dress with diamonds in her ears. They sparkled in the candlelight. Her gray hair fell like platinum, smooth and sleek, to just above her shoulders. She glowed—as if part of the room and the experience.
After a few words to Clara, who spun on her Mary Jane heel and rejoined her parents, Gertrude turned to me.
“Good evening, Miss Davies. I’m so glad you made it down before dinner. Did you and Miss Dwyer rest?”
“Please call me Mary, and not exactly . . . The room is magnificent.”
“Thank you. The Green Room is very special. The desk in that room was a gift to the family in 1815.” Her gaze drifted up, perhaps envisioning it and enjoying the memory. She then looked around the room and called, “Everyone, please, dinner is served.”
The “experience” was to begin tomorrow, but I could feel the pieces dropping into place. We had chosen our characters and now we processed to dinner.
Herman held his arm for Isabel.
Aaron shot him a glance, then followed his lead and lifted both of his in a stately and stiff fashion—one at a ninety-degree angle, one at a low forty-five. Sylvia and Clara grinned and latched on.
Helene grabbed for my hand in delight and pulled me beside her. “Herman will be fine. He is already having fun and as he relaxes he won’t get so fretful. He does like to make people feel important.” She nodded to her husband’s back. “It’s his gift.”
Despite how close her words hit the mark, her face was so kind and open I was sure she hadn’t heard Isabel’s comments. I squeezed her hand in unspoken thanks.
Herman and Isabel led our small retinue. Even from a few steps behind, I could tell Isabel was relishing his attention. She tucked close to the older man and her head bobbed up and down as if she, like our driver upon entering Bath, couldn’t hold in all she had to share. Herman was listening and nodding with equal vigor.
We made a wide variety of noises as we crossed the marble hallway—the tap of high heels, the squish of a driving loafer, the thud of an oxford, and the soft shuffle of a couple pairs of ballet flats. I wondered if tomorrow we’d hear only a masculine heel strike and a whisper of soft silk slippers.
The dining room was long and narrow. A rectangular table, capable of seating at least twenty, stood centered beneath two impressive chandeliers. Light bounced everywhere and refracted to reveal the full spectrum off the crystals and the glasses below. It appeared as if thousands of tiny rainbows had been tossed into the room.
It felt like magic. White linen place mats allowed the light to bounce off the table’s red-black mahogany, adding warmth to the cool light display. Clara stopped so abruptly I bumped into her.
I laid a hand on her shoulder. “Me too, kiddo, and look at that table. There are no lines. It’s one piece.”
Gertrude heard me. “It is. When they renovated this room it could not be easily moved, so they built a crate around it. Then they suspended it by a pulley system to finish the floor underneath it. The family’s history has that it came in through the windows before they finished the stone and glass work in 1767.” She gestured to several small tables nestled in the two bay windows. “I’ve seated us together this evening, but the individual tables will be set in the morning for breakfast.”
I walked down the table’s right side as Clara followed Isabel down the left.
“Thank you, Herman.” Isabel ignored Clara and scooted her chair closer to her clear admirer. If possible, Herman’s chest swelled further.
“Herman told me this is an anniversary trip.” Isabel leaned forward to address Helene, on his opposite side.
“It is long overdue. Our first trip in over twenty years.” He matched Isabel’s posture, blocking the view to his wife.
“We are celebrating our sixtieth anniversary this month.” Helene addressed the entire table.
Herman turned from Isabel to Helene. He looked at her again with such devotion that I understood her indulgence as he gave time to Isabel. In my world, I’d call it flirting—regardless of the inappropriate age difference—and so would Isabel. In his, I suspected, he would call it chivalry. And Helene was right; it was a gift.
“Let us toast to your anniversary.” Aaron raised his champagne glass. “That is truly something worthy.”
“Helene always wanted to come to the English countryside and most especially to Bath . . . We’ve saved twenty years for a trip, and this is what she chose.” He leaned to Isabel. “Like you, these stories have been very important to my wife.”
He then looked around the table and seemed surprised by what was before him. We held our glasses high. Herman reached for his so quickly he almost toppled it.
Helene helped him right it, and he joined us. “We celebrate my beautiful bride.”
In that toast and flowing from Herman’s obvious warmth, the disparate groups in the parlor became one. Conversation flowed smoothly throughout an endive salad, a light fish course, and a main course of beef tenderloin, before the discussion turned to tomorrow and t
he roles we were to play.
“It was not a hard choice for me. I have always loved Elizabeth Bennet,” Helene said, “but my time for her has passed. At my age, I am more suited to Mrs. Bennet or Lady Catherine de Burgh. But either would give us all a headache. But Mrs. Jennings, as you said, dear . . .” She looked to me. “She enjoys life and has fun.”
Helene’s very nature contradicted any comparison to the sour and dour Lady Catherine of Pride and Prejudice.
“Jane Bennet was easy for me too. I’ve never been called quiet or demure, and I’ve wondered what’s so alluring about those qualities.” Sylvia winked at Aaron.
He raised a brow. “I find nothing alluring about them at all. Ice and fire, dear.” The raised brow became a wink and his wife turned crimson.
“What about . . .”
“And . . .”
The names and stories flew faster than I could catch them. Isabel sat in the center of it all and visibly relaxed, but having read all the books in a week, I was soon lost in the myriad ancillary characters.
“And you, Mary? How did you choose Catherine Morland?” Gertrude’s soft question reached me through the cacophony.
“I . . .”
Isabel lifted her chin. “I’m not sure she’s right for you. We’ll discuss it tonight. You might have more fun joining with Clara and Helene.”
Clara grinned at me. “Mama says I’m Margaret from Sense and Senseless.”
“Sense and Sensibility.” Isabel’s correction fell harsh and heavy.
Clara bit her lip and frowned at her lemon tart.
The conversation continued, but Clara did not raise her head again and I did not speak. I suspected we struggled with the same weight. I laid down my fork. She pushed her tart away, untouched.
“Clara,” Sylvia scolded from across the table. “Don’t push your food. We eat what we are served.”
“I won’t,” Clara whispered and scowled at the dessert.
“Children.” Isabel’s voice lifted with her eye roll. “You’d think she’d love this. When I was young I used to believe there were two separate compartments in the stomach, one for dessert alone and nothing else could fill it. In fact, Daddy used to tell me that . . .”
Isabel’s words drifted away from me as I watched Clara. She was losing the fight against tears.
“Youth does not excuse my daughter’s behavior.”
Isabel and Sylvia squared off. They knew it; I knew it. I looked around and suspected everyone caught the tremor of battle. Aaron watched his daughter.
“As I said . . . Children.” Isabel dismissed the conversation and returned to her own dessert.
Sylvia focused on hers as well. Clara was the only victim. She had struggled for Isabel’s attention all night and now she had it—and her mother’s. Her lip trembled and she caught it between her teeth.
I stretched my leg out under the table and kicked her foot. She looked up. “Hi.” It was all I could think to whisper, but it seemed to work.
“Hi.” The single word released the poor lip. She wiped her hand across her nose and slid the plate back in front of her. Sylvia sent her a brusque nod.
“Gertrude, whom do I see about reserving horses for tomorrow? Clara started riding lessons last year, and I think she’d enjoy riding here.” Sylvia’s chipper voice sent a clear message: Clara was forgiven. Horses were her reward.
Gertrude, now standing, gestured for us to adjourn to the parlor. “The path is marked to the west of the house, and you’ll find the staff ready to assist with riding, fishing, lawn games, and walks throughout the property. Or you may tell me the time you’d like to ride and I’ll notify the stables.”
“We could go for a ride together.” I met my new eight-year-old friend at the end of the table. “You could teach me. I’ve never been on a horse.”
“If you can do that, I’ll think you have magic in your little finger.” Isabel walked behind us and spoke in the high-pitched tone she hated.
Clara and I both halted: Clara at the comment, me at the tone. Isabel bent to face her. “Mary is afraid of horses. She doesn’t like animals whose heads are at the level of her own. Isn’t she silly?”
“I am not afraid of them. I’ve just never had any interest in riding.”
Isabel continued. “When I was your age I won local events. I had trophies all over my room. I’m not sure Mary knows what a pommel is.” She offered a trilling laugh and led Clara into the hallway. Her heels clicked a steady tap across the marble.
I watched them go.
“Are you coming?” Aaron paused. As his eyes shifted from me to his daughter and Isabel, I plastered on a quick smile and fell into step beside him. “Thank you for being kind to Clara. This trip might be hard on her. I am afraid we misunderstood the formality when we booked our reservation.”
I, too, watched Clara trail Isabel across the room. “Please don’t let us make it that way. Ignore us if you need to.”
Aaron’s eyes narrowed at Isabel, then he directed his gaze back to me. We agreed—there was no ignoring Isabel.
We took the final step into the parlor. It had been transformed. The furniture was now situated into one large cluster centered on the fireplace. It was a wonderful subtle signal that we constituted one party now. Family members. Beloved guests.
The side tables were fully laden with coffee and teas and a variety of small desserts. Sonia picked up a cup to pour coffee for Isabel.
Isabel flicked her finger to me. “She’ll drink that. Could you pour me a cup of tea? Preferably mint?”
“Certainly.” Sonia handed me the cup and prepared Isabel’s tea.
“Thank you.” Isabel looked around the room. “I expected more guests to be here. There must be more rooms. It’s such a large house.”
“There are eight more guest rooms, but this isn’t our busy time. The house is full most weeks in summer, from June into September, and then the Stanleys either come for Christmas or rent the house for a private party in December.”
“Are they all costumed parties?”
Sonia shook her head. “We book out several of these in the high season, but parties that book the entire house may choose anything they wish. We had a two-week costumed party last fall that required us to shut off all amenities invented post 1820. We did everything by candlelight and had to spread druggets under the dining room table.”
Isabel understood. I did not.
Sonia smiled at me. “Huge drop cloths—as they requested we not use the vacuum. It was that or sweep the carpet each day, which was what we had to do anyway in every other room.”
I nudged Isabel. “Don’t even think about it. This is authentic enough.” I imagined poor Sonia sweeping carpets and Clara missing her iPad—and me, my Wi-Fi.
Chapter 10
When the Muellers started peppering Isabel with more questions, I drifted away to wander the house. I didn’t want to stand by and witness any more cold comments or implied disdain.
I suspected it was my fault. The Isabella Thorpe comparison had hit its mark on Friday, and I’d gotten annoyed and followed it up today. It was unkind of me. But when she suggested Emma’s sycophants for me rather than a real character, a leading lady, I felt again all the reasons I’d refused the invitation in the first place.
Even so, I hadn’t been wrong in the comparison—and tonight proved it. Isabella Thorpe was coy, charming, and often manipulative. Isabel could be all those things. Both women also had shades of kindness, loyalty, and vulnerability—even brokenness. They were certainly both fighters. When backed into those painful places, they came out swinging.
I wondered, as I crossed through the front hall, if I needed to offer another apology to put us back on an even keel.
Braithwaite House was laid out along a central hallway on the first floor, stretching from the front door to a large set of paneled windows at the back. Small side hallways led me to the smaller, more intimate rooms such as the Day Room, the library, and what I suspected was a gentleman’s sitting
room. It was all brown and deep red, with horses pursuing foxes across the upholstered armchairs.
I passed from room to room through a web of connecting doors. I also came across many with closed doors. Isabel and I had opened a few that afternoon, but nighttime made the trespassing feel more intrusive—I left them shut and headed back to the front stairs.
The upstairs was designed along the long gallery at the front of the house with two main hallways dividing it toward the back like a squared-off U. I suspected the guest rooms were on the outer sections of the U, allowing each to have an exterior wall and lots of windows. Those facing the sides of the house would enjoy views of the hedgerow maze on one side and the terraced gardens on the other. But guests in the back rooms would get the best views of all. I walked to the end of one of the hallways and could make out the formal gardens in the deepening gray. There were rows upon rows of rosebushes and sculpted hedges. I envied guests who visited during the high season, as Sonia had called it.
At the end of the gallery I found a flight of narrow stairs. The door was painted the same color as the wall and when shut would make the passage invisible. At the moment it was cracked open and very inviting. I looked up and down. The stairs were lit by the same Edison vintage bulbs I used in my living room. I loved the look of the exposed filament and the yellow to orange light they produced—and I loved the mystery of a set of secret stairs.
I wandered down and soon found myself in a long, narrow hallway. Cupboards lined its entire expanse. There were at least fifty small doors, unmarked, on each side.
I opened one. Linens and lightbulbs. Another, china. The next, silver. I shut the cupboard and turned around, finally recognizing there might be limits to “nothing is off limits.”
“Mary? Are you lost too?” Clara had entered by a door I hadn’t noticed.
“Hey . . . I’m not lost. I’m . . .” Being rude and rummaging through their closets. “Are you lost?”
The Austen Escape Page 8