A Sapphire Season

by Lynn Morris

  “Put me down!” she said, choking and pushing against his chest. Giles breathed a sigh of relief and set her gently on her feet.

  Mirabella coughed and snorted.

  Giles sat down, took off his boots, and upended them so that rivers of water gushed out. “When you were singing, ‘Follow, follow, follow me far beneath the rolling waves,’ I didn’t know you meant it.”

  Her eyes widened with outrage, but she was unable to speak for a few moments as she spluttered. Finally she almost shouted, “Confound it! How could you let my line break? Why did you not help? It’s all your fault!”

  “Yes, my lady,” Giles patiently said.

  “And I didn’t even catch the tench!”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Oh! How maddening! And—and—how am I supposed to go home like this?” she said accusingly.

  She was a sorry sight indeed. The brim of her straw bonnet sagged limply, the flowers were sodden, and a piece of reed was entangled in her dripping hair. Rivulets of water flowed from the hem of her dress.

  “Mm, that is a dilemma,” Giles said gravely. “I think I must go to Camarden and fetch you some dry clothing.”

  “But—oh, you great ninny! That would be simply capital, for you to tell my mother you needed to bring me some clothes!”

  “So that won’t do? Then perhaps we may go to Knyveton. I’ll be only too happy to loan you some of my clothes, Bella.”

  “Oh, if you can’t help, then do be quiet! And don’t call me Bella!”

  “Yes, Lady Mirabella. Look here, there’s nothing for it, you know. We shall have to go home and make the best of it. We can go through the conservatory, it may be that no one will see us. Here, your lips are turning blue. Put on my coat.”

  Mirabella clasped his coat about her. “That water was freezing. Take me home, Giles, I’m starting to shiver.”

  They had driven one of the farm carts to the stewpond, and as always, Mirabella had insisted on driving. But now she allowed Giles to help her into the seat and he drove. Miserably she untied her bonnet and wrung it out. Rivulets of water dribbled onto the cart floor.

  “I’m fairly certain that one is ruined,” Giles remarked.

  “And it was one of my favorites, too,” Mirabella lamented.

  “Mirabella, you must have at least a hundred bonnets.”

  “What do you know about bonnets? You’re only a man.”

  “True, I apologize for my shortcomings.”

  They rode in silence for a while. The sun still shone down, warm and kind, and in spite of her continual sniffing, Mirabella began to look a bit less miserable.

  Under his breath Giles murmured, as if to himself, “‘There is a willow grows aslant a brook, / That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; / There with fantastic garlands did she come / Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples—’”

  Mirabella elbowed him sharply in the side, and he mumbled, “Ow.”

  “I am no Ophelia, thank you. All that girl needed was to show a little backbone.”

  They reached the back of Camarden Court, but it was impossible to drive up to an entrance. They were obliged to walk through the walled kitchen garden, the herb garden, and the knot garden before they came to the back door of the conservatory.

  The marquess had built the conservatory specifically for Mirabella, as she loved gardening, including hothouse gardening. In truth it was more like an expansive, luxuriously landscaped room than a hothouse. Beneath the glassed rotunda, in the center of the conservatory, was a magnificent Venetian wrought iron table surrounded by eight chairs. The family often had breakfast here instead of in the morning room.

  But this afternoon there was a different gathering. Sitting at the table, having tea, were the Marchioness of Camarden, Mirabella’s mother; Mirabella’s aunt, Lady Dorothea Tirel; and Mrs. Honora Rosborough and Mirabella’s friend Josephine. The marchioness looked shocked, but then her jaw tightened and she shook her head slightly. Lady Dorothea’s face was expressionless, though her dark eyes gleamed. Mrs. Rosborough and Josephine exchanged quick glances of amusement, then both looked down.

  Giles took Mirabella’s hand and tucked it into his arm, and they came forward slowly, both of them wet to the skin and dripping onto the brick floor. Giles made a bow as courtly as if he were being presented to royalty. “Good afternoon, ladies. As you see, we have suffered a discomfiture, and it is entirely my fault. I imposed upon Lady Mirabella and persuaded her to go out punting with me, and to my deepest regret I overturned the punt. Lady Camarden, may I offer you my most heartfelt apologies.”

  Lady Camarden frowned. “Giles, you lie most abysmally, it’s little wonder that you never gamble. Mirabella, you have been fishing again, haven’t you?”

  “Mm—er—” She sighed deeply. “Yes, Mamma.”

  Aunt Tirel, her eyes bright with mischief, asked with polite interest, “Did you catch anything?”

  Lady Camarden said, “Dorothea, I forbid you to encourage her. Mirabella, if you must be a little slyboots and sneak off to—oh dear, you’re shivering. Go on up to your room, child.”

  “Yes, Mamma.” Mirabella hurried off, still clutching Giles’s coat about her.

  Signaling to a footman standing to one side of the table, Lady Camarden said, “Matthew, go tell one of the maids to make up a fire in Lady Mirabella’s room. And find Colette and send her up.”

  The footman bowed. “Yes, my lady.”

  Lady Camarden turned back to regard Giles. He stood with remarkable aplomb considering his dripping coatless state, a blankly pleasant look on his face.

  Icily Lady Camarden said, “I would ask you to join us for tea, Sir Giles, but I fear that you might dampen us. I’m sure you, too, would like to repair your sodden state. We’ll see that your coat is cleaned and returned to you.”

  Again he bowed deeply. “Thank you, my lady. Lady Dorothea, Mrs. Rosborough, Miss Rosborough. Bid you good afternoon.”

  And so, squelching only a bit, Sir Giles Knyvet took his leave.

  Chapter Two

  Colette’s eyes were wide and horrified. “Ma dame, qu’avez-vous fait?”

  Mirabella rasped, “I’ve fallen in the stewpond, that’s what I’ve done. Hurry, help me get out of these wet clothes. And oh, what a foul smell.”

  Murmuring under her breath, Colette soon had Mirabella’s clothes in a sodden pile. “Don’t even try to clean them, Colette, just throw them out. And I want both my flannel dressing gown and my banyan. I’m frozen.”

  In heavily accented English Colette replied, “Yes, my lady. But mais non, it is too much the waste to throw out your fine clothes. I will take them, oui?”

  “Yes, as long as you take them out of here. I must have a bath and wash my hair, it smells like fish and pond mud. Tell the maids to hurry, or I’ll never be dressed in time for dinner.”

  Indeed it was a scramble to get Mirabella bathed and dressed in time. During the entire ordeal Colette complained of Mirabella’s foolishness in a low whisper, for she was of the firm belief that if she didn’t say it in English, and aloud, then Mirabella had no right to reprove her. She was a pretty girl, the same age as Mirabella, with dark curly hair and bright dark eyes, and she was saucy. Her father, Monsieur Danton, was the marquess’s chef de cuisine, and he was as haughty as any aristocrat, and her mother was their chef pâtissière, their own expert pastry chef, and confiseuse, a genius confectioner, and she also was temperamental, so Colette came by her impudence honestly. Mirabella enjoyed her lady’s maid, for she was bright and fun-loving, and Mirabella’s last maid had been an efficient but dour woman of forty-eight. When she had at last retired two years ago, the marchioness had disapproved of Mirabella’s choice of Colette as her lady’s maid; until then Colette had been a kitchen maid, albeit almost an under-chef to her father and mother. But the marchioness couldn’t deny that Colette was accomplished, in that she had a lady’s education and air, and she was an excellent seamstress and hairdresser. Mirabella had succeeded in havin
g her way, as she usually did.

  “No, not full evening dress tonight, Colette,” Mirabella said as Colette was pulling out a fine pink satin gown. “It’s just the Rosboroughs and Sir Giles, not formal dinner. Here, I’ll have the amber jaconet with the peach sash, and my opals. And Colette, you must hurry down to the conservatory, I have the most glorious snapdragons for my hair, they’re precisely the same shade as my sash and slippers.”

  Colette protested, “But my lady, there is no time, you cannot be late for the dinner!”

  “Then find a footman and send him.”

  “Ma dame, the footman, he does not know the snapdragon. I do not know the snapdragon.”

  Mirabella relented. “Oh, very well. I know you’ll make do with just the ribbon in my hair.”

  Colette finished dressing Mirabella in record time, and quickly took the peach satin ribbon and made clever little rosettes with pearl hairpins as the centers. Mirabella’s hair was still damp as dinner­time approached, so she couldn’t have her usual Grecian knot surrounded by wispy curls. Colette cleverly braided her hair into three strands and arranged an elegant tight knot with the braids pinned in graceful loops beneath.

  At last Mirabella hurried downstairs to the drawing room where the party was gathered: Mirabella’s mother and father, Giles, Mr. and Mrs. Rosborough, and Lewin and Josephine. The Rosboroughs had spent a pleasant day at Camarden Court. Lord Camarden, Mr. Rosborough, and Lewin had been out shooting, as the pheasant were plentiful. With obvious pride Mr. Rosborough was regaling them with tales of his son’s shooting prowess. “He didn’t miss a single shot, not one! He used twenty-three rounds, and brought down twenty-three birds!”

  Lewin said with affection, “Father, I am in the Ninety-Fifth Rifles, I’m supposed to be a sharpshooter. If I couldn’t hit what I’m aiming at I’d be slogging along in the mud with the infantry. Oh, half a moment, I do slog along in the mud with the infantry. At least I’m not a lobsterback.” Lewin was tall, over six feet, with brown hair and brown eyes and rather plain features. But the warmth in his countenance, and the light of humor in his eyes, made him very attractive. He was dashing in his uniform, for the Ninety-Fifth had green jackets with black facings and three rows of silver buttons, rather than the usual scarlet and brass buttons. His mother hung on to one arm, and Josephine on to the other, both of them gazing up at him with radiant joy. It was the first time in three years that he had been home.

  Clifford Rosborough still beamed. “Nonsense, Son, some of those birds were so far away I could barely— Oh, good evening, Lady Mirabella. Here you are, we were sadly missing you.”

  “Yes, here I am at last, sir,” she said, curtsying to him. “I fear that my toilette took entirely too long this evening, I hope you all will pardon me for my tardiness.” She looked around and said, “Where’s Aunt Tirel? Am I not the only one who needs forgiveness for being late?”

  Lady Camarden answered, “Dorothea said she’s fatigued and that she’d prefer a light supper in her room tonight, and she begs all of us to forgive her.”

  “Oh dear, is she ill?” Mirabella asked.

  “I asked the same thing, and she told me quite snappily that she is never ill, thank you,” Lady Camarden answered. “But it seems to me that her rheumaticks are bothering her more severely than before. She could hardly get up the stairs without assistance.”

  With sympathy Mr. Rosborough said, “That is distressing indeed. I have to admit that I, too, feel some twinges in my hands and knees these days.” He was a tall, thin, plain man, with undeniably bowed legs. He had gone both prematurely bald and prematurely gray, so he had a very pink pate with a silver fringe that made him look older than his fifty-three years.

  His wife Honora, in contrast, was ten years younger than he, and quietly pretty, with still, peaceful, Madonna-like features. Softly she said, “I’ll make up some lavender-and-willow-bark compresses, they do seem to help Mrs. Varney. She just turned seventy-nine last week, you know, and suffers cruelly from the rheumaticks.”

  Lady Camarden said, “Did she have a birthday? I didn’t have that on my calendar. We’ll take her a couple of baskets, Mirabella.”

  “Yes, we must. She’s really quite amazing. The last time I visited her she was out in the garden on her hands and knees, weeding. I helped her, and it seemed that my knees gave out sooner than did hers.”

  Mrs. Varney had been a housemaid at Camarden Court for over forty years. Her crippling rhematism had obliged her to retire at age fifty-five. Lord Camarden had given her a pension and a cottage on the estate. It was a good thing that Lord Camarden was so wealthy, as there were about another dozen retired servants he provided for and gave housing.

  The butler, Irby, appeared to announce that dinner was served. As they were such an informal party, they all trooped into the dining room as a group, still talking among themselves.

  Camarden Court had originally been built in 1530, although all that remained of the original Tudor fortress was a magnificent tower gatehouse. Mirabella’s grandfather, the first Marquess of Camarden, and her father also, had extensively renovated and refurbished both the interior and the exterior of the house. But one room that had retained its Elizabethan style was the dining hall. It was a long, massive room, with gigantic fireplaces on all four walls. The floor was of ancient oak, blackened with age but polished to a high dark sheen. The walls were of coffered oak panels and there were several old tapestries hung between the floor-to-ceiling stone-mullioned windows. The ceiling was low and oak-beamed. For many generations hundreds of candles in candelabras had been used to light the hall, but Mirabella’s mother had installed four great black wrought iron chandeliers, in keeping with the Gothic atmosphere of the room, that provided superb lighting.

  Lord Camarden said, “Mrs. Rosborough, Miss Rosborough, I hate to deprive you of your limpet-like attachment to Captain Rosborough’s arms, but I want him to sit by me and tell me great tales of his exploits.” Lewin sat on his right, and Mirabella promptly took the seat by him, and Josephine sat by her. Across from them Mr. Rosborough, Mrs. Rosborough, Giles, and the marchioness took their seats. The table seated twelve easily, but they sat in a companionable group at one end.

  Even though it was a very informal dinner a footman stood behind each chair, splendidly arrayed in the Camarden livery of maroon and black, with his satin knee breeches, white stockings, silver-buckled shoes, and white wig with a queue. As soon as the footmen had ceremoniously seated everyone, the marquess said, “Mr. Rosborough, will you honor us by asking a blessing upon this meal?”

  “Certainly, sir.” He stood and prayed a simple, heartfelt grace, asking the Lord to bless the food and the diners, and especially praying for a healing mercy for Lady Dorothea Tirel. The Reverend Rosborough was a simple, humble soul who cared deeply for all his parishioners, from the Marquess of Camarden down to the lowest farm laborer. His sermons were always taken from the Bible, usually sweet, short homilies from the Gospels about the love and mercy of Jesus Christ, and His sacrifice. Mirabella had often thought that Mr. Rosborough was truly pious, with none of the usual disparaging implications of the word.

  The footmen began serving the first course, beginning with potage de Crécy, one of Monsieur Danton’s specialties, a thick creamy carrot-and-potato soup seasoned with leeks, thyme, nutmeg, and other herbs that Monsieur Danton flatly refused to name, as he was very secretive about all his receipts.

  After two spoonfuls Mr. Rosborough said, “My lady, how I wish you could persuade Monsieur Danton to share his genius for imparting new and unique flavors to the simplest of dishes. It’s a genuine travesty to call this carrot soup.”

  The marchioness replied, “Sir, I would never dare to attempt such a thing and incur Monsieur Danton’s ire. Such a torrent of French imprecations I should have to endure! Although I’m certain I shouldn’t understand half of it. I was taught French, of course, but he speaks no French I ever learned. Most of the time Mirabella is obliged to translate for me in our weekly meetings to disc
uss the menus.”

  “Mamma, ’tis only that your French is a bit rusty. And Monsieur Danton does speak so quickly that sometimes he’s difficult to follow.”

  Giles said with amusement, “It’s amazing that he’s never learned to speak the King’s English. He’s been here since the Great Terror in ninety-four.”

  “He can, but he chooses not to,” Mirabella said, her eyes sparkling. “At least to us. I’ve heard that he can make himself only too well understood to the kitchen maids.”

  Josephine said, “Oh, he can speak the King’s English perfectly. And loudly. I was in Mr. Causby’s butcher shop when the great Monsieur Danton himself came in. He threw a wrapped parcel on the counter and proceeded to tell poor Mr. Causby in no uncertain terms that he had cut the sirloins all wrong. He said that they were as chipped and chopped and shredded as if they were tough old mutton chops, and that they would never grace the Marquess of Camarden’s table.” Josephine was a lovely girl, with bright dark eyes and thick wavy auburn hair. She had a wide, mobile mouth that turned up naturally at the corners. She was vivacious and sprightly, with her gamine prettiness and lively air.

  Giles said, “Oh, so that’s how I came by those sirloins at such a pretty price. I had no idea they’d been denigrated by Monsieur Danton.” He sighed. “Still, I’m afraid he may have been right. They were of a very odd shape and thickness, and although my Mrs. Gess is a good cook, they were somewhat tough.”

  “Still, he has no right to go terrorizing the tradesmen,” Lady Camarden said.

  “And will you reprove him, Audrey?” Lord Camarden asked, his mouth twitching.

  “Certainly not.”

  The serving of the entrées of the first course began, a selection of lamb cutlets, sweetbreads, oyster patties, and rabbit. Lady Camarden said, “Here, here is an example of exactly what I’m attempting to illustrate. Monsieur Danton tells me that we will have lapin braisé du Provençale, and I meekly agree. I know that it is braised rabbit, but what is du Provençale? I’m frightened to even choose the sauces in my own house.”