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To Dust You Shall Return, Lord Danvers Investigates #3

By Donna Fletcher Crow

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One
“Nonsense! Everyone of taste knows that true Gothic is the style in which God wishes to be worshiped.” The Dowager Duchess of Aethelbert raised her chin so that her diamond choker twinkled in the glow of the candles on the table. “It is unthinkable that Canterbury Cathedral, the primary church of all England, should lag behind so many others in the land.”
“Aunt Aelfrida—” her nephew Charles, the ninth Viscount Danvers, leaned back in his chair and toyed with the stem of his Waterford crystal goblet “—if you are referring to the vandalism that has been perpetrated on Lichfield Cathedral—turning it into a French pastry—”
“Sir, I will have no such irreverence spoken at my dinner table.”
The debate whirled around her, but Lady Antonia could not force her mind to follow. It would have been so much more comfortable to consider the proposed restoration of Canterbury Cathedral than to pursue her own troubling thoughts, but she couldn’t. That anything seeming so right as her marriage to Charles could have gone so wrong…
“The Perpendicular Style is one of the glories—”
“Charles!” Agatha Estella, Lord Danvers’s long-faced older sister, pushed the last of her scalloped oysters to the back of her plate. “You force my patience past endurance. You really do. I did not summon you to Aethelsham to discuss Aunt Aelfrida’s architectural committee. Our sister Eleanor must be rescued from the clutches of this fortune hunter. And you must do it.”
“Randolph Lansing—” Danvers began.
“Randolph Lansing is a perfectly respectable gentleman.” The dowager duchess cut him off. “He comes from an old family—very good stock. His people go back as far as mine. Almost. Of course, I am descended from Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent, wife of Edward, Black Prince. But then we can’t expect everyone to have royal blood. What would be the good of having it if they did?”
“How strong does Eleanor’s attachment—” Charles tried again.
But the dowager duchess was not to be checked. “Randolph Lansing is a man of impeccable taste. I have appointed him chairman of my architectural restoration committee with the full blessing of the dean of the cathedral.” She turned to the butler standing by the sideboard. “You may serve the soup, Soyer.”
The bald, pigeon-chested butler removed the cover from an ornate silver tureen. A bright-eyed young footman stepped forward, but the maid, possibly intent on focusing the footman’s attention on her soft brown curls, round blue eyes, and full pink lips, failed to move.
“Lily!” the butler reprimanded her.
The lace-capped head jerked to attention. Lily removed the first course plates. Soyer ladled the thick, white Francatelli soup into flat bowls, and the footman set one before each guest.
Danvers took a deep breath and tried again to bring the conversation into focus. “Lansing may be a very fine society portrait painter, no matter what his views on church architecture, but I should like to be informed as to my youngest sister’s feelings in the matter.”
The dowager duchess sniffed. “Feelings! What do they have to say to anything? What does a girl of nineteen know of feelings?”
“For once Aunt Aelfrida is quite right. Eleanor’s feelings have nothing to say to the matter.” Agatha gave her head a firm shake. Her dark hair was fashionably done up in a pearl torsade with tassels of pearl at the back and sides. Although the height of fashion, on Agatha it gave the unfortunate effect of a horse with its mane caught in a snowberry bush. “This is a matter of family honor.”
Antonia had spoken hardly anything during the meal and had eaten less. The dinner had proceeded from soup to Pheasant Gitana, but the slices of sautéed pheasant smothered in a sherry sauce with bacon, onions, and tomatoes lay untouched on her plate. She hoped Aunt Aelfrida’s excellent cook wouldn’t be offended, but she simply couldn’t force anything past the lump in her throat.
She looked at Charles. The precise tucking of his linen shirt shone beneath the black velvet collar of his dinner jacket. His unruly dark locks gleamed with the dressing Hardy had given them with macassar oil, the latest fashion in men’s toiletries, in an attempt to keep them in place. Her heart crimped at the sight of her husband, but even more so at his sister’s words. Family, family, family—it was all that mattered…
“Charles, you must stop Eleanor from doing irreparable harm to herself and to the family,” Agatha persisted.
“Poppycock! What Eleanor must do is to bring him up to scratch. And if the gel can’t do it, you must bring him to the point, Charles. You shall speak to him when you attend the architectural committee meeting.”
Danvers made a sound deep in his throat and reached for his wine goblet.
The dowager duchess bore on. “It’s all very well for you to sit there grinding your teeth, young man. But you are now the de facto head of this family. For quite obvious reasons Eleanor chose to live with me rather than Agatha when your father went abroad. So you must do your duty. And it is your duty to see to it that Eleanor marries Randolph Lansing.”
The dowager duchess turned her sharp eyes to Antonia. “And speaking of family, Lady Danvers—”
Lily moved down the table removing plates. Apparently unprepared to find a plate still full, her hand jerked when removing Antonia’s. A large portion of Gitana sauce slopped onto the crisp, linen damask square that covered Tonia’s lap.
Soyer, standing eagle-eyed by the sideboard, was so quick to remove the soiled napkin and replace it with a fresh one that no one might have noticed the mishap had not the dowager duchess been looking at Antonia.
“Lily! What is the matter with you, girl?”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The servant dipped a curtsy and fled the room with the still-dripping plate.
“Speak to her, Soyer. If she doesn’t improve, you will have to dismiss her.”
“Very good, madam.” He inclined his bald head and, the course concluded, led the footman bearing the remains of the Pheasant Gitana from the room.
“Don’t be too hard on the girl, Aunt Aelfrida,” Danvers said. “She was probably thrown off stride by our argument.”
“Fiddle-faddle!” The dowager duchess sniffed. “Well-trained servants never hear anything their betters say. Besides, I never argue. I was simply telling you what shall be done for the good of us all.”
“I’d think twice about dismissing the girl,” Agatha said. “It’s impossible to get good servants these days. Why, only yesterday at the Society to Rescue Fallen Women a lady was telling about her servant who comes in quite tipsy.”
“Poor management. And if you mean that Catherine Bacon, I’ve known her since we were girls. She doesn’t manage her household any better now than she managed her pony cart and kittens then. You won’t find any of my servants misbehaving. Strictest propriety. Always. Anything less reflects sloth and bad breeding on the family. There’s far too much French blood about. It all started with William the Conqueror.”
Antonia breathed a sigh of relief. She had been reprieved by the maid’s mishap. This time. But there would be another.
Charles held up his hand. “Yes, Aunt Aelfrida, you have favored us with your views of history. I will speak with Lansing. And perhaps Antonia can have a word with Eleanor. They’ve always gotten along famously. Haven’t you, Tonia?” When there was no answer, he cleared his throat. “I say, Tonia, you and Eleanor—”
Antonia gave a small start that was really more a shiver. “Oh! What? Sorry. Oh, yes, I’ll talk to Nelly.”
It was unfortunate that Tonia’s distraction returned the dowager duchess’s attention to her. The matriarch picked up the lorgnette lying beside her plate and examined Antonia. “I don’t like it, gel. You don’t look good. Not good at all.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Aelfrida. I thought it was very clever of Isabella to put silk flowers in with the green ribbons—rather as if the ribbons were leaves.” She turned her head so the green satin bows clustered over each ear would hide the thinness of her cheeks.
“I am not referring to your hairstyle, my girl. Your eyes are too bright, and your skin is too white. I’d say you looked consumptive if I didn’t know better. We do not have consumption in our family.”
Antonia froze. She felt what little color there was in her face drain away. She knew she must match the white damask tablecloth. She wanted to answer, but her mouth wouldn’t move.
Charles came to her rescue. “Don’t be silly, Aunt Aelfrida. Tonia is a bit fatigued, that is all. And it’s little wonder with Agatha dragging us all the way down here in the midst of a January snowstorm.” He turned to his wife. “I think you look splendid, my dear. That new dress just suits you.”
Tonia blinked gratefully. She knew he was referring to the luster of the pink silk that highlighted her auburn hair. Drawing attention to her dress, however, was a mistake.
The lorgnette dipped to focus on Tonia’s tiny waistline. “And how long have you been married now? Three and a half years?” The dowager duchess’s pause was pregnant, even if Tonia wasn’t. “Osbert’s wife is increasing again. This will be my fourth grandson. There is no danger of the Dukedom of Aethelbert running out. Good Saxon stock. Never lets you down. Whatever may become of the house of Norville.”
The hint was all that was necessary to turn Agatha treacle-sweet. “Now, Antonia, dear, don’t you mind a word Aunt Aelfrida says. My dear Arthur Emory is more than willing to do his duty in the succession. And we all know what a fine young man he is.”
“Fine young man!” The dowager duchess’s voice rose a full tone. “Arthur Emory is a nincompoop.”
The dark, tapestry-hung walls and cabinets filled with silver and porcelain sparkling in the candlelight of the crystal chandelier began to spin around Tonia. She gripped the edge of the table. She must tell Charles. He must suspect the truth anyway. It would be so much better if she told him rather than make him guess or let him stumble over some evidence. She couldn’t bear it if he confronted her directly. And yet how could she ever bring herself to tell him?
She raised her eyes to Danvers, and the spinning halted. She looked at the craggy features of his long face. The lines looked deep, hard. As tense as her own. She caught her breath. He must know. Somehow Charles must know.
She fled from the room.

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