herself. Had she really expected to see someone different? Perhaps to see a woman better dressed than she, with magnificent white hair piled high on her head and a patch dotted alluringly over one crimson lip, like a picture she had seen in one of her mother's precious magazines? Why did she care? There was no one here that she wanted to impress.
Shaking herself, she watched Vivie in the mirror. The maid was very proud of herself. She had turned her drab churchmouse mistress into the semblance of a lady; she had so wanted to please her.
"Thank you, Vivie," Brienne said as she turned from the mirror. "If I look good, it is all your work. You have done miracles with what little you had." She gave her a grateful little smile.
"Mais non , ma demoiselle. You underestimate yourself. A beauty cannot be made from sarin and powder. The woman herself must be beautiful, or there is nothing but artifice. And you are a beauty, both here," Vivie said, sweeping a hand across her face, "and here." The maid placed a palm over her heart.
"You are too generous, Vivie. You hardly know me, and yet you say such nice things."
"I know the Monsieur. He would have his woman no other way."
"Perhaps I am not his woman, Vivie. What then?" Brienne frowned a little as she said this, not wanting to lose Vivie's friendship. But she knew she owed the maid as much of the truth as she would accept.
"Not yet, peut-être . But it is only a matter of time with you two. I have seen the look when he speaks of you, and I have seen his eyes. His eyes, ma demoiselle —they will never be warmer! You are the one for him. Once he knows he has your heart, he will want no other."
My heart, she thought to herself, is the one thing he will never have. But there was no more time for that determined thought, for she was quickly ushered out the door to her waiting dinner partner.
As she made her way down the stairs, she was pleased to find Cumberland waiting for her. She smiled down at him, heartened to see that he had forgiven her for whatever had bothered him in the stable block.
"Lady Brienne, may I say that never before have I escorted so beautiful a woman to dinner?"
Brienne took his outstretched arm. "And may I say that I have never been in such distinguished company?" Laughing, she felt relieved that he would be joining them for the evening. Cumberland looked dignified in his silver-gray velvet breeches and coat, along with his fringed cobalt satin waist- coot. He almost made her look like a pauper in her old blue tabby, but she was pleased to be on his arm.
They walked down the north passage, where, the eating room joined the gallery, but when she saw it was completely dark, without even one candle, she cried, "What is this now? I thought we were to dine—"
"Yes, yes, my dear. Don't be overly alarmed." Cumberland patted her arm reassuringly.
But she did not like surprises if they even remotely involved Avenel Slane. Anything out of the ordinary with him was to be suspected. She looked at him sharply. "But then where—?"
"In the gallery, my dear. Slane thought it would be more intimate."
"More intimate? The gallery is four times the size of the eating room!"
"Well, then, let us just say that it is his favorite room. And he prefers it." Again he patted her arm; there was a twinkle in his faded blue eyes. "He's eccentric, to be sure; but Americans will be no other way!"
"Well, at least one of his colleagues has been blessed with some British sense." She smiled back at him and let him lead her to the gallery; the two walked in quiet camaraderie.
When they reached the gallery, she noticed that one of the three mahogany tables from the north passage had been placed at the far end of the room. The early Georgian gateleg table had been set with a creamy tablecloth and celadon green Sevres porcelain. A silver candelabrum with eight burning candles provided the only light, except that from the large fire in the hearth, which was vigorously burning the
Shaking herself, she watched Vivie in the mirror. The maid was very proud of herself. She had turned her drab churchmouse mistress into the semblance of a lady; she had so wanted to please her.
"Thank you, Vivie," Brienne said as she turned from the mirror. "If I look good, it is all your work. You have done miracles with what little you had." She gave her a grateful little smile.
"Mais non , ma demoiselle. You underestimate yourself. A beauty cannot be made from sarin and powder. The woman herself must be beautiful, or there is nothing but artifice. And you are a beauty, both here," Vivie said, sweeping a hand across her face, "and here." The maid placed a palm over her heart.
"You are too generous, Vivie. You hardly know me, and yet you say such nice things."
"I know the Monsieur. He would have his woman no other way."
"Perhaps I am not his woman, Vivie. What then?" Brienne frowned a little as she said this, not wanting to lose Vivie's friendship. But she knew she owed the maid as much of the truth as she would accept.
"Not yet, peut-être . But it is only a matter of time with you two. I have seen the look when he speaks of you, and I have seen his eyes. His eyes, ma demoiselle —they will never be warmer! You are the one for him. Once he knows he has your heart, he will want no other."
My heart, she thought to herself, is the one thing he will never have. But there was no more time for that determined thought, for she was quickly ushered out the door to her waiting dinner partner.
As she made her way down the stairs, she was pleased to find Cumberland waiting for her. She smiled down at him, heartened to see that he had forgiven her for whatever had bothered him in the stable block.
"Lady Brienne, may I say that never before have I escorted so beautiful a woman to dinner?"
Brienne took his outstretched arm. "And may I say that I have never been in such distinguished company?" Laughing, she felt relieved that he would be joining them for the evening. Cumberland looked dignified in his silver-gray velvet breeches and coat, along with his fringed cobalt satin waist- coot. He almost made her look like a pauper in her old blue tabby, but she was pleased to be on his arm.
They walked down the north passage, where, the eating room joined the gallery, but when she saw it was completely dark, without even one candle, she cried, "What is this now? I thought we were to dine—"
"Yes, yes, my dear. Don't be overly alarmed." Cumberland patted her arm reassuringly.
But she did not like surprises if they even remotely involved Avenel Slane. Anything out of the ordinary with him was to be suspected. She looked at him sharply. "But then where—?"
"In the gallery, my dear. Slane thought it would be more intimate."
"More intimate? The gallery is four times the size of the eating room!"
"Well, then, let us just say that it is his favorite room. And he prefers it." Again he patted her arm; there was a twinkle in his faded blue eyes. "He's eccentric, to be sure; but Americans will be no other way!"
"Well, at least one of his colleagues has been blessed with some British sense." She smiled back at him and let him lead her to the gallery; the two walked in quiet camaraderie.
When they reached the gallery, she noticed that one of the three mahogany tables from the north passage had been placed at the far end of the room. The early Georgian gateleg table had been set with a creamy tablecloth and celadon green Sevres porcelain. A silver candelabrum with eight burning candles provided the only light, except that from the large fire in the hearth, which was vigorously burning the
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