as I felt. But as I entered the lesser drawing room, I noticed an undercurrent that immediately piqued my interest. Lucy and Emma were seated on a sofa, their heads close together as they darted glances about the room and murmured softly. Portia was busy fussing with decanters and glasses, and Aunt Dorcas had entrenched herself firmly in the best armchair. Hortense had taken up a book and was reading placidly. It was left to me to entertain Brisbane’s fiancée. I turned to her, fixing what I hoped was a pleasant expression on my face.
“And how are you enjoying your stay at the Abbey, Mrs. King?”
“Oh, it is an extraordinary place, my lady.” She spread her hands, gesturing toward the single great column standing stalwartly in the centre of the room and the tapestries, older and smaller than those in the great drawing room, but depicting the same subject, a boar hunt. “This room alone quite takes my breath away.”
I shrugged. “I suppose it is impressive enough on first viewing. This room used to be the chapter house, where the monks gathered for the abbot to read the Rule of the Order. The vaulting of the ceiling is quite remarkable, although in the family we think it’s frightfully inconvenient. That central column is necessary for support, but it makes it devilishly difficult to arrange the furniture properly. Besides which, the room is draughty and the chimney never draws properly.”
As if to prove my point, a gust of wind roared down the chimney, scattering sparks and ash on the hearth and a few bits of soot on Aunt Dorcas. If the night grew any windier, we should have to dust her.
“Well, perhaps it is not the most convenient of rooms,” she temporised, “but the history, the very ancientness of the stones. I cannot imagine what they have seen. And the tapestries,” she added, nodding toward the stitched panels. “They are enough to rival anything in a museum, I should think.”
Portia joined us then, passing tiny glasses of port that shimmered like jewels in the candlelight.
“If you like the tapestries, you must ask Emma to tell you the story behind them. No one can spin a tale like Emma,” Portia advised Mrs. King, gesturing with her glass to our cousin. “Emma, pay attention, my dear. I am telling tales out of school about you.”
Emma started like a frightened pony, then relaxed, smiling at Portia. “What have you been saying to Mrs. King?”
“That you are a splendid spinner of stories, actually,” I put in. “Mrs. King was admiring the tapestries, and Portia suggested you tell her the story behind them. She is quite right. No one does it as you do.” I thought to raise her confidence a little. She had always been quiet, but there was a new shyness in her that troubled me. I felt Emma was in danger of becoming a sort of recluse, particularly now that Lucy was marrying. Emma had always lavished all of her attention on Lucy, and I wondered what would become of her once Lucy became Lady Eastley. It was to be hoped Lucy would repay her many kindnesses with a home when it was in her power to provide it. Emma could not be happy governessing in the wilds of Northumberland. It would be a poor showing on Lucy’s part to leave her there.
“Come, Scheherezade, tell us a tale,” I coaxed.
Emma flushed a little, not prettily as Mrs. King did, but a harsh red stain that tipped her nose and ears.
“If you really think that I should,” she said, looking hesitantly at Lucy.
“You must,” Lucy said firmly, and we added our voices to the chorus, insisting she take a chair nearer to the fire. She seated herself, turning so the light threw her face in sharp relief as she began to speak.
THE SIXTH CHAPTER
Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in a woman.
—KING LEAR
“The story begins long ago,” Emma related, her voice soft. We gathered around her, skirts billowing over each other like blowsy roses in a country garden. Aunt Dorcas had nodded off in her chair,
“And how are you enjoying your stay at the Abbey, Mrs. King?”
“Oh, it is an extraordinary place, my lady.” She spread her hands, gesturing toward the single great column standing stalwartly in the centre of the room and the tapestries, older and smaller than those in the great drawing room, but depicting the same subject, a boar hunt. “This room alone quite takes my breath away.”
I shrugged. “I suppose it is impressive enough on first viewing. This room used to be the chapter house, where the monks gathered for the abbot to read the Rule of the Order. The vaulting of the ceiling is quite remarkable, although in the family we think it’s frightfully inconvenient. That central column is necessary for support, but it makes it devilishly difficult to arrange the furniture properly. Besides which, the room is draughty and the chimney never draws properly.”
As if to prove my point, a gust of wind roared down the chimney, scattering sparks and ash on the hearth and a few bits of soot on Aunt Dorcas. If the night grew any windier, we should have to dust her.
“Well, perhaps it is not the most convenient of rooms,” she temporised, “but the history, the very ancientness of the stones. I cannot imagine what they have seen. And the tapestries,” she added, nodding toward the stitched panels. “They are enough to rival anything in a museum, I should think.”
Portia joined us then, passing tiny glasses of port that shimmered like jewels in the candlelight.
“If you like the tapestries, you must ask Emma to tell you the story behind them. No one can spin a tale like Emma,” Portia advised Mrs. King, gesturing with her glass to our cousin. “Emma, pay attention, my dear. I am telling tales out of school about you.”
Emma started like a frightened pony, then relaxed, smiling at Portia. “What have you been saying to Mrs. King?”
“That you are a splendid spinner of stories, actually,” I put in. “Mrs. King was admiring the tapestries, and Portia suggested you tell her the story behind them. She is quite right. No one does it as you do.” I thought to raise her confidence a little. She had always been quiet, but there was a new shyness in her that troubled me. I felt Emma was in danger of becoming a sort of recluse, particularly now that Lucy was marrying. Emma had always lavished all of her attention on Lucy, and I wondered what would become of her once Lucy became Lady Eastley. It was to be hoped Lucy would repay her many kindnesses with a home when it was in her power to provide it. Emma could not be happy governessing in the wilds of Northumberland. It would be a poor showing on Lucy’s part to leave her there.
“Come, Scheherezade, tell us a tale,” I coaxed.
Emma flushed a little, not prettily as Mrs. King did, but a harsh red stain that tipped her nose and ears.
“If you really think that I should,” she said, looking hesitantly at Lucy.
“You must,” Lucy said firmly, and we added our voices to the chorus, insisting she take a chair nearer to the fire. She seated herself, turning so the light threw her face in sharp relief as she began to speak.
THE SIXTH CHAPTER
Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in a woman.
—KING LEAR
“The story begins long ago,” Emma related, her voice soft. We gathered around her, skirts billowing over each other like blowsy roses in a country garden. Aunt Dorcas had nodded off in her chair,
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