Mr. Pugglesworth, the Original Pug.”
She stooped to kiss my cheek. “Don’t be hateful, Julia, just because you are travelling with a menagerie that would suit Barnum. Hello, Brisbane, how is my favourite brother-in-law?”
He returned her kiss, giving Puggy a wide berth. “Passing well.”
Portia glanced about. “Where is our dear Plum?”
“Finishing up an investigation with Monk,” I informed her. Brisbane’s assistant had agreed to remain in London to attend to any last-minute affairs that might arise. “He will be down tomorrow.”Portia gave Brisbane a bright-eyed look. “I hear you’re to be St. George this year in the revels. How on earth did Julia manage to convince you of that?”
“Your sister can be quite persuasive when she puts her mind to it.”
Portia let out a snort of laughter. “I’ve no doubt. But I’m very pleased you let her persuade you. I want everyone on hand for Jane the Younger’s first Christmas, particularly her godparents.” She turned just as the nanny approached pushing a stately pram. Jane the Younger sat bolt upright, howling with rage.
“Such a passionate child,” I said faintly.
Portia fixed me with a firm look. “She is having a bit of trouble with her teeth.”
“Do they not make a tonic for that? Or a sedative?”
“I am not dosing her with one of those foul patent medicines, Julia. She will be perfectly well in due course. I think.” Jane the Younger was Portia’s first foray into motherhood. The orphaned daughter of Portia’s life companion, Jane was not blood kin to us but she was dearnonetheless. 2 And a good deal dearer when she was clean and quiet and dry, which was not very often.
Portia plucked her from the pram and shoved her into my arms. “Say hello to Auntie Julia, darling.”
Jane the Younger stopped howling long enough to lunge for my earring.
“Such good taste,” I murmured, prying at the chubby little fist.
“Yes, she has developed a penchant for things that sparkle,” Portia said, applying herself to her daughter’s miserly clutch. “Darling, you must let go of Auntie Julia’s ear. No, stop twisting it, my pet. Auntie Julia is starting to cry. Julia, stop being so melodramatic. It is just an earring.”
“It isn’t the earring,” I corrected tautly. “It’s the lobe .”
Jane the Younger released me sharply and opened her mouth to voice her feelings at being denied the pretty trinket as I rubbed at my tender ear. Portia rummaged in her pocket and found the mother-of-pearl teething ring I had bought for the child in the vain hope of purchasing a few moments’ silence.
“Perhaps we ought to board,” Brisbane suggested, his voice almost inaudible above Jane the Younger’s roars.
* * *
In an excess of holiday generosity one year, my father had gifted me with the tiny dower house on his estate. He had meant it as an independence for me, a small bit of property to call my own for the duration of my life, and a lovely property it was. I had decorated the place, lavishing care and attention and great expense upon it—and spent only a handful of nights there since. I was very much looking forward to snuggling down with my husband into the peace and quiet of our own home, a bolthole to which we could withdraw when my family’s boisterous spirits grew too high. I had already sent our butler, Aquinas, and my maid, Morag, down by the earliest train to remove the dust sheets and light the fires. I had ordered a simple supper of Brisbane’s favourites along with a hamper of the best wines from his cellar. Everything would be absolutely perfect for our winter idyll.
I sighed happily and settled my hand into the crook of Brisbane’s arm as the carriage swung onto the long drive leading to the Abbey. Father’s gardener, Whittle, stood just inside the gates with one of his under-gardeners, Wee Ned—a stooped, elderly man who was fondling a bit of topiary. They raised their caps as we passed, and I waved before turning to
She stooped to kiss my cheek. “Don’t be hateful, Julia, just because you are travelling with a menagerie that would suit Barnum. Hello, Brisbane, how is my favourite brother-in-law?”
He returned her kiss, giving Puggy a wide berth. “Passing well.”
Portia glanced about. “Where is our dear Plum?”
“Finishing up an investigation with Monk,” I informed her. Brisbane’s assistant had agreed to remain in London to attend to any last-minute affairs that might arise. “He will be down tomorrow.”Portia gave Brisbane a bright-eyed look. “I hear you’re to be St. George this year in the revels. How on earth did Julia manage to convince you of that?”
“Your sister can be quite persuasive when she puts her mind to it.”
Portia let out a snort of laughter. “I’ve no doubt. But I’m very pleased you let her persuade you. I want everyone on hand for Jane the Younger’s first Christmas, particularly her godparents.” She turned just as the nanny approached pushing a stately pram. Jane the Younger sat bolt upright, howling with rage.
“Such a passionate child,” I said faintly.
Portia fixed me with a firm look. “She is having a bit of trouble with her teeth.”
“Do they not make a tonic for that? Or a sedative?”
“I am not dosing her with one of those foul patent medicines, Julia. She will be perfectly well in due course. I think.” Jane the Younger was Portia’s first foray into motherhood. The orphaned daughter of Portia’s life companion, Jane was not blood kin to us but she was dearnonetheless. 2 And a good deal dearer when she was clean and quiet and dry, which was not very often.
Portia plucked her from the pram and shoved her into my arms. “Say hello to Auntie Julia, darling.”
Jane the Younger stopped howling long enough to lunge for my earring.
“Such good taste,” I murmured, prying at the chubby little fist.
“Yes, she has developed a penchant for things that sparkle,” Portia said, applying herself to her daughter’s miserly clutch. “Darling, you must let go of Auntie Julia’s ear. No, stop twisting it, my pet. Auntie Julia is starting to cry. Julia, stop being so melodramatic. It is just an earring.”
“It isn’t the earring,” I corrected tautly. “It’s the lobe .”
Jane the Younger released me sharply and opened her mouth to voice her feelings at being denied the pretty trinket as I rubbed at my tender ear. Portia rummaged in her pocket and found the mother-of-pearl teething ring I had bought for the child in the vain hope of purchasing a few moments’ silence.
“Perhaps we ought to board,” Brisbane suggested, his voice almost inaudible above Jane the Younger’s roars.
* * *
In an excess of holiday generosity one year, my father had gifted me with the tiny dower house on his estate. He had meant it as an independence for me, a small bit of property to call my own for the duration of my life, and a lovely property it was. I had decorated the place, lavishing care and attention and great expense upon it—and spent only a handful of nights there since. I was very much looking forward to snuggling down with my husband into the peace and quiet of our own home, a bolthole to which we could withdraw when my family’s boisterous spirits grew too high. I had already sent our butler, Aquinas, and my maid, Morag, down by the earliest train to remove the dust sheets and light the fires. I had ordered a simple supper of Brisbane’s favourites along with a hamper of the best wines from his cellar. Everything would be absolutely perfect for our winter idyll.
I sighed happily and settled my hand into the crook of Brisbane’s arm as the carriage swung onto the long drive leading to the Abbey. Father’s gardener, Whittle, stood just inside the gates with one of his under-gardeners, Wee Ned—a stooped, elderly man who was fondling a bit of topiary. They raised their caps as we passed, and I waved before turning to
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