summer? So soon after Mr. Grey’s loss of interest, the prospect of remaining cloistered here troubled her. Beauty fades. She could not afford to waste any time.
She bolted the remainder of her brandy and reached for the bell to ring for more.
That’s enough, Elizabeth.
Her mother had never been so annoying while alive. She toyed with the handle of the bell. “Perhaps I should invite friends to visit.”
“A very fine idea,” said Mather.
“Yes, isn’t it?” She would put together a list, among them several eligible bachelors. Of course, she would need to lure them, for Cornwall lay in the opposite direction of most summer itineraries, which invariably concluded in the north for the August hunts.
Bah! She did not want to think of the north right now. She rang the bell.
“Who will you invite?” asked Jane. “Will I know them?”
“No, darling.” But it would advance her prospects considerably to befriend them— befriend being the operative verb. Liza made a mental note to include several men not known to prefer blondes. Jane would have her chance, but being so young, she could afford to pursue it more leisurely. “We’ll have a house party—a proper one, with a theme. A week at the least, to make it worth their while.”
“A . . . week?” asked Mather. “That length of time would require a great deal of preparation—”
“Perhaps a fortnight,” Liza said. A footman appeared. “More brandy,” she said.
“Goodness!” Even Jane sounded doubtful. “Do you think anyone would want to stay so long?”
“Of course they would.” Liza let a measured amount of asperity show in her voice as she looked between the two women. “ I am the hostess, am I not? Besides, I shall guarantee their interest is held.”
Mather took a deep breath, then nodded, shoulders squaring. “With six or seven weeks’ notice—”
“No. A month at the most.” August always left her terribly freckled. Best to do it before then.
“What theme shall you choose?” asked Jane.
The inspiration was so simple, yet so brilliant, that for a moment Liza was sure it had been sent from above. “I was reading a book on mysticism recently—something the Viscountess Sanburne recommended in her last letter. I believe we’ll have a spiritual theme. All manner of experts. Demonstrations, experiments, lectures—and at the end of the party, we shall gather together and decide which practice is most credible!”
Jane wrinkled her nose. “A bunch of preachers! Have you gone mad?”
Liza burst into laughter. “Dear Jane, how put out you look! No, darling, I don’t mean men of God, I mean mystics —clairvoyants and mediums and such.”
“Such arrangements may take more than a month,” muttered Mather.
“Oh, but how clever of you!” Jane bounced in her seat. “And Mr. Nelson will be mad with jealousy, simply green to be excluded!”
It took Liza a moment to follow Jane’s meaning. Nello was the last thing on her mind at present. How curious. She tested herself, the way one might tongue a sore tooth. The ache was still there, but much diminished.
She supposed boorish northerners were good for something, after all.
“Mr. Nelson’s feelings do not concern me,” she said. Much as her worries had not concerned him, save to provoke him to drop her like a brick. “Mather, we must start on this at once.” Telegrams must be sent; rooms must be aired; the staff must go up to London to make use of the telephones.
“Yes, ma’am.” Mather bent down and produced, from the voluminous folds of her execrable skirt, a small notebook and pencil. “I suppose you’ll want to hire a table rapper as well . . . and perhaps a Gypsy to read the cards—”
“A spirit writer,” Jane suggested. “Oh, I saw a very chilling demonstration of that gift while wintering at Bath two years ago! I promise you, Liza, the man could not have known the things he wrote!”
“In short,” Mather said repressively, “the usual variety of
She bolted the remainder of her brandy and reached for the bell to ring for more.
That’s enough, Elizabeth.
Her mother had never been so annoying while alive. She toyed with the handle of the bell. “Perhaps I should invite friends to visit.”
“A very fine idea,” said Mather.
“Yes, isn’t it?” She would put together a list, among them several eligible bachelors. Of course, she would need to lure them, for Cornwall lay in the opposite direction of most summer itineraries, which invariably concluded in the north for the August hunts.
Bah! She did not want to think of the north right now. She rang the bell.
“Who will you invite?” asked Jane. “Will I know them?”
“No, darling.” But it would advance her prospects considerably to befriend them— befriend being the operative verb. Liza made a mental note to include several men not known to prefer blondes. Jane would have her chance, but being so young, she could afford to pursue it more leisurely. “We’ll have a house party—a proper one, with a theme. A week at the least, to make it worth their while.”
“A . . . week?” asked Mather. “That length of time would require a great deal of preparation—”
“Perhaps a fortnight,” Liza said. A footman appeared. “More brandy,” she said.
“Goodness!” Even Jane sounded doubtful. “Do you think anyone would want to stay so long?”
“Of course they would.” Liza let a measured amount of asperity show in her voice as she looked between the two women. “ I am the hostess, am I not? Besides, I shall guarantee their interest is held.”
Mather took a deep breath, then nodded, shoulders squaring. “With six or seven weeks’ notice—”
“No. A month at the most.” August always left her terribly freckled. Best to do it before then.
“What theme shall you choose?” asked Jane.
The inspiration was so simple, yet so brilliant, that for a moment Liza was sure it had been sent from above. “I was reading a book on mysticism recently—something the Viscountess Sanburne recommended in her last letter. I believe we’ll have a spiritual theme. All manner of experts. Demonstrations, experiments, lectures—and at the end of the party, we shall gather together and decide which practice is most credible!”
Jane wrinkled her nose. “A bunch of preachers! Have you gone mad?”
Liza burst into laughter. “Dear Jane, how put out you look! No, darling, I don’t mean men of God, I mean mystics —clairvoyants and mediums and such.”
“Such arrangements may take more than a month,” muttered Mather.
“Oh, but how clever of you!” Jane bounced in her seat. “And Mr. Nelson will be mad with jealousy, simply green to be excluded!”
It took Liza a moment to follow Jane’s meaning. Nello was the last thing on her mind at present. How curious. She tested herself, the way one might tongue a sore tooth. The ache was still there, but much diminished.
She supposed boorish northerners were good for something, after all.
“Mr. Nelson’s feelings do not concern me,” she said. Much as her worries had not concerned him, save to provoke him to drop her like a brick. “Mather, we must start on this at once.” Telegrams must be sent; rooms must be aired; the staff must go up to London to make use of the telephones.
“Yes, ma’am.” Mather bent down and produced, from the voluminous folds of her execrable skirt, a small notebook and pencil. “I suppose you’ll want to hire a table rapper as well . . . and perhaps a Gypsy to read the cards—”
“A spirit writer,” Jane suggested. “Oh, I saw a very chilling demonstration of that gift while wintering at Bath two years ago! I promise you, Liza, the man could not have known the things he wrote!”
“In short,” Mather said repressively, “the usual variety of
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