Francesca was not interested in wasting any time; the ball was held five days after the term concluded. I barely had time to unpack my trunk in my tower room and greet the household staff before I was whisked away again to Francesa’s estate.
Curiously, I had never been there before. Neither Francesca nor the Duchess had ever offered; neither Renella nor I had ever asked. It occurred to me now, after my year at university, that it might have something to do with my being a quarter-breed—but that made no sense. The Duchess was a quarter-breed herself. And come to think of it, Francesca had never referenced any goings-on at the estate. She was always going somewhere else.
Perhaps they just spent so much time out of the country, they were simply never at home.
Regardless of the reason, when the carriage at last crested the last ridge in the forest road, and a great expanse of lush, well-manicured grass spread before us, it was the first time I had ever laid eyes on Francesca’s home.
Her parents had died when she was very young, too young to remember them, when a hippopotamus overturned their riverboat on safari. When she first told me this, I thought she was making it up, only to have her produce an obituary verifying the claim on her very next visit. Apparently, one of the reasons her grandmother took her traveling so often—beyond simply having a familial affinity for it—was to ensure she didn’t develop a complex about going to new places as a result of her parent’s freak demise. So she had grown up here, in her grandmother’s estate, in a room that she had only said was “a boring old normal room” the first time we met. Here and around the world.
Her boring old normal room was somewhere inside a great pillared edifice of white stone, which was illuminated for tonight’s special occasion by a colorful array of paper lanterns. I got a good look as the carriage rounded the great circular driveway, mingled gravel and seashells crunching beneath the wheels. It was about three times larger than my villa, in far better repair, and decidedly more horizontal. No wonder she thought our piste was haunted. This looked like the sort of grand dwelling that had at least three art galleries inside.
Sure enough, as soon as I had clambered from the carriage and stepped inside the entrance hall, immense oil paintings, some of them taller than I, rose rank upon rank from wainscoting to coffered ceiling. Most depicted what one would expect: portraits of foreboding grandfathers or stiff-collared children or women staring vacantly over their shoulders; wind-swept landscapes; large bowls of fruit or vases of flowers. A few, however, were more surprising. One was a watercolor of a gutted fish. No fewer than three paintings were of Judith slaying Holofernes, bright with red. And one wasn’t a painting at all, but a collage of seashells that had been tiled like a mosaic into a crude emulation of a scowling face.
“Lord Leonardo deRye!”
The footman’s bellow announcing my entrance made me jump. I snapped my head back down from where it had been tilted up, slightly open-mouthed, to admire the art. I must have looked quite the yokel, gawping at the pretties on the wall.
“Leo!”
Francesca hurled herself down the stairs with a great rustling of lavender silk and flung herself at me with abandon. I staggered with the force of it, grinning, then pushed her away. She looked stunning. I told her so.
She laughed and snapped her fan open to prance a little pirouette. “I had the dressmaker work some hidden pleating into the waistline to make it more flexible,” she bragged. “And: it has pockets!” She jammed her hands into the dress demonstratively. I applauded.
“Is Barti here yet? Or Teresa?”
“No, hardly anyone is, and those’re all Grandmama’s guests. You’re one of the first. Come!” She grabbed my hand. “I’ll show you around!”
With all the decorum of children half our age, we raced up the stairs and through the halls, skidding slightly on the polished floors. She took me through, or past, room after room after room; state apartments, private chambers, offices, studies, a music room, a billiards room, a large and dusty library. I got the sordid history of each as we dove through:
“That’s the room where King Conrad stayed whenever he was with his northern mistress. She was so fat, she broke that chair here, look, you can see it’s still got a wobbly leg…”
“This is the window the Earl of Lumberdi fell out of. I say ‘fell,’ but he was pushed, of course—by his younger brother, most likely, who was scheming for his Earldom…”
“That’s the bed where my great-grandmother died. I tried to contact her ghost once, but it didn’t work. Her spirit must be at peace.”
She showed me her room as well. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I was quite surprised to find that it was an ordinary girl’s room, albeit a large one, with a four-poster bed and a stunning view of the grounds from a lace-curtained bay window. A velveteen lion lay sprawled on her coverlet, worn ragged about the nape of the neck. “I used to carry it about in my mouth, like a mother cat with my kitten,” she explained, without a trace of sheepishness. “Now Rex just keeps me company on his own pillow.”
I had a sudden vision of Francesca, clad in trousers and open sailor’s shirt, a kerchief of red keeping her hair from blowing about her face in the sea breeze as she stood on the deck and shouted at her crew, while Rex slumped comfortably on his own pillow in her cabin.
“What are you smiling at?” Francesca demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Oh!” Francesca looked out her window. “More guests! Let’s go say hello.” And then she was off again, bounding out the door and down the stairs. I followed.
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The guests began to arrive thick and fast from that point forward. She’d done a reasonably good job of keeping the attendees equally split between male and female; in some cases, they came already paired. Many of her friends were married, and several were visibly pregnant. They posed an interesting contrast to the clearly unattached young men from the University, and the women from Perfezionamento: same age, vastly different life circumstances.
Only about half a dozen of the University students were potential husband candidates. Francesca tried to keep me apprised of who they were by making meaningful eye contact whenever another one was announced at the door, but she was surrounded by other friends by this point, and I couldn’t see anything well at all in the crowd at any rate. As neither Barti nor Teresa had been announced yet, I quietly slunk around to the side of the staircase and leaned against it, with nothing but a potted palm for company. It was a good companion: it hid me from view and made no demands.
When at last the footman bellowed, “Lady Teresa Contarini!” it was immediately followed by, “Miss Lucrezia Bocelli!” and, “Maharani Lakshmi Kottaram!” I emerged from behind the potted palm with a vague sense of relief. Barti wasn’t here yet, but there was only so much Teresa could do in front of her friends.
Or so I thought.
It started out quite pleasantly; we drifted with the crowd into the main hall and alternated between dancing and partaking of the refreshments at a leisurely pace. Teresa looked lovely; the blue taffeta of her gown was mirrored by the sapphires at her ears and neck, as well as her eyes themselves. And her freckles were so charming, spangling her face like stars, I had to kiss them, quickly and furtively, as we paused for a sip of wine.
I realized what a mistake that was the instant I saw the look she gave me after I had done so, pupils huge and dark.
“Did Francesca show you around?” she asked, voice low and throaty.
I swallowed. “She did, yes.”
Teresa took my hand. “Will you show me?”
“Well,” I said desperately, hoping to dash cold water on things, “there’s the room where her great-grandmother died.”
It didn’t work. Teresa just laughed, and pulled at my hand. “Show me!”
“Um.” I looked around wildly, and gestured at the table. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Another mistake. Teresa stepped close and whispered, directly in my ear, “Yes. I am.”
My hair stood on end. And that wasn’t the only response my traitorous body had. All thought processes ground to a total halt. Teresa pulled me, unresistingly, away from the table.
But just as we crossed into the entrance hall, the footman roared, “Lord Bartolomeo Gheribaldi!”
And Barti, bless him, didn’t hesitate for even one second. Momentarily channeling Paffuto, he dashed over and punched me jovially in the arm. I could see the apology in his eyes even as he did so, although whether it was for the punch, or the tardiness that made such buffoonery necessary in the first place, I wasn’t sure.
“Leo!” he said, slightly desperately. “You would not believe what befell us on the road. An entire turnip cart had overturned, just as a shepherd was going by. Sheep were everywhere, going at the turnips like they’d been starved… Oh! Lady Contarini!” He bent over her hand as though he was only now seeing her, and not just raced to rescue me from her. “I do apologize. My goodness, you look lovely.”
To her credit, Teresa quickly hid any dismay at the interruption. “Barti! You’re looking quite handsome yourself. Have you eaten yet? You must be starving, after your misadventures. The food is just through there.” She pointed and smiled at him disarmingly. Her hand ever left my arm.
“I am famished,” Barti replied. “And I’m afraid I must borrow Leo for a moment. I have news for him about an acquaintance.”
“Of course,” Teresa replied graciously, slipping her hand away. “I’ll just be in the, ah, library. There is a library, is there not?”
“There is,” I replied mechanically.
“Splendid.” She smiled warmly. “I’ll see you there.” It was hard not to stare as she walked away.
“Did you not wish me to interrupt?” Barti asked as soon as she was out of earshot, clearly exasperated.
“What? No! I mean, yes.” I scrubbed my face. I still wasn’t thinking very clearly. “Yes, thank you. That was a very close call.”
Barti shook his head and started towards the main hall. “I still think all this is foolish,” he murmured. “Just go. I’m sure she knows.”
“No,” I said stubbornly.
“You’re just going to let her linger by herself in the library all night?”
The idea was both horrifying and tempting. “No, I’d send Lucrezia or the Maharani after her.”
Barti shook his head again. “The longer you draw this out, the worse it’s going to be.”
I followed him back into the main hall and kept him company while he ate. That part had not been a ruse; he was starving. While he wolfed down his third buttered roll, I kept pace with the wine. By the time he was ready to move on to the wine himself, I was already several glasses in and feeling it. I excused myself to go find the bathroom.
These had not been pointed out on Francesca’s madcap tour, so I wandered for a bit, feeling the wine fog my head pleasantly. I was on my second pass under the staircase when I heard my name mentioned from around the corner.
I stopped. I had not recognized the voice. And although there was every good reason to be mentioned at this party—I was the hostess’ best friend, after all—an unshakable sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach. I moved forward and peeked around the corner.
Two ladies were speaking to each other by the very same potted palm that had sheltered me earlier, fans held before their faces. I did not recognize either; their backs were to me. They did not know I was there.
“She’s not going to marry him, is she?” one asked, sounding horrified.
“Of course not!” snorted the other.
“Then what on earth does she think she is doing?”
Another snort. “What she always does. You know Teresa. Remember the stevedore?”
Snickering. They fanned themselves. I couldn’t move.
“Leo seems nice,” the second one said, a little wistfully. “I feel bad for him. He seems like the type to feel honor-bound.”
“Mmm, I don’t know. I bet he’s sowed an oat or two.”
“You’re sure she’s not trying to trap him?”
“Positive,” came the flat reply. “She’s just trying to enrage Daddy, as always. And see if the rumors are true. I’m sure she’s hoping they are, for maximal enragement.”
“Do you think he’s…?”
But here they had to cease their gossip, as another flock of ladies swept by, chattering loudly.
I retreated fully around the corner and walked down the hall away from the gossips, stiff-legged, hardly able to breathe.
So much for everything.