Dark Road to Darjeeling. Deanna Raybourn

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СКАЧАТЬ And she returned here to teach? Curious. Her prospects must have been better in Calcutta. Perhaps she was homesick,” I observed.

      “Miss Thorne had her reasons for returning to the valley, of that I have no doubt,” she said tartly. She fidgeted with her chatelaine then and changed the subject so definitively I knew there would be no further discussion on the topic of Miss Thorne. “I should so like you to have met Miss Phipps and her sister, Lady Eastley, but they have sent their regrets. An indisposition.”

      Indisposition indeed! I had my doubts about that. Knowing of our suspicions, Emma must have been deeply alarmed when she learned that the Marches had come into the Valley of Eden. But she could not elude us forever.

      “I think you must have forgot, Miss Cavendish, but Miss Phipps and Lady Eastley are our cousins, a cadet branch of the March family,” Plum put in.

      “Oh! I had indeed forgot,” she said, looking momentarily flustered. “We spoke of it on the boat coming home. It made a bond between us, of course, and when Lady Eastley’s husband died, it seemed natural that they should come and stay at the Peacocks until they had got their bearings. Father was very fond of them, particularly Lady Eastley. She has a way with the older generation,” Miss Cavendish confided. “Father could be a little fractious in his last months, and Lady Eastley always seemed to be able to soothe him. They played chess together for hours on end, a diversion for them both, and Lady Eastley was always kind enough to let him win.”

      Portia and I exchanged glances. What Miss Cavendish imputed to kindness, I attributed to stupidity. Lucy was not half so clever as her sister.

      “And how did they find Pine Cottage?” I asked idly.

      “It is part of the estate. Father let it to a widow who died shortly after Lady Eastley and her sister arrived. He offered it to them for a peppercorn rent, and they accepted. It was supposed to be for only a short while as they searched for a property of their own to purchase, but they have left off looking to leave us and mean to stay in our valley.”

      She fell into reverie for a moment, then collected herself. “We will be a small party, but a merry enough one, I think, if our chief cook can manage the seed cakes. There is always trouble with the seed cakes.” She rose and gave us a stiff nod. “Until this afternoon then.”

      Just then Jolly appeared with his little gong.

      “Luncheon is finished.”

      To my astonishment, I found myself rather excited about the notion of a garden party. True, the guest list would be tiny, but it would be a chance to meet the neighbours and sleuth out their opinions about the inhabitants of the Peacocks. I should still have to pay separate calls upon the White Rajah and my cousins, but this would do for a start, I decided.

      Morag dressed me in a delicious pale turquoise silk with a broad-brimmed hat to match, one darker turquoise plume sweeping down to touch my cheek. There was a warm velvet jacket against the chill of the afternoon, for the mountain air was still cool with the fresh tang of spring upon it. The jacket was toned to match the plume, and beautifully tailored by Parisian hands. It was a flirtatious costume, and as soon as I caught sight of myself in the looking glass, I regretted that Brisbane was not there. I missed him much more than I had imagined I would, and I was not entirely easy about that. My independence had been hard-won, coming with my widowhood in struggle and ashes, and I could not relinquish it without regret. Brisbane had become necessary to me for my happiness. I wondered if he would say the same of me, or was he enjoying himself unreservedly, flitting about the clubs in Calcutta and indulging in a sulk?

      The thought soured my mood, and I made my way to the garden feeling more annoyance than anticipation. “Cheer up,” Portia murmured under the brim of my hat. “You will put everyone off with that lemon face.”

      I set a deliberate smile upon my lips. “Better?”

      “No. You look mentally defective. Go back to sulking and stop treading on my hem.”

      Miss Cavendish—and no doubt Jolly—had created an enchanting setting for a tea party. An assortment of little tables had been brought out and laid with lace cloths and an elaborate silver tea service, as well as a staggering assortment of sweets and cakes and sandwiches heaped on porcelain plates. There were bowls of jam and sugar and little candies dotted here and there, and petals dropped from the trees like silken confetti spangling the grass.

      Jane was settled into a comfortable chair with a lap robe, and Harry Cavendish went to fetch her a plate of dainties—although from the faintly green cast of her complexion, I suspected she would manage only a cup of tea, if that.

      Miss Cavendish, in the same rusty black gown she had worn the day before, was speaking to a couple, the Pennyfeathers, no doubt, while a sullen older girl lurked nearby and a boy of perhaps twelve was tugging at his starched collar. There was no sign of the doctor, and I was not at all surprised to find Plum engrossed in conversation with the most striking young woman I had ever seen. She was dressed in severe grey, a serviceable and correct colour, but the dusky hue of her skin demanded vibrant shades to show her to best advantage. Still, with her wide dark eyes and glossy black hair, she was utterly lovely, and I was not surprised to see that when she lifted her hand, her movements were graceful and languid.

      “Oh, God, another attachment we shall have to wean him off of,” Portia muttered. I said nothing. Plum had had a string of unsuitable liaisons before falling desperately and somewhat secretly in love with our sister-in-law, Violante. Insofar as I knew, I was the only one familiar with his unrequited passion, and as I did not wish to break his confidence, I held my tongue. Just then, Miss Cavendish caught sight of us.

      She hastened to make the proper introductions, gesturing to each of us in turn.

      “This is the Reverend Pennyfeather and his wife, Cassandra, an American,” Miss Cavendish advised us with the merest twitch of the lips. The Reverend Pennyfeather looked precisely as one would expect a Reverend Pennyfeather to look. He was bookish and a little shortsighted, with spectacles that perched on the end of his nose. He peered through them to see us, shaking our hands with great enthusiasm.

      “How wonderful to meet you at last, Lady Bettiscombe and Lady Julia! You are so very welcome to our pleasant valley,” he said warmly.

      His wife was another story entirely. Swathed in silk robes of violet figured in gold, she was a dramatic and unexpected sight at this thoroughly English garden party. She wore an extraordinary example of the hairdresser’s art—dozens of braids and twists clustered at the nape of her neck, and she carried a lorgnette, peering at us as intently as her husband had done but for different reasons, it soon became apparent.

      “You must call me Cassandra. I know we are going to be fast friends.” Before we could summon replies to this astonishing statement, she went on. “What extraordinary bones you have,” she said, looking from Portia to me and back again. “I must photograph you both. You will not refuse me, I hope.”

      Her long, equine face bore no trace of humour, and it seemed an odd juxtaposition, such a serious face with such an outlandish costume.

      “You are a photographer then,” Portia observed.

      “Yes, Mrs. Pennyfeather does like to dabble in pictures,” Miss Cavendish put in. I did not turn to look at her. I could smell the disapproval from where I stood.

      “Dabble indeed, Miss Cavendish!” sniffed the extraordinary Cassandra Pennyfeather. “I am an artist.” She turned to us. “I am composing a series based upon the classical myths of ancient Greece. СКАЧАТЬ