Twelfth Night. Deanna Raybourn

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       Chapter Three

      Young in limbs, in judgment old.

      —The Merchant of Venice, II, vii, 71

      It took a long while to smooth Nanny’s ruffled feathers, but the promise of a girl from the village, as soon as a suitable one could be found, went a long way to calming her—as did Portia’s promise of an extra ten pounds.

      “That’s extortionate,” I whispered to Portia as Nanny bore off the infant to inspect it.

      “You don’t know nannies,” she returned fiercely.

      Nanny pronounced the child fit and healthy—and a boy. “Born this last week, I would say. His little knot of cord has not yet fallen.”

      She wanted to show us, but I pleaded the Revels and scurried away, pausing only to inform Morag that she was wanted in the nursery.

      “What bloody for?” she demanded.

      I shrugged, and before she could argue further, made my escape. Brisbane was waiting in the stable court while Father yelled at his grandchildren—all costumed as small trees. I handed Brisbane his helm of St. George.

      “One helm, good as new, and minus the baby,” I informed him. “What have you discovered?”

      “That your father missed his calling,” he said solemnly. “He has organised eleven grandchildren into an orderly shrubbery. They’ll make a lovely backdrop for my death and resurrection.”

      I nudged him. “I meant about the child. A boy, by the way. Born within the week, according to Nanny.”

      Brisbane shrugged. “Nothing. No one saw a thing, no one heard a thing. No strangers about, no reports of recent births in the village. No footprints to follow, no note within the child’s blanket. I am to make enquiries after my scene is finished.” He rolled his eyes skyward, but I smiled.

      “Even God Almighty could not distract Father from his Revels. Surely you don’t expect a foundling to manage it?”

      Brisbane returned the smile, but I knew he was itching to be away. After we had finished an afternoon’s rehearsals, the entire family repaired to the great hall for an early buffet supper. Brisbane elected to go into the village to make enquiries while I decided to question my family. They had all been present during the discovery, and while they were undoubtedly distracted by the Revels, someone might very well have seen something that could prove significant.

      I made my way to the great hall. In the early days, when Bellmont Abbey had been a proper Cistercian establishment, the brothers had used this enormous chamber as the Chapel of the Nine Altars. After the Dissolution, when Henry VIII had given the property to our family, little was done to change it. The original stone was still in evidence, the walls pierced here and there with the nine bays that once held the altars. Now they were furnished as conversation areas, with wide Turkey carpets and hideously uncomfortable sofas and armchairs. It was a cold room at the best of times, although summer sun pouring through the vast tracery windows rendered it beautiful.

      But now, after dark and in the depths of winter, it was frigid and forbidding, and I took a cup of tea, grateful for its warmth. I took no food at first, preferring instead to mingle and do a bit of useful eavesdropping. The family had, not unusually, arranged itself into smaller groups. Three siblings, Viscount Bellmont and our sisters Olivia and Nerissa, sat with their spouses a short and disapproving distance from Father, who was comfortably sat directly next to the fire. Their disapproval was not directed at Father but at his companion, Hortense de Bellefleur. She was a Frenchwoman of scandalous repute and charming temper. I counted her a friend of great value, and she had invited me to call her Fleur. Besides her liaison with my father, she had very early in his career tutored my own husband in the arts of love. By my reckoning, it made us practically family. Her affair with Brisbane had cooled twenty years before to a much more filial relationship—no doubt aided by the fact that she was two decades his senior.

      “Julia,” she told me once, “a wise courtesan knows when to stop romancing young men and restrict herself to gentlemen so much her senior, she can feel youthful again.”

      She had taken her own advice, and compared to Father, she was an absolute rosebud. But in spite of the happiness she brought him, a few of my siblings did not appreciate her inclusion into a family party, and had banished their children to the schoolroom for supper with the maids rather than bring them within Fleur’s orbit. It was a silly bit of snobbery. The girls would have learnt far more about life from a close association with Fleur, and no doubt the boys would have, as well.

      I passed Bellmont just as he was holding forth on the subject, sotto voce. “Naturally, I am glad my children have remained in London with their mother. Adelaide is busy with wedding preparations for our eldest, and I cannot think it would benefit any of them to associate with so notorious a creature.”

      I snorted as I passed, a clear reference to Bellmont of his own peccadilloes. He flushed an angry red and motioned to a passing footman to fill his glass of wine again. I flashed him a brilliant smile and walked on. From quick conversation with my brother Benedick, I learnt that nothing had been amiss at the Home Farm. It was attached to the estate, and his responsibility as second son of the family. But he gave a nod to a little niche where one of the nine altars had once stood. Seated there, eating placidly from plates on their knees, were Benedick’s children, Tarquin and Perdita, and a third child I didn’t know.

      “You want to know what goes on around here, ask that pair,” he instructed. “They’re like mongooses. Not a thing happens in Blessingstoke, on the farm or in the Abbey they don’t know it.”

      He winked and turned away. I made my way to the little alcove, where I discovered the children eating an entire platter of fruit tarts they had liberated from the buffet table.

      “Hello, Aunt Julia,” Tarquin said through a mouthful of crumbs. “You won’t tell about the tarts, will you? Only we’ve taken the last plate.”

      “Clever you,” I said, helping myself to one. “They’re Cook’s best.”

      “And we mayn’t get any more for a while,” Tarquin said darkly. “She’s gone down with an ague, and the undercook will be preparing meals until she’s well again.”

      “That’s a pity,” I said. I turned to the third child, a portly little boy with a serious expression and a thatch of dark hair.

      “I don’t know you.”

      He brushed the crumbs from his hand and took mine with a courtly little bow. “Quentin Harkness, your ladyship.”

      “What СКАЧАТЬ