Page 40 of The Heir
“Mama—”Go carefully.“You have told me many times that appearances are of the utmost importance.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mama, as if Victoria had mentioned the importance of breathing.
Carefully.“And you have said I must cultivate the goodwill of all the people around me, and of the people in general. Isn’t that why we take our tours across the country? To show me and create sympathy with the people?”
Mama’s sigh was sharp. “And what has that to do with Mrs. Maton?”
Victoria tilted her head a little to one side. “It is only that I was thinking how Dr. Maton served us for so many years. And served my father before that. Would it not look well for me to visit his family and thank them? Offer them some comfort in their time of mourning? It would be perfectly private, if you thought it best.”Of course it would.“But if the Court Circular made mention of it, it would, I think, reflect credibly on, well, on all concerned.”
Mama frowned at her letter. “Well . . . a brief visit . . . if you are suitably attended, of course. Perhaps yes.” She pressed the blotter over the letter, which, frustratingly, hid it from view. “That is well thought of, Victoria. I will make the arrangements.”
“Thank you, Mama.” Victoria kissed her mother’s cheek, and Mama patted hers in return.
Victoria went to her own chair and brought out her sketchbook. She opened to a fresh page and began to draw Mama. She filled in her basic form and then began the tricky business of hands, of the folds in her skirt, the curl of her hair. She worked quietly, drawing no attention to herself. Mama worked at her letters. The ladies moved about the room, busy with their own little works.
What do you think Sir John is keeping from you?she asked silently as she drew.What are you afraid of? What do you know about Dr. Maton?
Was it possible Mama did not trust Sir John as much as it seemed?
Victoria stared at the page, her quick sketch, drawn almost without thought. Her hand had given Mama a frowning face and had spilled the ink across her desk.
It was a picture of discontent, a picture of someone trapped.
Is it possible?Victoria stared at the woman she had drawn.Are you trapped, Mama?
All at once, a vision rose up in front of her. Victoria saw herself telling her mother the truth about Dr. Maton. She saw Mama turning to Sir John and ordering him to leave—leave at once, leave for good. She saw Mama wrapping her arms around her, sobbing, calling Victoria her dear girl, and promising everything would be different now.
Saw them moving together to her new home, learning how to be mother and daughter together, truly this time.
Victoria bowed her head and watched as a single tear splashed onto her sketch.
Chapter 18
Dinner was excruciating. Father was at his most expansive, talking about what fools the other members of the Kensington board were and how easy it was to flatter them into agreeing to positions they had declared themselves dead set against. This much was familiar and required only that they listen and occasionally agree. Jane doubted Mother or Liza absorbed a single word that was said. Ned certainly didn’t. He spent the meal with his head resting on his fist and scowling into his wineglass.
But then Father turned toward praising Jane and her attendance on the princess. He spoke glowingly of how she was bringing Victoria into tractability and dependence, a sign that he was correct in deciding that Jane should be the one sent to the palace.
“The duchess has agreed that Jane should come with the princess on the tour,” Father concluded triumphantly.
This made Mother and her siblings turn and stare at her. Jane suddenly wanted nothing so much as to crawl under the table. She couldn’t make herself lift her gaze from her plate, either. She was afraid if Father saw her eyes, he would see all her dissembling, and he would know that his sunny vision of Victoria finally coming under his sway was a complete fantasy.
Under normal circumstances, Jane would have felt a surge of relief when the meal was finally over and she could escape back to her rooms. But not tonight. Tonight she still had to face Liza, and she had no time to waste.
Liza had an invitation to a rout at a friend’s house. As soon as dinner was finished, she dashed upstairs. Jane came in just as she was being done up into her rose-pink tulle gown with ballooning skirts and sleeves that puffed up to the level of her ears.
“I’ll help her, Meg,” said Jane. “I think Mother wants you downstairs.” Meg looked dubious, but she did not argue, and Jane took her place behind Liza.
“What’s this for?”
“I need to talk to you.” Jane worked the hooks up the back of her sister’s gown. As she did, she glanced at Liza’s reflection in the looking glass. Her hair had been braided, beribboned, and looped into a tight, tall coronet. She looked bang up to the minute in terms of fashion.
She also looked vaguely ridiculous, but Jane kept that to herself.
Liza squirmed and shimmied her shoulders, trying to settle the pads beneath the great puffs of her sleeves. “Well, what is it you want to talk about? I haven’t got forever, you know.”
What can I say that she’ll believe?“The princess . . . she asked me who from the palace has been here for dinner. She wants to know who Father’s cultivating.”
Liza’s duties as the older sister included being Mother’s social stand-in. When Mother could not—or, more frequently, did not wish to—attend one of Father’s dinners, Liza played the role of hostess. Jane would not be brought down unless she was needed to balance the number of men and women at the table, which was seldom. Father’s dinners were not the kind where men were introduced to the daughters of the house to size them up as partners for marriage. They were not social gatherings with friends of the whole family. They were for men Father was courting and planning to use.
