Page 55 of The Heir
“But . . . ,” began Victoria.
Mama ignored her. “Miss Conroy, you will not be wanted anymore today. You are dismissed.”
Victoria’s first instinct was to protest, but Jane shook her head minutely, and Victoria subsided. She was right, of course. What reason could she give for making a fuss?
Wouldn’t that please Sir John? To know that I am taking Jane’s advice? Of course, he might not be so pleased if he knew on what subject.
“Before you go, Jane, bring me the cordial,” said Victoria.
“Of course, ma’am.” Jane went at once to retrieve the basket and ring the bell for her maid.
“What cordial?” demanded Mama. “What is that?”
“I told you, Mama.” Victoria accepted the brown bottle from Jane. “I asked Jane to get me some of that soothing cordial from Mr. Oslow’s in the village. I thought it might help Aunt Sophia. She has not been sleeping well.”
Mama made a noncommittal noise. Victoria decided she could take a chance.
“I will just go take it to her before—”
“No. Lady Flora will take it, if it is to be done.”
“But—”
“I said no, Victoria,” snapped Mama. “I have indulged your whims quite enough today. There is a dinner tomorrow and a concert. We will prepare you for those. Now, come here and sit down. Jane, we will see you tomorrow, as usual.”
And so Lady Flora was dispatched with the bottle, and Victoria found herself under her mother’s most impatient scrutiny.
The rest of the afternoon was spent writing letters as Mama dictated and then sitting in the red salon, memorizing the latest guest list for dinner and then practicing the new piano piece she had been assigned, because Mama wanted her to play for the ladies she had invited for luncheon on Saturday.
That, at least, should not have been any kind of trial, but Victoria was so impatient for a moment alone that her fingers grew clumsy and she made any number of ridiculous mistakes.
Finally, Mama’s patience reached its end.
“What on earth have I done to earn such a daughter!” She lapsed into German, the surest sign that she was genuinely angry. “I’ve tried. God in Heaven, I have done nothing but try, and this is what I get in return!”
“I’m sorry, Mama.” She was. She did not want to be stupid or clumsy. She did not want to have secrets. She wanted to be able to tell her mother what she was doing, what she thought and felt.
When I know what’s happening. When I have proof . . .
But she didn’t. Not yet. Now she could only sit and look as stupid as Mama accused her of being. Anger boiled inside her.
“You will go sit on the sofa and not stir for an hour while you think about what you have done.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Victoria sat on the sofa by the windows. The breeze smelled of dust and soot. Mama dropped into her chair at her desk and began shuffling through her letters.
Jane had left Wordsworth’s poems on the sofa. Victoria looked to Lehzen. Lehzen nodded.
Victoria waited until Mama had settled on a letter to read. She let her hand slip across the sofa to the book. Lehzen moved just a little to obscure the view. Mama frowned at her letter, her mouth moving as she read. It must be in English or in French.
Victoria flicked her finger against the book so it flopped open and, as she hoped, showed the paper stuck between its pages.
She grabbed the note. Lehzen moved away, retrieved her workbasket, and settled herself in her usual spot by the fire.
Mama glared at Victoria. Victoria bowed over her hands. Mama turned back to her letter.
Victoria opened the folded scrap of paper. She knew the handwriting at once. It was from Lehzen.
