Page 51 of Making of a Scandal
“Hmm, quite,” her other aunt agreed with a frown of disapproval. “What have you done to yourself? Just because your hopes of making a match have borne no fruit does not mean you should let yourself go. Perhaps you’d snare a suitor if you were plumper.”
Calliope wanted to point out the irony of Doris’s assessment while her own figure was akin to the shape of a fireplace poker, but she knew better. Arguing with the aunts only made them ornery, and just now they seemed in good spirits. Their criticisms might be received differently from people who didn’t understand them as their family did. It was simply their way, and they did not bother to speak their minds to people they did not like. For those individuals, they chose to whisper to one another while casting disparaging glares in their direction.
“And you must remember to wear a hat when you venture out of doors,” Louisa added when Calliope did not latch onto the first bit of bait. “Your complexion is looking a bit …”
“Dark,” Doris filled in with a decisive nod. “And Louisa is right. A fair complexion is a most attractive trait in a woman.”
Calliope bit the inside of her cheek and held in a laugh, certain she did not need to remind them that her ‘dark’ complexion had nothing to do with the sun.
“I will try to keep that in mind,” she said instead, trading an amused glance with her father.
“Where is your sister?” Louisa asked, squinting as she peered past Calliope. “That husband of hers certainly likes to keep her to himself, doesn’t he?”
“She is resting,” her father replied. “The journey from London was quite taxing for her.”
“Hmm, a bad sign, to be sure,” Doris declared. “A lady with such a delicate constitution will never bear strong sons. Poor Hastings may never have his heir.”
“On the contrary,” Calliope replied. “It is a possible heir which is responsible for her condition. Diana is with child.”
“Oh, that is wonderful news,” Louisa said. “You mustn’t be too envious of her, Calliope. It is notsouncommon for a younger sister to wed and start breeding before the elder. Chin up, girl.”
Her father coughed, taking hold of Calliope’s arm and giving it a squeeze, as if sensing she’d come to the end of her patience.
“We will not disturb you,” he said with a gracious bow of his head, as if addressing two queens as opposed to his crotchety, spinster aunts. “Calliope and I have some catching up to do, and I believe it is nearly time for your afternoon naps.”
“Oh, indeed,” Doris agreed. “We shall need our rest if we are to endure the descent of your guests tomorrow.”
“Such taxing affairs, house parties,” Louisa grumbled.
“Then we will leave you to your rest,” the viscount replied, already steering Calliope from the room.
They beat a hasty retreat, waiting until they had closed the door to meet one another’s gazes and erupt into a fit of laughter.
“A bit like standing before a firing squad, is it not?” her father.
“Why we put up with them is beyond me,” she replied. “How they’ve managed to live so long boggles the mind.”
“I am of the opinion that their bitterness and unmarried state are responsible. With no men to annoy them and each other to commiserate to, they are a match made in heaven.”
“I suppose you are right. They will likely outlive us all, and die as they have always lived—together, and insulting everyone around them until their last breaths.”
“Fortunately, we will not be around to see that. Come, sweet … I’ve sent for tea, and I wish for us to talk.”
He led her into another room further down the corridor, one that only a select few were allowed to enter—a place where he kept the majority of the furniture and art he had acquired over his years in India. The drapes were drawn, a blazing fire and several candles setting the brightly-decorated room aglow. The opulent grandeur of his collection clashed with the smooth architecture and classical decor of the rest of the house, but it was all the more beautiful for that fact.
Rich tapestries hung from the walls, striking hues of red, gold, royal blue, and purple mixing in a divergence of geometric and floral patterns. Thick, plush rugs of a similar style muffled her footsteps as she side-stepped heavy cabinets and tables—some of carved brass, others lacquered a shiny black, and one of marble with inlaid, hand-painted tiles. Every surface displayed a wealth of curiosities. A collection of golden candlesticks here, a brass spittoon there, a cluster of ceramic elephants with jewels for eyes. Three hookah pipes stood in one corner of the room, towering structures made of silver, jade, and copper with painted glass bowls.
The centerpiece of the entire room was the massive portrait hanging over the hearth, and it was to this painting that Calliope went. She was always drawn to it, the image immortalized with a gilt frame captivating her now as it had the first time she’d lain eyes on it.
With her father standing at her side, reverent eyes turned upward, she soaked in the stunning visage of her mother. Calliope’s own features showed themselves on the canvas—the large, dark eyes, the sharp nose and high cheekbones, the mouth with the upper lip slightly plumper than the lower. Her skin had been depicted as a deep, rich copper, only a bit of the black, glossy hair visible along the edge of the gold-embroideredodhanihead-covering. She’d been painted in the style of dress most suitable for a noble lady of Bengal, the full-length of the portrait showing a woman of petite height and slender frame draped in an opulent red and goldpeshwaz—the garment fitting snug in its bodice before flaring open at the waist to reveal the matching, tapered breeches and slippers.
Unlike the portrait of Diana’s mother, which graced the drawing room downstairs where visitors were brought to take tea, her mother’s portrait was entombed away from prying eyes—meant only for those who had known and loved her. The viscount had ensured she understood that the portrait wasn’t hidden away because he was ashamed of his first wife, but because he hadn’t wanted to share her with anyone else.
As a child, Calliope had spent hours staring at the portrait and imagined her mother walking through the pleasure gardens that filled the corners of her memories, laughing and turning her face up toward a blazing sun. There was little of her short time in India left in her recollections, though whenever she thought of her mother and those gardens, a warmth and happiness fell over her that could not be denied. Her mother had loved her—Calliope felt that without even being able to recall her saying it.
“Vedah was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen,” her father said, his voice low as if speaking too loudly would chase away the lingering spirit of his first wife. “And she wasn’t only beautiful. She was strong and brave, and very much interested in the machinations of the imperial court. You and your care for the plight of the poor and abandoned … it comes from her, you know. She would be so proud of you.”
“Would she?” Calliope whispered, reaching out to caress a small ceramic pot resting on the mantel. All the things gathered here had belonged to her mother—a mother-of-pearl comb, face-paint pots, a jade brooch—all of it gathered as a shrine of sorts. “I often wonder how she might have fared in this world.”
