Page 32 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
But it didn’t seem that Elissa had witnessed his stumble. With her head tipped back and her mouth hanging open, she appeared fully occupied in gaping at the columned portico.
Edward straightened his coat, then approached. “Miss Elissa,” he said, reaching out to hand her down, “welcome to Harrington Hall.”
Her head whipped around, her green eyes wide as saucers. “Edward! Oh, my gracious, I didn’t…” Her mouth closed with a pop, and color rose to her cheeks. “That is to say, Lord Fauconbridge—”
Edward was only a trifle less disoriented, and found that the words, “You can call me Edward,” were what came blurting out of his mouth.
May, he silently corrected himself. Youmaycall me Edward. Good God, she would think he hadn’t the slightest command of the English language.
But Elissa did not appear to have noticed, for she was still babbling. “I’m so sorry, you caught me off guard, I cannot believe I said that out…” She trailed off, performing a slow spin as she took in the flawlessly manicured sweep of the lawn, the Palladian bridge spanning the man-made stream that had been mapped out by Capability Brown himself, the northwest wing made of golden Cotswold sandstone that glowed in the afternoon light, and the portico with its six Corinthian columns of gleaming white marble. “This is yourhouse?” she sputtered.
Edward could not suppress a smile. “Not yet. Why do you ask?”
“Because it is the most exquisite sight I have ever beheld. If it’s not too much trouble, I would like to sit just here,” she said, indicating the top step of the portico, “for the next week, gazing out over the lawn. I think I would find myself perfectly content.”
“I believe we can do better than that,” Edward said. “Wait until you see the Greek folly.”
Elissa’s face lit up. She turned to her sister, who had emerged from the carriage. “Cassandra, they have a Greek folly!”
Edward reached up to hand her sister down. “Mrs. Gorten, welcome.”
“Thank you so much for inviting us, my lord,” Cassandra replied smoothly, striding up the steps before he could offer his arm, leaving him to pair with Elissa.
The carriage pulled off toward the stables and two footmen started up the steps, one carrying a small trunk, the other only a leather satchel. “Is this all of your luggage?” Edward asked, offering his arm.
“Yes,” Elissa replied, laughing. “The trunk is Cassandra’s. I only brought the satchel. It’s mostly books. I scarcely brought any clothing—” She broke off, cringing, then turned to him with a familiar expression of mortification.
Edward was trying very hard not to laugh. “Please, tell me more.”
“Your sister, Lady Lucy!” she squeaked. “You see, when your mother first invited me, I begged her to excuse me as I have nothing appropriate to wear. Lady Lucy replied with the kindest letter, offering to share her gowns with me.”
“That’s our Lucy,” Edward confirmed.
“I then attempted to decline on the grounds that I am completely lacking in anything resembling social polish. Oddly, your mother was not deterred.” She shook her head. “I told her about the time I tripped over the pig and everything!”
“You tripped over a pig?”
Elissa went perfectly still, then peered up at him, biting her lower lip. “I would appreciate it if you would forget I said that.”
Edward grinned as he led her up the steps. “Not a chance.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “In any case, your mother is strangely persistent and downright underhanded, if you will excuse my saying so.”
“I cannot object, as it is demonstrably true.”
“She is absolutely impossible to refuse. At first, I couldn’t imagine why she even wanted us here, but I finally figured it out. It was really very kind of her. Apparently, your brother told her how much Cassandra admires your sister, Lady Morsley, and that is the reason she…” Elissa trailed off as they came into the circular rotunda at the center of the house. “Oh, mygracious…”
Her head tipped back again as she took in the sky-lit space. The alabaster columns ringing the room soared fifty feet to the ceiling above, gleaming white against walls of Wedgewood blue. The ceiling was elaborately decorated with vines and medallions, the white plasterwork clean against the saturated blue background, culminating in a large, painted roundel at the apex of the dome.
Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor as Elissa wandered unconsciously through the room, her mouth open and her eyes darting everywhere as she took it all in. Her head was tilted back to the ceiling, and she would have collided with a recumbent statue of Hector succumbing to his wounds had Edward not steered her around it. She was so entranced, she didn’t give the slightest sign of having noticed what he was doing.
She gasped as she noticed the painted roundel in the center of the ceiling. “It’s Cupid and Psyche!” she exclaimed, a smile lighting her face as her eyes found his. “‘She sees those radiant locks, ambrosia-scented, the milk-white neck, the damask cheek over which wander those glorious curls, whose brilliancy makes the very lamplight tremble.’”
“Apuleius’sMetamorphoses,” Edward said at once. “I’ve never read that translation. Whose is it?”
“Oh, it’s—it’s mine,” she said, looking down, abruptly self-conscious.
Why was he not surprised? “It is excellent. I have always despaired of those lines. It is impossible to do them justice. It confounds the mind that they were written by Apuleius, of all people. For almost all ofMetamorphoseshe alternates between the crass, the gruesome, and the farcical, and then without warning he writes—”
