Page 100 of The Ladies Least Likely
The young duke stiffened and did his best to look down his nose at her. He was nearly of a height to do so. “We have the charge of ourselves, miss.”
His lofty proclamation was undercut by the expressions of woe that burst from his siblings. “There’s no one at home!” Lord Ned exclaimed, and at the same time Lady Camilla begged, “Oh, don’t send us back there! Don’t make us go!”
Amaranthe decided it was time to take things in hand. “Come in and be seated,” she ordered the trio. “Derwa, you may take their hats. Eyde, you may help Mrs. Blackthorn prepare a tray.” The cook had already disappeared, and as the scent of warm yeast floated up the stairs, Amaranthe guessed to what purpose.“I shall send someone round to see if my brother is at his favorite coffee house, and we shall enjoy tea while we wait.”
“Tea!” Lady Camilla said gratefully, clasping her hands. “Oh, yes, please.”
The young duke stood stiffly. “We should hate to impose?—”
“Oh, do stop shamming it, Huey!” his brother exclaimed. “She’s got something to eat.” He came to inspect the parchment spread over Amaranthe’s easel as she began to cover it. “What are you doing?”
“I am gilding the capitals on this folio, andpraydo not put your finger in my paint! Gold leaf is dear,” Amaranthe said testily as the boy prodded her dish with a curious finger. He held up the gilded fingertip, abashed, and Amaranthe handed him the old rag she used to mop up spills. The other children crowded close.
“Are you copying that page? For what possible reason?” the young duke asked.
“I am making a copy of this book at the request of its owner,” Amaranthe explained. “It’s a medieval prayer book known as a breviary, and it was made for a fifteenth-century French queen. I am copying the prayers and offices, and a painter is doing the miniatures.”
“And people pay for such things.” The young duke appeared dubious.
“Well enough to support us.” Amaranthe cleaned her brush, finding it best not to explain further exactly how she earned enough to support them. Not even Joseph knew the whole of it.
The old pang of loss needled her heart as she looked upon the neat, tight script of the breviary. Every line, every detail made her long for her lost Book of Hours. If only there had been some way she could have searched for it before they fled Penwellen. Reuben could only have stolen it out of spite; she doubtedhe read Latin even in block print, much less the miniscule of handwritten Gothic script.
“It’s called illumination when it has the gilding like that,” Ned announced. Amaranthe shifted his pointing finger away from the parchment before he smeared gold paint in a place it didn’t belong.
“It looks just like the Latin exercises Mr. Joseph gives you to copy. I wishImight learn Latin,” Camilla said.
“You don’t, Millie. Cicero’ll make you want to gnaw your arm off,” Ned assured her.
“Girls don’t read Latin,” the young duke scolded.
“I do,” Amaranthe said calmly. “But this happens to be Middle French. The book was translated into the vernacular, since the queen who owned it likely did not read Latin, either.”
She paused in the act of arranging the sliding bar that she used to rest her hand while doing fine work. The young duke turned away, showing no interest in the manuscript, so she pulled the protective sheet over the page, using the bar to keep the fabric from touching the drying ink. Some flaws must be expected in a work made by human hands, and she could explain a smudge to the manuscript’s owner when she turned in her commission. But flaws in the separate copy she was making for herself—a duplicate of which the original owner had no knowledge—well, it would not serve for that book to be unreadable.
“Now,” Amaranthe said, covering the rest of her paints and tools to protect them from inquisitive fingers, “what business do you have with Mr. Illingworth?”
“We,” Ned began, but a glare from his older brother quelled him.
“We will discuss it with Mr. Illingworth,” the young duke said with a fierce frown.
Oh, he was high in the instep, blue blood true, Amaranthe thought, but she was saved from dealing a possibly unwise reproof when Mrs. Blackthorn entered with a tray. Camilla stared at the cook’s face, then gave Amaranthe a look of dismay.
“You keep an African, miss? For shame!” she cried. “Slavery is a stain on the British character and ought to be abolished.”
“Mrs. Blackthorn is a free woman who earns a wage from me,” Amaranthe replied. “A not insignificant stipend, I think, given her talents.”
“At least Mr. Joseph eats what I feed him.” Mrs. Blackthorn sent Amaranthe a scolding look. She had found safety in Amaranthe’s household, in the promise that her secret would not be exposed and she would not be compelled to return to the man who claimed he owned her. Amaranthe agreed with Lady Camilla, and Mrs. Blackthorn, on the subject of enslavement.
“I enjoyed last night’s pudding very much,” Amaranthe said in her own defense. “Only I am not fond, as you know, of raisins.”
She poured tea for the children, filling their cups mostly with milk, and noticed that all three took large helpings of bread and butter. When they were settled with food, Amaranthe went into the hallway where Eyde and Mrs. Blackthorn hovered in concern.
“The children are hungry!” Mrs. Blackthorn exclaimed in a hushed tone. “What should I feed them?”
“Whatever we have,” Amaranthe said. “The pudding that is left, meat and cheese, and soup if we have any, or perhaps a thick gruel. They have missed their meals today for certain.” She peeked into the room and saw that, in her absence, all three children had taken the liberty of depleting the tea tray.
A wild suspicion stirred her mind. The boys looked neat enough, their clothes fine and correct, but the bow in Camilla’s hair had been tied by herself, and she was wearing delicateslippers completely unsuitable for the street. Someone was not properly looking after these children, little lords and lady though they were.
