“Disgraceful behavior for ladies,” she opined, “shouting like that for the torture of captives. In my day we would have knocked those soldiers down and had the captives whipped without squawking about it first.”

“I do believe it is still your day, Aunty,” Cecilia assured her.

“Ah, but these bones do ache, my dear,” Miss Darlington admitted in a whisper. “And that doctor stitched me up as if I was a roast ham. How can a wound breathe fresh clean air if it is sewn shut? Should I die overnight, the house is yours, as are the emeralds I have hidden beneath my bed. Make sure Pleasance doesn’t read too many horror tales.”

Cecilia swallowed a rush of sentimentality. “You’ll be fine, Aunty. Death wouldn’t dare approach you without your advance permission.”

Miss Darlington snorted, but in fact she had been angling the conversation toward a different point. “So he really is gone?”

“I’m afraid so,” Cecilia murmured.

“Ah. At least now, after all these long years, I may grieve his loss fully. Although it will be difficult to do so without a lock of his hair or a photograph of him sitting dead in a chair, holding a book and with a pipe between his lifeless lips. The scar he has given me will have to suffice. Here we are at home, thank goodness. Why is there water and blood on my foyer floor? I can verily see the germs swimming in it! Egads, we shall all perish from diphtheria. Now, close the door, Cecilia—let us have some peace.”

22

tranquility—a rousing game of football—the queen of bohemia’s smelling salts—a shining wigwam—invasions—the misses fairweather receive justice appropriate for their crimes—a visitation—kindred spirits

It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most equipped with helpful servants and unmarried nieces willing to do their bidding. Miss Darlington was within the half hour in a fine state of well-being, despite her several wounds and the inconvenience of age in her aforementioned bones.

One might not be immediately cognizant of this, however, due to her moans and sighs. Cecilia and Pleasance were expert at translating that sublanguage—although they still fussed over the lady, out of training and love. Shawls were procured, a footstool moved into place, handkerchiefs fetched from a table comfortably within Miss Darlington’s reach. All the ladies washed in warm perfumed water, then dressed in fresh clothes. Outside, the cacophony of voices went on, but within the Lilac Drawing Room of Darlington House, tranquility reigned.

“A splash of sherry in the tea,” Miss Darlington whispered achingly to Pleasance. “Just to sweeten the pot.”

Pleasance dripped sherry from Countess Brabinger’s crystal decanter into Lady Askew’s teapot. An explosion from Northangerland Abbey shook the house.

“That’s not a splash; that’s a speck,” Miss Darlington said. “Add more, if you please.”

Pleasance continued to pour until Miss Darlington deemed the amount splashish—about half a cup.