“Cool and quiet, and not a mark on him . . . and you’re happy with him?”
“He’s all you promised. Never shirked, never tried to turn away from anything. He’d have gone faster if I’d asked—actually, I had to hold him back at first.”
“Good. That’s what I hoped for. He should be ready day after tomorrow; you can have old Gossip tomorrow, if you want.”
“Give him two days off,” Cecelia said. “It’s his first season. Flat work tomorrow, and the day after I’ll come do a little schooling on him when I get back from the hunt—”
“You think you’ll have the energy?”
Cecelia gave him a mock glare. He was always trying to suggest she was too old, but they both knew it was a joke. “I could school three horses now, as you well know—shall I prove it?”
“No . . . just give Gossip a run tomorrow. I let Cal have him for Opening Day, and he bucked over the first ten fences, Cal said. Your friend Captain Serrano’s doing well; I’m going to put her in the blues, for her first run.”
Cecelia came back to the house thoroughly satisfied. Now if Heris and young Ronnie would only realize how much fun this was.
Heris had spent several hours riding to Neil’s exacting standard, on the flat and over the fences of the outside course. His announcement that she would ride in the blues was, she knew, a reward, though she would just as soon have had something more tangible and immediate. She came back to the house stiff but not really sore, ready for a hot bath, but the house itself fascinated her.
The big stone building was huge, an institution rather than a dwelling place. It had four levels aboveground and one below, and an astounding number of rooms, corridors, staircases, arches, ramps, lifts, balconies, and other architectural bits for which Heris had no name. On the ground floor were rooms devoted to reading, sitting, talking, dancing, dining, lunching, breakfasting, and playing games of chance or billiards. High ceilings and large rooms made Heris think of an overdecorated flight deck on her cruiser. Most of the guest rooms were on the second floor, along with another library and a “withdrawing room” for women, which overlooked a rose garden. The third floor, Cecelia said, had both guest rooms and family suites, while the fourth was (traditionally) the servants’ quarters.
Heris had a bedroom the size of her entire suite on the yacht, with a bathroom almost as large as the bedroom. Two windows opened to the east, with a view across a lower roof to scattered buildings on green fields beyond. A white vase filled with fragrant roses stood on the black polished bureau; a deskcomp stood beside it. The bathroom amazed her even more. As big as most rooms, it had every luxury fixture she’d heard of, and two she hadn’t. She eyed the nozzles with suspicion and left them alone. She bathed, relaxed for a time in swirling hot water, and dried her hair, half amused at herself for taking so long. It was a very unmilitary situation.
The same dress she had worn that first night at Takomin Roads would do, Cecelia had said, for dinner. She added a simple but elegant silver necklace, then made her way through the maze of corridors to the main stair, and descended its graceful curves. Voices rose toward her; she felt as shy as she had the first night on a new ship, coming to the wardroom.
Cecelia waited at the foot of the stairs, her short hair lifted into a graceful wave of silver and auburn. She wore the amber necklace Heris had admired, and a long, beaded tunic in bronze and ochre over a flowing copper-colored skirt. It was hard to believe she was an old woman, and had spent all day on a horse. She smiled.
“I thought you might like a few introductions.”
“Thank you,” Heris said. She had tried to form no expectations, but she was surprised. All the men in traditional black and white, all the women in long gowns, looked more like athletes than wealthy layabouts. Yet the surroundings, and the clothes, and the jewelry, were straight out of caricature. She managed not to stare as a dark-haired beauty undulated by in a rustle of silvery silk, its folds seemingly held to her by affection alone.
“That’s the Contessa,” Cecelia said. Her eyes twinkled. “That’s what she likes to be called, rather. It’s all a sort of game . . . being a character out of history, or rather out of a story about history. They’ve read all the fiction of the period, and they take parts. Not formally, in the evenings, but one is expected to recognize a good version of a familiar character.”
“Books . . . like the Surtees and Kipling you loaned me?”
“That’s a beginning. You’ll have to look into Bunny’s library. Come along—you need to meet him.”
Heris tried to suppress her curiosity in the presence of her host, Lord Thornbuckle. Was he, too, taking a character to portray? Was that long, foolish face his by nature or by design? He murmured a greeting to her, a longer and warmer one to Lady Cecelia, along with his regrets that she had not made the Opening Day.
“We had some delays,” Cecelia said.
“So I understand from the children,” he said. “How nice of you to have brought them along. Sorry—let’s talk after dinner—” And he turned to greet someone else, with a faint shrug that made clear to Heris he’d rather talk to Cecelia.
“And you must meet Miranda,” Cecelia said. “His wife, Buttons and Bubbles’s mother, though it’s hard to believe. She takes rejuv like kittens take cream.”
And in fact Heris would not have suspected the sweet-faced blonde to be old enough to have children Bubbles’s age . . . let alone older ones. Miranda murmured polite nothings to them, and introduced them to a Colonel Barksly, who eyed Heris warily before wandering off to get something to drink—or so he said. Heris suspected he would go straight to a comp and start looking her up in some index of officers somewhere. She wished him luck. Miranda confided to Cecelia that they were having trouble again with “that Consuela woman” and Cecelia made appropriate sympathetic noises before excusing herself to “introduce Captain Serrano around a bit.”
Heris had never been fond of the predinner social hour anyway, and this one seemed to last forever. She felt out of place in these tall, cold rooms with their consciously ancient decorations, surrounded by people whose gowns had cost more than her Fleet salary. But just as she thought how much she would prefer a snack in her room, a sweet-toned bell rang and someone (she couldn’t see who) announced dinner. A flurry of movement; she found herself provided with a dinner partner (and felt fortunate to have read the Kipling) and soon sat at the long, polished table beneath the pseudobaronial banners.
Her partner, it seemed, was one of Bunny’s distant cousins, and “desperately keen to hunt.” Heris had no trouble with the conversation. The cousin wanted only a listener for his tale of the Opening Day hunt, today’s hunt, the performance of his horse, the beauty of the weather, the cunning of the fox, and the inept handling of the hounds by the new huntsman.
“—wouldn’t pay him any mind at all, and worse all day. Bunny should never have let Cockran retire.”
“Nonsense!” huffed a husky man from across the table. “Cockran hasn’t been well the last two seasons, and he’s due for rejuv. Bunny had no choice. Besides, Drew wasn’t that bad. That couple of pups gave him trouble, but the good old ’uns stayed true. And that last run—”
“Well, but you weren’t up where you could see the cast in that wood—”
The food that came and went through all this was ample and hearty, not nearly as elegant as the meals Cecelia had served her, but more filling. Heris wondered if Bunny’s household adhered to the custom of women leaving the table early, or to the more modern format where the heavy drinkers dispersed to one room, and those preferring stimulants to another. The latter, she found; she went into the “coffee-room” with some relief, for the long-winded cousin had chosen to drown his bruises in brandy.
“You’re ex-military aren’t you?” asked someone at her elbow. The colonel she’d been introduced to earlier, in fact. Barksly, that was his name. Heris repressed a sigh. Two bores in one evening? But the colonel’s brown eyes twinkled at her. “You deserve a medal for that—Laurence Boniface has rarely had such a patient listener; most of the ladies gather their conversational reins at the beginning and try to make a race of it.”