“I ordered in more coal,” Clio said. “That must be what’s arrived. This castle is so drafty, even in the summer.”
“Imagine what it would be like in winter.” Daphne shuddered. “Freezing.”
“Expensive,” Teddy amended, lifting a forkful of kippers and eggs.
Her brother-in-law was right, and Clio knew it. Given enough wood or coal to burn, any space could be heated, but fuel required income. Her dowry, once unencumbered, could support her for some years. But if she meant to live in Twill Castle indefinitely, she would need to make the brewery profitable.
The operations were just a matter of time and investment. Winning over the farmers would take some work. Earning the custom of the tavernkeepers, however? That required more strategy. She would need to cultivate a reputation for quality, a consistent production schedule. And most of all, a memorable name.
Castle Ale?
Twill Brewhouse?
None of the alternatives she’d dreamed up so far were inspiring.
Phoebe spoke up. “Since Lord Rafe is out, I was thinking that we ought to use this morning for the eighteenth item on my list.”
“Eighteenth item? Even including the ice sculptures, I thought there were only seventeen.”
“We need to discuss the wedding night.”
All around the table, forks, spoons, and teacups paused in midair.
Clio swallowed her mouthful of chocolate with difficulty. “What, dear?”
“Item number eighteen on the list of wedding preparations. Education in your marital duties.”
Clio exchanged a desperate glance with Daphne, who showed no indication of having known of this beforehand. “Don’t look at me,” she mouthed.
“Our mother is dead,” Phoebe said, in the same tone she would have used to explain simple arithmetic. “By rights, she would have been the one to give Clio this talk. Since she is unable, the duty must fall to us, her sisters.” From beneath the table, she produced a few curled slips of paper. “I took the liberty of doing some reading. I have notes.”
Oh, dear.
“Phoebe, darling. That’s so kind of you, but I’m sure it isn’t necessary.”
Daphne quickly agreed. “If Clio has any questions, she can come to me. I am a married lady now.”
“Yes, but you are married to an Englishman. And as Mr. Montague reminded us in the gardens, Lord Granville has been living on the Continent for some years. If she is going to keep her husband satisfied, Clio will need to be well versed in the ways of Continental women, too. I was able to locate a few books in French. They were illustrated.”
Bad manners or no, Clio put her elbow on the table. Then she buried her laughter in her palm. “Truly.”
“Yes, but they weren’t very helpful. And the words they use are ridiculous. All this talk of folds and rods and buttons. Are we copulating or sewing draperies?”
At that, Clio was glad for an excuse to laugh aloud.
“In the end, I had to cross-reference my flora and fauna compendiums.”
“Oh, kitten. You didn’t,” Daphne said. “Clio, whatever will we do with this sister of ours?”
Her face blank, Phoebe turned from Clio to Daphne and back again. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Clio assured her. “You are frighteningly brilliant and adorably well-intentioned, and I hope you will never change in either respect.”
Each of her sisters could be absurd at times, and irritating at others. But Clio was protective of even their foibles and faults. Perhaps Daphne and Phoebe weren’t always perfect sisters. But they were her sisters, and that was much better.