Mrs. Smythe suddenly looked up from her book. “Quite the eligible bachelor.” She threw an accusing look at her daughter.
“Everything the prince says is so marvelous,” Austorga said, “or so absolutely, hilariously funny that one must simply giggle and giggle and one cannot stop giggling.”
“You sounded like the parrot at the zoological gardens, when he was here for our soirée,” Eglantine said.
Prince Rupprecht had attended their soirée? He must’ve been either the strapping towhead with all the medals and ribbons, or the burly fellow with the lion’s mane.
“I had so hoped that we would not have to spoil sweet, precious Prudence’s stay in our household,” Eglantine said, “for you see, she will not be able to attend the ball on Saturday. It is a private event. If you must know—because I beg your pardon, Madame Brand, but you do seem to pry into our family affairs—”
The little snot.
“—a most fascinating missive came in the post today.”
“An invitation to the ball?” Ophelia asked.
“No, no,” Austorga said. “We were invited to the ball ages ago, and Mademoiselle Smythe, too. It is—”
“Today,” Eglantine said, “we received a supplement of sorts to the invitation, to the effect that Prince Rupprecht will make an important announcement at the ball.”
Austorga made a seal-like bark.
“He writes,” Eglantine said, “that his announcement will be of particular interest to the young ladies in attendance—”
Austorga muffled another bark in her palm.
“—but that is all.”
“The prince loves surprises,” Austorga said. “He adores them!” She bit into a chocolate bonbon, and cried out in pain.
“What is the matter?” Ophelia asked.
“It is my teeth.” Austorga kept chewing, but her eyes brimmed with tears. “They are terribly sore.”
“It is because of all that vinegar you have been drinking,” Eglantine said. “Everyone knows vinegar weakens one’s teeth.”
“But Mademoiselle Smythe said every English rose drinks vinegar to slim herself,” Austorga said.
Ophelia looked at Seraphina. Seraphina said nothing, and her expression was bland.
“I must be slim for the ball,” Austorga said, taking another bite of bonbon. “I must.”
“Oh, do shut up!” Eglantine flailed her thin arms for emphasis. One of the seamstresses, still stitching Eglantine’s hem, tumbled backwards. Eglantine muttered something waspish.
The seamstress crawled around the carpet, picking up pins. She was delicate, with a waxen complexion, lank blond hair, and blue half circles under her eyes.
“Is your seamstress well?” Ophelia asked Austorga. The seamstress glanced over. Had she heard? Could she understand?
“Josie is always a miserable little thing,” Austorga whispered. “Do not mind her. She is only one of Madame Fayette’s assistants.”
“Is the other seamstress over there Madame Fayette?”
“No, no, Madame Fayette is our dressmaker. Surely you know of her, for I have heard tell of American ladies traveling all the way to Paris to have their trousseaus made at Maison Fayette.”
“New England ladies always stitch their own trousseaus,” Ophelia lied.
“Well, Madame Fayette does not pay house calls. Only her seamstresses do.”
Mrs. Smythe looked up from her book. “Madame Fayette and her seamstresses are ever so busy, since every young lady of quality wishes to appear to the utmost advantage at the ball on Saturday. Or”—she threw her daughter another accusing glance—“almost every young lady.”
“Ah,” Ophelia said. Then, since everyone fancied she was a nosy old dame anyway, she said, “Why is it, I wonder, that the carriageway gate lock was changed this morning?”
“Was it?” Eglantine said in an airy tone.
“On account of the murder,” Austorga said.