Gasps went up all around him, shock that he would dare to speak so bluntly of the Queen’s derriere. “Whatever did she say to that?” cried an elderly baronet.
Duke Lionel shrugged his powerful shoulders. “She knows in her heart that I’m right. It’s that idealist, the prince consort, who puts such notions in her head. Him, or St. Seraphina.”
Tess bristled at hearing Saint appended to her sister’s name, and yet it was a relief in this case. That would be why they weren’t holding Seraphina’s questionable relationships against Jeanne. They were believers. A Saint could, by definition, do no wrong.
Unlike Tess. Tess had to rely on keeping her sins well hidden.
She edged closer with her father. “I beg your pardon, Duke Lionel, Duchess Elga, Lord Heinrigh,” she said, giving full courtesy to each. There was supposed to be a third son, Lord Jacomo, the youngest, but he seemed not to be present.
“Tess Dombegh, if I’m not mistaken,” said Duke Lionel, like a man who felt he’d never truly been mistaken in his life. “Jeanne’s fraternal twin, the younger. Is this your father?”
“Yes,” said Tess, but Duke Lionel was already holding out his enormous hand, crushing Papa’s flaccid fingers in his grip. Papa squeaked in alarm. Tess winced.
“Well met, sir,” cried the duke. His heartiness seemed only to make Papa wilt further. “Your Jeanne is quite a girl. Richard is utterly smitten with her, and even my wife can find nothing to complain about. We could put a pea under Jeanne’s mattress, and it would beat her black and blue by morning, no doubt.”
He accompanied this pronouncement with an appalling wink. Duchess Elga, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back under a Samsamese snood, seemed offended by this, and was perhaps on the verge of saying so when Heinrigh burst in: “We never thought he’d find anyone good enough for Mother! You should have seen the girls she rejected. I tell you, I’ve learned my lesson. Better to let her do the choosing, and save yourself a deal of grief!”
The duchess’s expression moved from offended to livid, but Heinrigh seemed not to notice. He gave a wide, vacant smile, like a sweet-natured spaniel that has no idea how the drapes ended up on the floor with muddy prints all over them. He was appalling, and yet Tess found herself half wanting to scratch behind his ears.
“It is rare to find a young lady as pure in spirit as your Jeanne,” said the duchess at last in a pained voice. “You’ve brought her up piously, Counselor Dombegh.”
“We tried,” said Papa, bowing his head. Tess struggled not to roll her eyes. Papa and pious didn’t belong in the same sentence, and pure in spirit, she knew, was a euphemism for virginity. Pure in body was more to the point, but the duchess would never be so crass as to utter the word body. She probably never even thought the word.
Tess accepted a glass of sparkling wine from a page boy and took a quick sip. It settled her stomach, which had become lightly queasy at this discussion of Jeanne, as if she were some heifer at market. Nicely fattened. Never known the bull.
“Go fetch them,” the duke said to his wife and middle son, waving his hand dismissively. “Bring Richard and Jeanne here to us.” When they had dutifully departed, and most of the circle of nobles had scattered, the duke put his arm around Papa’s bony shoulders. “Now, remind me, you are the father of St. Seraphina, are you not? Your first wife was the dragon?”
“Y-yes,” said Papa, flashing Tess a panicked glance. Tess, who was enjoying the spreading warmth under her ribs, fancied he couldn’t remember which wife had been a dragon.
“So what was that like?” said the old duke, poking Papa’s stomach in galling and comradely fashion.
“Seraphina was a challenging child, in some ways—” Papa began.
“Not that,” cried the duke. “Your dragon wife. How were things with her? Is it true what they say, that the saar are slow to warm up, but once they get going they burn hot as the sun?”
Papa looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. Tess would’ve happily dug him a hole, but she knew her duty. She’d have known it even drunk. She cried in a little-girly voice, “Oh, Papa, what is he implying? My innocent ears don’t comprehend his meaning!”
Duke Lionel laughed. “Forgive me, maidy! I forgot there were those present whom the corruption of the flesh has not yet touched. I understand you have decided to remain pure and dedicate yourself to Heaven.”
Tess widened her dewy eyes, the naivest na?f. “I have no greater ambition than to serve the Saints.”
The duke nodded approvingly. “My youngest, Jacomo, is at seminary, studying for the priesthood. You’ll meet him at the wedding. He is a most pious young man, and I’m sure you’ll have a lot in common.”
Tess felt her heart harden—she could have nothing in common with a devout student-priest—but she let her smile warm upon her face. The wine helped, oh so much. She could do everything required of her without rage or resentment; her feelings were as inconsequential as a fruit fly, drowning in the dregs of her glass.
Duchess Elga returned, Lord Richard and Jeanne in tow.
“Ah, sweet Jeanne!” cried Duke Lionel. “I was complimenting your father on your moral upbringing. It’s rare and refreshing to find a lady of your station with such a pristine reputation.”
This was also code for virgin. Tess marveled at how many ways there were to say it, and how it was the greatest currency her sister possessed.
It seemed almost a shame to get married and spend it.
“We want to set the wedding date for the feast of St. Munn,” Richard was saying.
“No, indeed, that’s less than four months away. Far too soon,” said his mother, her thin lips bending into a frown. “People will think you’re in a hurry.”
The word hurry was pregnant with portent. It was astonishing how much meaning could be crammed into a single word. How did such words not crumble under their own weight? Tess swirled the last of her wine and wondered.
“We are in a hurry,” said Richard, pushing his dark hair off his forehead. “First: I love this lady”—Jeanne blushed enchantingly—“and second, her brother Paul turns thirteen soon and hopes to get into St. Fingal’s Law College, I understand.” Richard nodded at Papa, who nodded back. Paul was to follow in Papa’s footsteps—avoiding, of course, the places where Papa had stumbled.
The duchess took on a pinched expression. “We live in permissive times, Richard, and I suppose I cannot dissuade you. When I was a girl in Samsam, we took counsel from the priest for six months, made pilgrimage to St. Abaster’s, and submitted to the rite of Breidigswaching upon our wedding night.”
“Mother,” Richard said warningly.
“What in the world is Breidigswaching?” Tess asked, curious in spite of herself.
“Don’t make her explain,” groaned Richard.
“Don’t be a squeamish baby,” said the duchess, smacking him with the end of her long sleeve. “In Samsam, each family sends a representative to observe the consummation of the marriage, to ensure there is no falsification. You can’t imagine how many girls—already sullied—smuggle a little knife in their bodices, that they might stab themselves in the leg and bleed onto the sheets. Sometimes their new husbands even help them.” Here she glared at Lord Richard, who looked scandalized that any man worth his manliness would try such a thing.
“But what about me?” Lord Heinrigh asked fretfully. He was shorter than Lord Richard and had been obscured behind him.
“What about you? Volunteering to watch?” Lord Richard elbowed his brother in the ribs.
“No! But Mother wants me to marry a Samsamese earlina,” Heinrigh said, pouting. “Are you telling me her family will send someone in to watch us…y’know…” He turned alarmingly pink.
“Of course they will,” snapped the duchess. “Your father and I endured it. You will hold your head high and endure it.”