“That’s correct, Jess.”
She called me Jess. Mother hardly ever uses my pet name. For a moment I forget our mission, and marvel at the sights before me. Throughout the square, there are several plinths on which stand statues of men in all their military finery: on horseback, brandishing swords, their faces peering out onto the London streets. There is one magnificient building with giant columns in the front and a dome on top. “The National Gallery,” Mother says. “Father and I often—”
She stops short.
“Mother?”
She sniffles and feigns a smile, then clasps my hand. I feel a deep sorrow for the loss she has suffered.
Soon, we arrive on a grand street with fashionable shops and large townhouses. The driver slows, and we turn onto a lane off the main road. Set farther back from the street, a large house looms behind a closed gate. Two men are on either side as if standing sentry. To my surprise, they draw open the massive gate and let us pass. Surely this can’t be where Balthazar lives. The house looks fit for royalty. I look to Mother for a moment, but she is quiet. The carriage slowly makes its way up a long drive of brick squares, leading to a house that is truly a wonder to behold. The lawn is manicured to neat perfection, with several topiaries trimmed and clipped into elaborate shapes—?spirals and winding ribbons; stars and a crescent moon. Stone sculptures stand on the grounds, one of them a female form covered in ivy. Tall chimneys spew streams of wood smoke, which I can smell from within the closed coach. Small turrets and brick towers reach for the sky, and diamond-paned windows sparkle in the late-afternoon light. How can one possibly afford such an estate? Now I am really curious to know what this Balthazar is about.
The horses whinny and snort. Several black-booted men are standing at attention. He has footmen? They approach the carriage and open the doors, then take our bags and lead us into the house. Another man, one whose face looks carved from granite, nods politely. “Welcome to SummerHall,” he greets us. “Please. Follow me if you will.” And with a sweep of his arm, he turns and leads the way inside.
SummerHall, I muse. How lovely. But then it dawns on me again why we are here.
Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!
Inside, Mother shoots me a glance. I can’t fully read her expression, but it seems to be one of anxiety paired with curiosity. I try my best to keep my mouth from gaping as I take in the hall. Two giant marble columns stand at either end. I raise my head to look up. Several chandeliers glitter from a ceiling painted with so many colors and patterns that my head spins. All the objects here look as if they belong in a museum. Ornate paintings hang in gilded frames, busts and small statues sit on pedestals. Persian carpets lie underfoot. I could spend an eternity just looking at the things in the hall, but we come to a stop before a set of closed double doors. The butler pushes them inward without so much as a knock. “Mrs. Cora and Miss Jessamine Grace, my lord,” he announces.
I swallow hard and look to Mother. This man, Balthazar, is a lord? Why didn’t she tell me?
Strangely, she doesn’t seem impressed at all—?as if meeting aristocracy is something she does at tea every day.
I’ve never been “presented” before and feel a little embarrassed, but quickly put on my best ladylike charm, a trait I learned from Mother. The room we step into is absolutely spectacular. A fireplace carved from a fine, dark wood is the centerpiece, made all the more impressive by a border of intricate gold-leaf trim. Several tall candelabra are placed in each corner. Everywhere I glance, there is something of interest: a globe resting on a marble pedestal, a round claw-foot table with a display of red and white flowers, and a medieval suit of armor, silently standing sentry. Most curious of all is a large painting above the hearth of a woman in a sheer gown, running through a forest. Her hair is a lustrous black and gleams in the dark swirls of paint.
“Her name was Lady Estella,” a voice rings out, and a man steps forward.
He is tall—?indeed taller than any man I have seen before—?and elegantly dressed. His black waistcoat is finely embroidered in a pattern of dark leaves, with silver buttons of the same motif. White lace peeks from his cuffs; his boots, which are quite fashionable, shine a deep oxblood color. Surely this must be Balthazar, and although I have never met a lord before, he is not what I would have assumed. He seems more dashing than a lord, who I always imagined would be pompous and overbearing and in possession of several chins.
He holds my gaze as I turn from the painting. “She was a faerie maiden,” he says, “who was in love with a mortal man. But that is a story for another time.”