He walks toward us with long steps, and I am reminded of a crane wading through tall reeds. The butler closes the double doors behind us.
Balthazar takes Mother’s gloved hand in his and gently lowers his head to kiss it. “Cora, how good it is to see you again.” His voice is as rich as the Devonshire cream I had at breakfast.
Mother smiles politely. “Always a pleasure,” she says.
Balthazar’s eyes rest a bit too long on her. She quickly turns to me. “My daughter, Jessamine Grace.”
I place my left heel behind my right and dip my knees in a small curtsy, even though I am not sure if it is proper. The rules, manners, and formalities in English society are a menace to behold.
Balthazar takes my hand also—?the first time a gentleman has ever done so—?and lowers his head to kiss it. I do not think it is appropriate, if I recall my etiquette, but to protest would be impolite. His fingers are long and almost feminine. “’Tis often said that the loveliest of petals bloom from the rarest of flowers,” he says.
As I try to work out whether this is a compliment, I feel a wave of crimson rising up my neck.
At dinner, several footmen help us with our seats, and Balthazar takes his place at the head of the table. A man in a double-breasted black waistcoat stands at attention behind him and a little off to the side. He hasn’t blinked once. Mother and I sit opposite each other.
The footmen serve small dishes from the sideboard. My stomach rumbles from the long ride, and I eat slowly, remembering my manners from The Young Ladies’ Book of Etiquette. The heavy wood table looks fit for a party. Two candelabra with long, burning tapers are placed at either end. The china plates have an unusual pattern—?the same one that was on the coach: a white raven’s head circled by golden leaves.
The food is wonderful: apple and celery salad, cucumber sandwiches, boiled eggs, and, much to my horror, oysters. I’ve never eaten one before and am somewhat revolted by its shimmery wetness, but when I swallow, I am surprised by its taste: sharp and salty, like the sea itself. A lovely yellow custard comes last and gives a slight crackle when I tap my spoon on its surface.
Balthazar surely must know why we are really here, yet he keeps the conversation light and full of pleasantries. His movements are so graceful—?even the way he holds his knife and fork is elegant—?that I feel like a complete savage.
Mother makes no mention of our reason for visiting, but nods and smiles at what seem to be the right moments.
Finally, after the staff clears away the plates, Balthazar escorts us to the library. I look to Mother. It is usually men who retire to the library after dinner, but we follow our host’s lead. Heavy red draperies cover the tall windows, and a fire burns in the hearth here as well. The man must have one in every room.
Several instruments are on display, the most prominent being a piano, which is polished to perfection. I am tempted to reach out and finger the keys, although my few lessons would not be enough to attempt a tune. There is also a golden harp, three flutes of varying lengths, and a little drum. Balthazar invites us to make ourselves comfortable. After we are seated, the butler enters with drinks. “M’lady?” he offers. One hand is behind his back, and the other proffers the tray.
“A digestif,” Balthazar explains. “A sweet lemon cordial.”
I smile politely and take the small silver glass. Mother takes one as well, but Balthazar does not.
After the butler closes the door behind him, I raise the glass to my lips. The liquid is sweet and tart and reminds me of something I’ve tasted before but cannot place.
Balthazar sits in a heavy high-backed chair padded in red leather. He steeples his long fingers together and looks at both of us. He wears several rings, one of which glows blood-red in the firelight. “I received your cable,” he says, eyeing Mother, “and it does indeed seem to be dire news.”
Finally, we’re getting somewhere.
He crosses his long legs and turns to me. “Miss Jessamine,” he begins. “This . . . message. Please, tell me what it said.”
I know the words by heart, and feel as if I’ve had them in my head for years, waiting to be spoken again. “‘Ring around the rosy, a pocketful of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!’”
“Signed,” Mother adds, “with the letter M.”
Silence falls among us.
“So it is true,” Balthazar declares softly.
“Yes,” Mother answers.
There is something happening here, I realize, but at the moment I am a clueless bystander.
“And when you were in the wardrobe,” he continues, “did you hear any voices? A cold breeze? A sense of . . . dread, perhaps?”
Apprehension stirs within me at the mention of dread, as if the word itself has settled on my shoulder. “No,” I answer. “Nothing untoward at all.”
“And the slate was in your possession the whole while?”
“Yes.” I look to Mother briefly. “I entered the wardrobe with the blank slate and replaced it with one in a hidden panel.”