Page 93 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
“Ah, well in that case, carry on. You are doing a marvellous job of it.”
The stout man bowed. “Thank you, My Lady,” he said, and turned to bark out another half dozen orders to the bustling staff.
This was her Aspendale. She spun slowly in the midst of the great hall and looked around. How lucky she was to live in this veritable palace. Thoughts of her incarceration came back to her and clutched at her heart. How awful that place was, so devoid of life, though two spirits dwelt within its walls.
For a moment, she felt sorry for Lady Elizabeth. She, Madeline, knew the pangs of heartbreak. Why then would she begrudge a woman who had been feeling those pangs for more years than she herself had been alive? It was true that she was wicked at heart and chose no other path than any other unimaginatively wicked woman would have chosen. She gave free reign to her evil heart. But was that heart created evil? Of course not, as God was Creator of all. She felt her own heart soften. This tender organ in her breast. What was it but a wayward coach without a horse, leading her soul in all directions, and she tethered to it like a bridle. Very well, then, she’d be a bridle. She’d allow that coach to run where it may.
There came the distressing thought that all things moving as from a push of a human hand must eventually stop. Where then would she be? And who would come to untether her?
Such thoughts on this happy day. She would ride those too wherever they led her. This was who she was. No one could change that.
A calm she’d not felt in so long fell on her like a piece of lace blown onto her person by some gentle breeze. She was looking forward to tonight.
Musicians arrived, four jovial types who called to each other in playful tones as they hefted their instruments over their shoulders. One of them approached her.
“M’Lady, wouldst thou directeth me to the dining hall?”
She brought the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a chuckle. The man was smiling mischievously.
“You are a queer sort, aren’t you?” she said.
“Queer sort?” said the man. “My Lady, I am a virtuoso of the noble violin cello, and as such with all virtuosi am entitled to be exempt from such critiques on my character. However, being that I have never been so insulted by such a beautiful and charming young lady, I hereby consider myself a bona fide queer sort at your service. M’Lady.” With this, he clicked his heels and bowed gaudily.
Madeline let go with a laugh. “The dining room is that way, you awful knave.”
“Thankee, M’Lady.” He motioned to his fellow musicians, each of whom bowed his head to Madeline as they passed.
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Ethan Powell was the first to arrive as usual. His tailcoat was of a dark blue colour. His shirt was linen and sported the ruffles at the chest that were popular among older gentlemen. This he wore with fine silk breeches of a vibrant yellow with brass buttons just below the knees, above tanned-hide Blucher boots. A very tall top hat with a gaudy brass buckle on its side completed the picture.
“Foster, old sock! How are you?” he said, peeling off his gloves.
“Very well, sir.”
“Good to hear it. Have you dug your smile out of the trunk for the occasion, Foster? I say, it looks as though the moths have got at it in the meantime. I know of a perfectly good vendor of smiles on the East End of London. I’ll give you his card before the night is out, Foster. Mention my name, and he’ll give you the works.”
Worms wriggled in the mouth of the butler.
“What’s the matter old boy? It’s a party. Get me a drink and have one for yourself. I insist. I’ll even drink it with you.”
“Thank you, no, sir,” said Foster, turning on his heel with Powell’s hat and cane, looking as though he might wheel around at any moment and use the latter to brain its owner.
“Hello, Ethan!” said Papa, who greeted the man as if he had not seen him in years instead of a mere two or three weeks. He clasped Powell’s shoulders in both hands and held him steadily.
“My dear Stamford,” Powell said warmly.
“Thank you for coming.”
“No need to thank me. I would not have missed it for anything. Oh, say, I do believe your butler has taken a rather strong dislike to me, though I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”
Papa shook his head. “Ethan, you do abuse the man terribly.”
“Abuse? Stamford, has a close call with death itself not made you realise how precious a good nature can be? And that those who do not possess it, or possess it and have suppressed it, are doing their fellow man a disservice of the greatest kind? I only mean to soften the countenances of my companions. If that means I must do it at the expense of one that is so made that he cannot share in that joy no matter what the cost, then so be it.”
Madeline approached the man with her usual trepidation.
“Mr Powell, how are you?”
