was writing into the fire. They patched things up, and—”
“And to demonstrate he bore no ill will, Shakespeare himself wrote our mummers’ play,” I finished. “Once every decade, instead of the villagers of Blessingstoke performing the traditional play, the family perform the Shakespearean version for the local folk.”
“Every ten years,” Brisbane said, his black brows arched thoughtfully.
“Yes. The men in the family act out the parts and the women are a sort of chorus, robed in white and singing in the background.”
“It is great fun, really,” Plum put in. “Father always plays the king who sends St. George to kill the dragon and the rest of the parts always seem to go to the same people. Except for St. George. That one always falls to the newest male to marry into the family.”
I busied myself with tearing a muffin to bits while Plum’s words registered with Brisbane.
“Absolutely not.”
I turned to him. “But dearest, it is tradition.”
“I am not an enthusiast of tradition.”
He gave me a dangerously pleasant smile as Plum rose to his feet. “I almost wish I could stay for the rest of what promises to be a very lively discussion, but I am afraid I must be off. I shall tell Father to expect you for Christmas then, shall I?”
I threw a shoe at him but he ducked through the door just in time. I went and sat on Brisbane’s desk. “It does not matter what you say or what you do, the answer is still no,” he said evenly.
I slid off the desk and onto his lap. What I said and what I did after that had no bearing on the situation at all except that by the time the housekeeper came to fetch the tea things, our clothes were tidied and the matter had been settled. I would write to my friend in Rome and postpone our arrival until later in January. We were going to Father’s for Christmas and Brisbane would play the part of St. George in the Twelfth Night revels. I tried very hard not to gloat.
The Second Chapter
God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay.
“God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” Traditional English Carol
“I am not carrying that cat on my lap all the way to Sussex,” Brisbane informed me. He eyed the basket on the train platform with distaste. I could not entirely blame him. The animal in question, a somewhat pernickety Siamese, belonged to a business associate of Brisbane’s who had remarked upon the cat’s unusual affection for me.
“What else was I to do? Sir Morgan was quite desperate for someone to care for her whilst he is away. He said she pines,” I informed him over the shrieks coming from the basket between us. I rummaged in my reticule for a handkerchief and handed it over. “Here. You’ll want to wipe your cheek. I’m afraid the blood is still oozing a bit.”
I busied myself murmuring soothing words to Nin while Brisbane staunched the flow from the worst of the scratches. To my astonishment, when I straightened, I realized his shoulders were shaking with laughter.
“It is absurd,” he said, looking around us.
“The other travellers do seem to have given us a wide berth,” I admitted.
“Can you blame them?” He surveyed our possessions, and I found myself smiling as well.
“Not precisely a partridge in a pear tree...”
“But we have a raven in a cage, a lurcher on a lead, a Siamese in a basket, and a dormouse in your décolletage. We are a travelling circus.”
“It could be worse,” I reminded him. “At least Portia has taken that wretched Italian greyhound off our hands.” His eyes held mine for a long moment, and I felt a peculiar quiver in my knees. Odd that he could still have so potent an effect upon me after a year and a half of marriage, but Brisbane was not like other husbands. I was reflecting on precisely how he differed when I smelled something foul.
“For God’s sake, Julia, don’t stand about in public mooning over your husband. It isn’t seemly.”
I whirled to find my sister Portia descending upon us with the greyhound in question and a pug of prodigious and possibly Biblical antiquity.
“That dog is getting worse,” I told her. “I am beginning to suspect he sailed with Noah in the ark. Behold, Mr. Pugglesworth, the Original Pug.”
She stooped to kiss my cheek. “Don’t be hateful, Julia, just because you are travelling with a menagerie that would suit Barnum. Hello, Brisbane, how is my favourite brother-in-law?”
He returned her kiss, giving Puggy a wide berth. “Passing well.”
Portia glanced about. “Where is our dear Plum?”
“Finishing up an investigation with Monk,” I informed her. Brisbane’s assistant had agreed to remain in London to attend to any last-minute affairs that might arise. “He will be down tomorrow.”Portia gave Brisbane a bright-eyed look. “I hear you’re to be St. George this year in the revels. How on earth did Julia manage to convince you of that?”
“Your sister can be quite persuasive when she puts her mind to it.”
Portia let out a snort of laughter. “I’ve no doubt. But I’m very pleased you let her persuade you. I want everyone on hand for Jane the Younger’s first Christmas, particularly her godparents.” She turned just as the nanny approached pushing a stately pram. Jane the Younger sat bolt upright, howling with rage.
“Such a passionate child,” I said faintly.
Portia fixed me with a firm look. “She is having a bit of trouble with her teeth.”
“Do they not make a tonic for that? Or a sedative?”
“I am not dosing her with one of those foul patent medicines, Julia. She will be perfectly well in due course. I think.” Jane the Younger was Portia’s first foray into motherhood. The orphaned daughter of Portia’s life companion, Jane was not blood kin to us but she was dear nonetheless. 2 And a good deal dearer when she was clean and quiet and dry, which was not very often.
Portia plucked her from the pram and shoved her into my arms. “Say hello to Auntie Julia, darling.”
Jane the Younger stopped howling long enough to lunge for my earring.
“Such good taste,” I murmured, prying at the chubby little fist.
“Yes, she has developed a penchant for things that sparkle,” Portia said, applying herself to her daughter’s miserly clutch. “Darling, you must let go of Auntie Julia’s ear. No, stop twisting it, my pet. Auntie Julia is starting to cry. Julia, stop being so melodramatic. It is just an earring.”
“It isn’t the earring,” I corrected tautly. “It’s the lobe.”
Jane the Younger released me sharply and opened her mouth to voice her feelings at being denied the pretty trinket as I rubbed at my tender ear. Portia rummaged in her pocket and found the mother-of-pearl teething ring I had bought for the child in the vain hope of purchasing a few moments’ silence.
“Perhaps we ought to board,” Brisbane suggested, his voice almost inaudible above Jane the Younger’s roars.
* * *
In an excess of holiday generosity one year, my father had gifted me with the tiny dower house on his estate. He had meant it as an independence for me, a small bit of property to call my own for the duration of my life, and a lovely property it was. I had decorated the place, lavishing care and attention and great expense upon it—and spent only a handful of nights there since. I was very much looking forward to