Page 56 of A Much Maligned Miss

The socks he wore currently were of a fine knitted silk, she was sure of it, she thought, eyeing his sophisticated attire. It was so unfair that he should be so smart in his formal tailcoat, while she sat here, bundled up in brown boiled wool, looking a fright!

Gervaise was acting strangely, she thought, taking a sip of wine. For starters, he had changed for dinner, something which seemed almost absurdly formal under the circumstances. At first, she had wondered if they were going out, but instead he had ordered the fires lit in their rooms and declared they would be dining in.

Now he was insisting she remained here, dressed in a garment she knew for a fact he thought repulsive! It was most peculiar. “Here,” he said, passing her the pile of parcels. “You may as well open your presents while we wait.”

She perked up a little at this. “Really?”

He shrugged, flinging himself down into the seat opposite her, but though his pose was disinterested, she could see his eyes watching her as she tore the wrapper off the first box. “Gloves!” she exclaimed with surprise. “Oh, and such charming ones!” She lifted the pale kid gloves out of the tissue paper and traced her finger over the elegant pearl buttons and the delicate embroidery. “I’ve never had any so pretty.”

“You could do with some mittens to wear indoors,” he muttered. “If I had only known how cold your hands get.”

The next box made her gasp, for it was a gorgeous cashmere shawl of scarlet and cream, heavily decorated at the borders. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Gervaise. I’ve never seen one so lovely. Blanche Pebmarsh has one, you know, but it is not half so fine as this one.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

The next parcel was a collection of five books tooled in navy blue leather with gold lettering. Opening the first one, she read aloud, “The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.”

“It’s a collection of essays and short stories I thought you might like,” he said off-handedly.

“Have you read it?” For a moment she thought he would shake his head, then he nodded, and Caroline felt a rush of triumph she could not really account for. He had purchased them especially, not at random, she thought almost gleefully. Really, she did not know why that pleased her so much.

A rap on the door interrupted them, and Gervaise stood up as Reg entered the room carrying their supper. Caroline removed the neat little books from the table and set them down in a pile on the floor. Where was the dressing gown? she wondered, scanning the remaining pile of gifts. None of them looked the right shape.

The presents she had opened thus far had been so eminently respectable. Not the sort of thing she had always imagined a man gifted his mistress at all. She had expected something far more salacious. Like lacy nightgowns or…her mind went blank. Well, she was not sure what precisely, but she had not expected items that could be just as easily gifted to one’s sister that was for certain!

“I’ll dish up, shall I?” Gervaise said, bringing the plates and cutlery to the table. Sole à la Meunièr turned out to be pan-fried sole served in a nutty brown sauce with lemon juice and fresh parsley. It was accompanied by a bowl of buttery potatoes which he shared between the two of them. It was a delicious meal.

“What is the French restaurant like?” Caroline asked, setting down her knife and fork with a contented sigh. “Is it very grand?”

“Far from it. It’s poky, ill lit, and inconveniently situated. The food, however, is sublime and more than makes up for the location.”

“Is that why you always collect your food from there?”

He hesitated. “No. I have never done that before.”

Then, why now? Caroline wondered. She could easily have thrown her burgundy gown back on.

Gervaise, however, had grown quiet. He cleared the table and then topped up their wineglasses. An air of heaviness sprung up between them that made the room feel somewhat oppressive. Suddenly Caroline knew she had to say something, or he would, and she was suddenly nervous as to what that might be

“Was there a maenad called Ambrosia?” she blurted. “Because I thought Ambrosia was something altogether different. Like a food the gods ate or something like that.”

“Ambrosia?” he answered after a small pause. “Yes, I think there was a maenad called that, now you mention it. She was Dionysus’s favorite, if memory serves. Somebody murdered her and he wrought a terrible revenge.” He took a sip of wine.

“Really?”

“She was consequently turned into a vine.”

“That sort of thing was always happening in ancient Greece, wasn’t it?” Caroline mused. “Mr. Bailey addressed me as Ambrosia all day today and I was a bit confused, but I suppose it makes perfect sense now.

“Oh? Called you Ambrosia, did he?” His voice sounded a little strange.

“Yes. Tell me,” she said, resting her elbows on the table. “What sort of secrets did the maenads know?”

“What?” He looked thrown by the turn the conversation had taken.

“Mr. Bailey said that maenads knew secrets.”

He looked vaguely impatient. “He was referring, I suppose, to the mysteries of Dionysus’s cult.”