A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(27)

I thanked her and, after washing my hands and tidying my hair, made my way to the dining parlor. “Miss Speedwell!” Malcolm Romilly said with alacrity. “Now the company is at last complete. Please, do be seated,” he said, gesturing towards the round table in the middle of the room. It ought to have been a bright chamber, for the long windows faced the sea, but the gathering storm had darkened the room and a large candelabrum had been lit in the center of the table, the fitful light throwing shadows about the room.

Malcolm Romilly drew the curtains—heavy lengths of dark blue silk—against the storm, making the room cozy and womblike. “Much better,” he murmured, taking his seat. A sideboard had been laid with all manner of things: a tureen of piping-hot soup, roasted chickens and a vast ham, bowls of pickles and wedges of good cheese. There were dishes of curried lamb and a duck salad, venison pie, and an enormous baron of cold beef, as well as baked macaroni and fresh bread rolls. Beside these sat the expected cruets and sauceboats and pickle dishes offering every accompaniment from chutney to peaches bottled with brandy and spices.

“It is an old custom,” Malcolm told me as we filled our plates informally. “Called a groaning board. Centuries ago, the master of St. Maddern’s would keep a table for anyone on the island who might be hungry, with an assortment of dishes left from the family dinner the night before. Somehow, the custom was adapted and the groaning board is for the castle folk and the dishes are all made fresh, but it does make for a curious variety.”

“It looks delicious,” I told him, adding a slice of ham to my plate.

“All of the meat and vegetables come from the island, and the cherry compote is from Mertensia’s stillroom,” he said with a fond look at his sister. We had taken our seats and at the sound of her name, Mertensia roused herself.

“Yes, this was rather a good lot, if I say it myself,” she said. She turned to Stoker. “You must try a spoonful of it.”

“Certainly,” he said happily as she ladled out enough cherry compote to feed four men. Stoker’s sweet tooth was legendary and it seemed that Mertensia had discovered this.

Caspian Romilly lifted his plate to his aunt, his expression deliberately innocent. “May I have some as well, or is it only for the gentlemen you fancy?”

“Caspian,” his mother murmured in the mildest tone of reproof. “You mustn’t twit your aunt.”

“I wasn’t,” he replied, widening his beautiful eyes to mock innocence. “I was encouraging her.”

Mertensia’s gaze fell to her plate, two bright, hard spots of color rising in her cheeks.

“Delicious,” Stoker pronounced, brandishing a spoonful. “And unexpected. Is there some spice?”

Mertensia looked up, her expression almost pathetically grateful. “Cardamom.”

“A family recipe or your own addition?” he inquired.

“My own,” she told him, watching with greedy eyes as he spooned the last of the dark, sticky stuff into his mouth.



* * *



? ? ?

After luncheon we went our separate ways. Helen claimed a headache, retiring to her room to rest, while Mertensia said she had work in the stillroom. Stoker and Tiberius chose a desultory game of billiards while I went to my room to finish the latest Arcadia Brown adventure. The exploits of my favorite fictional detective were always thrilling, but that afternoon I was conscious of a certain restlessness, a mental itch that I could not scratch with tales of audacious deeds. It occurred to me that it might prove useful to prepare for rearing my glasswings with some specialized knowledge of their natural habitat of St. Maddern’s Isle. I put aside my book and made my way down to the library in search of some materials—maps, journals—that could orient me in my new field of study.

As I passed the family wing, I collided with Helen Romilly. She fell to the floor, landing hard upon her bustle.

“My dear Mrs. Romilly, please accept my apologies,” I began as I bent to assist her.

She looked up at me, her eyes vague. “Am I on the floor?”

I smelt the heavy spirits on her breath and sighed. “I am afraid so. We were neither of us looking where we were going. Allow me to help you.”

It took two tries, but she managed to get her feet under her just as Mrs. Trengrouse appeared, chatelaine jingling. “Mrs. Romilly,” she said in a steady voice. “Are you unwell?”

“I think,” Helen said slowly, “that I am.”

“What are you doing out of your room, then?” Mrs. Trengrouse inquired, putting a steadying arm to the lady’s waist.

“I was looking for my cat,” she pronounced. She stared at me a long moment. “This young woman was helping me.”

“Veronica Speedwell,” I reminded her.

“Yes, of course. I ought to have remembered because Mertensia mentioned how curious a name it is. You are called after plants, aren’t you?” she asked, weaving a little.

I put an arm around her other side, helping Mrs. Trengrouse to keep her on her feet. “I am indeed,” I said as we began walking her slowly towards her room. “No doubt you’ve seen speedwell. It’s a prettyish little plant with purple flowers. Most unassuming.”

I kept up the patter of plant talk as we maneuvered her into her room and onto her bed.

“There, now,” Mrs. Trengrouse said soothingly. “You have a nice rest.”