Cinderella Six Feet Under(23)

Mrs. Smythe did not seem to have heard. She resumed reading.

Mr. Smythe, Ophelia had been told, was some sort of diplomatic attaché from England. Seraphina and her mother, who had met Eglantine and Austorga at a public concert, spent a great deal of their time in the company of the stepsisters. Mrs. Smythe served as chaperone, and the stepsisters always spoke English in the presence of the Smythe ladies.

“Madame Brand,” Austorga said, “we have just been apprised of some most stimulating news.” She waved her piece of paper.

“Madame Brand does not wish, you uncouth twit, to hear of all the dull details of the, well, you know,” Eglantine said.

“It is not dull,” Austorga said. “You said yourself you thought you might swoon—”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, you ninny!” Eglantine shouted. It was unclear if she was speaking to her sister or to one of the seamstresses.

The company of Prue’s stepsisters was intolerable. Ophelia had dined enough with them in the past few days to be convinced of it. However, she had questions to ask.

She sat down next to Mrs. Smythe. Mrs. Smythe did not look up from her book. Ophelia glanced at the top of a page. Pride and Prejudice.

“Oh!” Seraphina cried. “Do be careful of Réglisse.”

“Réglisse?” Ophelia said.

A roly-poly black cat yawned beside Ophelia on the sofa.

“Good heavens,” Ophelia said. “I had taken him for a cushion. He is quite . . . well-fed.”

“Surely, Madame Brand,” Eglantine said, “you are able to sympathize.”

“So I can,” Ophelia said. “So I can. My dear, I have been meaning to ask, is there any news in the disappearance of your stepmother, Henrietta?”

“No,” Eglantine said.

“And no arrest of the murderer?”

“Must we speak of this?” Seraphina whispered.

“No arrest,” Eglantine said.

“And no more news of the dead girl’s identity?”

“What do we care of that little tart?” Eglantine said.

Seraphina gasped.

“I do wish you had not torn the letter!” Austorga shouted to Eglantine.

“It would not have torn if you had simply let go, as I instructed!” Eglantine shouted back.

Seraphina cowered. Mrs. Smythe turned a page of her book.

“He knows that I adore cream-colored paper,” Eglantine said, adopting a dreamy tone. “I told him last week when we sat in his box at the opera.”

“I said that I adored cream-colored paper, too!” Austorga said. “I said that cream was my very favorite color for theater programmes.”

“You said that Don Carlos was the dullest opera you had ever attended. You said it made you feel as though you were coming down with paralysis of the mind.”

“Not to him.”

“I believed you already had paralysis of the—”

“Pray tell,” Ophelia said, “of which gentleman do you girls speak?”

“No one,” Eglantine said.

“Prince Rupprecht,” Austorga said. “Simply the most handsome, cleverest gentleman in all of Europe.”

Mrs. Smythe suddenly looked up from her book. “Quite the eligible bachelor.” She threw an accusing look at her daughter.

“Everything the prince says is so marvelous,” Austorga said, “or so absolutely, hilariously funny that one must simply giggle and giggle and one cannot stop giggling.”

“You sounded like the parrot at the zoological gardens, when he was here for our soirée,” Eglantine said.

Prince Rupprecht had attended their soirée? He must’ve been either the strapping towhead with all the medals and ribbons, or the burly fellow with the lion’s mane.

“I had so hoped that we would not have to spoil sweet, precious Prudence’s stay in our household,” Eglantine said, “for you see, she will not be able to attend the ball on Saturday. It is a private event. If you must know—because I beg your pardon, Madame Brand, but you do seem to pry into our family affairs—”

The little snot.

“—a most fascinating missive came in the post today.”

“An invitation to the ball?” Ophelia asked.

“No, no,” Austorga said. “We were invited to the ball ages ago, and Mademoiselle Smythe, too. It is—”