Marquesses at the Masquerade(106)

The housekeeper had said as much, and Cook and Mr. Drummond, the butler, had agreed with her.

“Mrs. Holymere wants to marry Papa,” Amanda said. “Wants to add him to the staff she manages.”

Sylvie set her chair rocking. “Papa is a lord. Nobody manages him but Good King George.”

“Miss Fletcher manages him. She made him take us to Gunter’s for ices, and now he has the knack of it on his own. She’s the reason he sometimes brings us flowers, Syl, and before she came, you weren’t even taking breakfast downstairs.”

Sylvie’s chair slowed. “I like breakfast downstairs. I like Miss Fletcher. So does Lady Hig, and Miss Twitlinger, and Her Grace of Dumpwhistle, and the Honorable Mr. Woddynod. Mr. Hamchop doesn’t like anybody.”

Amanda liked having Sylvie at the breakfast table. With a younger sister underfoot to get jam on the table napkins, mash up words, and speak too loudly, Amanda felt more at ease.

“Breakfast was awful before Miss Fletcher came. Papa hid behind the newspaper and forgot I was there.”

“How could anybody forget you, Manda?”

The question was genuinely perplexed, and guilt rose again to upset Amanda’s belly. “I forgot you, Syl. I was so busy trying to kick the ball at that tree, I didn’t realize when you’d wandered off. I’m your older sister. I should have kept an eye on you.”

Sylvie hopped out of her chair and went to the toy chest. “I waited until it was your turn to kick before I went to fetch Lady Hig. I didn’t want anybody to know I’d forgotten her again.”

“Do you ever get tired of playing with dolls, Syl?”

“Yes, but there’s nobody else to play with, unless Miss Fletcher has me invite Rose or Jessica or Clementina or Daisy or Maude or Lizzie or—”

“Who does Miss Fletcher ever play with, Syl?”

“Grown-ups don’t play. I can’t find my tops.”

Grown-ups did play. They played fancy dress-up and called it a masquerade. They played all manner of card games, and Papa had once said Parliament was a glorified cricket tournament.

“Mrs. Holymere wants to play with Papa.”

Sylvie left off plundering the toy chest. “You said she wants to marry him. She told me that I have been too long without a mama, and Papa needs to do his duty by the session.”

“The succession, the title. She meant we need brothers, though we have seven male cousins on the uncles’ side. Mrs. Holymere wants to marry Papa so he can have sons with her.”

“Will brothers play with me?”

Amanda crossed the room to fetch a pair of spinning tops from the mantel. “From what I understand, brothers are a little bit of a friend and mostly a bother. Miss Fletcher writes to her brothers often.” Papa did not seem to bother the aunties, though he called upon them more often than they called upon him.

“Miss Fletcher has the most beautiful handwriting,” Sylvie said. “I want to learn to write as she does, without getting ink all over my blotter.”

Amanda had developed beautiful handwriting under Miss Fletcher’s tutelage. She was also tackling her third Beethoven sonata and, according to Miss Fletcher, was already equal to any of Herr Mozart’s challenges.

“Papa can do his duty by the succession without involving Mrs. Holymere,” Amanda said.

“You found my tops!” Sylvie took the one painted with blue and white rings. “Let’s have a race!”

They’d been playing this game forever, setting both tops spinning until one toppled, and the one still whirling was the winner. Amanda rolled back half the carpet, Sylvie plopped to the floor, and Amanda tried to do as Miss Fletcher had done on the blanket in Berkeley Square—fold gracefully to her knees, then shift to one hip, legs tucked aside.

That was harder than it looked, like most attempts to emulate Miss Fletcher.

“How is Papa to find me some brothers without marrying another lady?” Sylvie scrambled to her feet and fetched Lady Hig and Her Grace of Dumpwhistle—they had made their come outs together, after all.

“Papa could marry Miss Fletcher.”

Sylvie whipped the string off her top and set it spinning on the smooth oak floor. “Miss Fletcher isn’t rich or fancy.”

“Papa’s not fancy, and he likes Miss Fletcher a lot. They smile at each other when they think we’re not looking.”

Sylvie watched her top, still going at a great rate, more of a blue blur than a highly polished wooden toy.

“We have had a lot of governesses,” Sylvie said. “Miss Fletcher laughs and hugs me, and she doesn’t say I’m too old for my dolls.”

“She makes Papa listen and makes him talk to us.”

“He wishes us good night now. I like that, but how do we make sure they marry?”

“We tell Papa, and he proposes to Miss Fletcher, and they marry.”

The top wobbled, then fell to its side, all momentum gone. “I don’t think it’s that simple, Manda. Wind your string, and we’ll have our race.”

“We’ll talk to Papa and maybe to Miss Fletcher. We’ll give them the benefit of our informed guidance.”

Informed guidance, according to Miss Fletcher, was to be esteemed as highly as a pot of chocolate and fresh shortbread, but not quite as highly as heavenly intercession.