Brat looked at her sister and there was wonder in her eyes. “Claire, this is the oddest place in the world and the queerest people live here. You know that skinny little man with the long hair who sits across from you at dinner?”
“How do you know where I sit at dinner?”
“I know a great deal. Anyway, that man lives at the far end of the east wing and he puts on plays. He’s the only actor and there’s no one in the audience. What’s really odd is that he’ll deliver a line, then change costumes, deliver another line, change clothes, et cetera, and it takes him at least twenty minutes to change into each different outfit. The plays go on for hours. He said that if I’d applaud his every line he’d let me be in a play, but we had a terrible fight when I wanted to be Elizabeth the First.”
“No doubt you won.”
“I did. He wanted me to shave my head and wear a red wig, but I refused. And you know those two little old ladies who sit near Father? They’re thieves. Honest. They steal from everybody’s rooms. At dinner, you watch, and at the end of the meal there won’t be a piece of silverwa
re left by their plates. They stick them up their sleeves.”
“Must make for messy sleeves.”
“The butler has to get the silverware from their rooms once a week, unless there’re more people for dinner and they need it sooner.”
“What about Mother?”
“She spends every afternoon with two old biddies who know everything about everyone. They tell Mother all the gossip about the dukes and earls and viscounts and—what’s the other one?”
“Marquises.”
“Right. All of them. You should hear what they tell about the Prince of Wales.”
“You should not hear. Have you been listening at doors again?”
“If you’re mean I won’t tell you what I know about Harry’s mother.”
Claire tried to pretend to be uninterested. “You mean Her Grace?”
“There’s a price.”
Claire started to leave.
“All right. I’ll tell you. The old woman hates all her kids except Harry. He’s her baby and she worships him. I heard she was glad when her two older sons died and Harry became the duke.”
“What a dreadful thing to say!”
“I’m repeating it, not saying it. Did you know she has a crushed leg? She can walk but not very well and there’s a rumor she was leaving her husband when her carriage overturned and crushed her leg. Harry was born six months later. They say Harry worships his mother, that he’ll do anything she wants.” Brat gave her sister a sly look. “He’ll even marry whoever his mother chooses.”
Claire smiled coldly at her sister. “What a very interesting household. I should make an effort to meet these people. I don’t want them thinking my continued absences are out of the ordinary.”
“In this family, you could eat live chickens for dinner and they wouldn’t consider you odd.” Brat stood up. “I have to go now. This afternoon I get to be someone called Marie Antoinette.”
“Be careful. She was beheaded.”
Sarah Ann looked serious. “I’ll remember that.”
As she started running down the path, Claire called out after her, “And stay out of my jewels.”
Brat waved as she kept running.
Claire went back to the house, dressed for luncheon, and sat through that long meal, trying not to watch the two old ladies as they slipped silverware up their sleeves. She asked the long-haired man across from her about his plays and he eagerly invited her to participate in one. He said that she could be Anne Boleyn or Catherine Howard—both of whom had been beheaded by Henry VIII. Claire smiled politely and declined.
After luncheon she went to the gold drawing room and took a seat next to her mother. The three other women in the room kept giving her significant looks that she was sure were meant to make her leave the room, but Claire ignored them.
“Claire, dear, could you fetch my shawl? I find I am frightfully cold,” her mother said.
With a sigh, Claire went to her mother’s room, found a shawl, and took it to her. Later her mother wanted a lap robe, so Claire took the hint and left the ladies to their private talks.