“They are said to carry something extraordinary. Mrs Bickle had it from her sister-in-law that a consignment of Egyptian myrrh, the proper sort, has recently arrived. She is dying to know whether the man has it or whether it is a rumour. Are you in a position to make the enquiry?”
“I shall try, Mama.”
“My word. My daughter, able to enquire after the Egyptian myrrh. Why, they must cost a fortune. Do write Mrs Bickle, my dear, and tell her so. She would be in raptures. I expect she would ask to come up and see you when she may. She has been speaking of nothing else this fortnight, has not been to Londonin eleven years. Imagine her face when she sees your garden and your stillroom and how, as she puts it, the wealthy live.”
“She is most welcome, Mama. She and her daughter. They are to come whenever they like.”
“Should you not ask the duke? Or your housekeeper?”
Violet turned to face her mother. “You can be assured that I am the mistress here, Mama.”
Her mother beamed, her mouth curving into a shape Violet had not seen in so many years.
“Mrs Bickle will write within the week. She will probably arrive the same day the letter does.”
“Then I shall be ready for her.”
Violet considered, and dismissed, mentioning the tea. Her mother would seize upon it with both hands, and Violet was not yet certain enough to warrant the alarm. But she had been saving the dregs for a fortnight now, and the papers in the drawer were accumulating.
They went back into the house. Greer had tea laid in the small morning room, but Violet, after the briefest hesitation, took her mother past the morning room and along the corridor and up the great staircase.
“I want you to see my rooms first,” she said to her mother.
On the landing of the principal floor, Violet paused at her door and opened it.
The new bed had been put together. The hangings were the dove blue she had chosen from fabric samples Mrs Greer had presented because she had supposed that a bed in a duke’s house was supposed to have hangings of some such colour. The dressing table that Sarah had set out with brushes and potsstood under the window. The carpet was the new carpet, dense and pale and unmarked by anyone’s boots.
Her mother stood in the doorway and did not come further in.
“Oh, Violet.” Her mother put her hand over her own mouth and held it there. “Oh, Violet,” she repeated, and her eyes filled with tears. She wiped her eyes. Violet handed her a kerchief, and her mother examined it with more tears streaming down her cheeks. “This is beautiful too. And your room,” she looked up, “it’s the most beautiful room I have ever seen.”
“Mama, come in. Come and sit down. Let us take tea here.”
“I do not think I should, my love. I am wearing the road on my boots.”
Violet went to her and took her by both elbows and brought her into the room. She sat her in the chair beside the fire. Her mother put her hands on her own knees and looked around the room. She was quiet for some time.
“This is your room,” she said at last.
“It is.”
“This is where my daughter sleeps.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Violet.”
“Mama.”
“I should like to ask you something. You may refuse without troubling yourself further about it.”
“What is it?”
“I should like you to find a place in your household for Primrose.”
Violet sat on the chair across from her mother. “As what, Mama? You will not have her go into service.”
“Not as a servant. As a companion. A lady’s something. There must be a position in a household of this size in which the sister of the Duchess of Iredell may be useful without disgrace.”
