Conbatten bowed and led Rosalind away without saying any sort of greeting. It was a snub, albeit a quiet one, and the dowager could not have failed to note it.
Viola supposed Rosalind had told her duke of the dowager’s unkind words at the theatrical and he would show his disdain for the lady. Heaven help anybody who caused the slightest discomfort to Rosalind, even if it was not anything directly done to her—the duke would not countenance such a person.
“Hello mother,” Lord Baderston said. Viola thought his own tone was less than cheerful too.
“I understood you would be attending the theater until my lady’s maid spied you leaving the house dressed as a servant,” the dowager said with asperity.
“What would have caused you to think I planned on the theater?” Lord Baderston asked. There was something of amusement in his question, though Viola could not identify the cause.
The dowager paled and did not answer his question. Rather, she said, “Lady Clara is here. Just there, as Ophelia. I often wonder if people dress to send a message.”
Though it was said enigmatically, Viola could not imagine that anybody within earshot had failed to understand the dowager’s meaning. Ophelia went mad and died for lack of love and attention from Hamlet.
Lord Baderston said, “If Ophelia is the message, then it is nonsensical. That Shakespearian lady’s dearth of ideas and lack of internal fortitude led to her drowning.”
The dowager sniffed at the assessment.
Miss Mayton laughed overloud and said, “Gracious, if every lovesick person is to throw themselves into a river, we should be able to walk across the Thames on all the dead bodies.”
This was met with a rather stunned silence and Viola was afraid the champagne had begun to overpower her aunt. Miss Mayton was not much of a drinker to begin, and a footman had just handed her a fourth glass of champagne in a very short amount of time.
“Well then,” the earl said, sounding perhaps more cheerful than he felt, “Miss Mayton, perhaps we ought to repair to the card room?”
Dear Papa. He had comprehended Miss Mayton’s developing situation and would lead her to the relative safety of the card room.
“Cards? Oh yes, let’s trounce the Blackwells at whist again,” Miss Mayton said. Leaning conspiratorially toward the dowager, she whispered, “That lady indulges in too much champagne. She loses track of what’s been played.”
“Does she?” the dowager said coldly.
The earl’s eyes widened, and he hurriedly said, “Champagne is always a risk at Lady Bloomington’s house; nobody can be faulted for it. Miss Mayton, let us repair to the card room and settle in front of cups of tea.”
Miss Mayton nodded. “Very sensible. One must know one’s limits!”
With that, she drained her glass and grabbed at a passing footman. Viola imagined she meant to hand over her empty glass, but she caught the fellow by surprise, and she clutched his sleeve perhaps more roughly than she had intended to.
The footman went down to the floor and the tray of glasses went with him. Amidst the ensuing tinkle of broken glass, Miss Mayton wobbled back and forth like a ticking metronome.
Unlike a usual metronome, this one eventually tipped over so far to one side that it did not come back up.
The side she tipped over on was, unfortunately, toward the dowager. It was not a moment longer before Queen Elizabeth and a medieval widow were both collapsed on the floor.
Chapter Ten
Viola watched footmenrun toward them from every direction, carrying brooms, mops, and piles of napkins. She thought they must have been standing at the ready for such a disaster. With so much champagne flowing freely, and the event held yearly for as long as anybody could remember, it could not have been the first such situation to arise.
The ladies were helped to their feet. The dowager’s ruff dripped champagne and her skirt was stained. Miss Mayton said, “Goodness, the floor quite got away from me for a moment. Or came up to meet me!”
The dowager took a napkin from one of the footmen and dabbed at her ruff.
“My apologies, Dowager Countess,” the earl said, as footmen efficiently disposed of the glass all round via hand brooms and dustpans.
The dowager did not answer the earl’s apology and likely wondered why Miss Mayton did not voice the same.
It was a disaster. Lord Baderston’s mother had already made her opinion of Lady Viola Bennington very clear. That opinion could not have been improved by knocking the lady to the floor and dousing her with champagne.
Viola felt rooted to the spot. She felt she ought to do something, but she knew not what. To her left, she could see Darden pressing his lips into a thin line in an attempt not to laugh.
The earl led Miss Mayton away, as she leaned heavily on his arm. Her chiffon shroud, soaked with champagne, left a trail behind her. As it dragged through Lady Bloomington’s chalked floors, it rather looked like the sort of track a snail would leave while crossing a pavement.
