Chapter Thirteen
They listened forthe door, and then Charlie brought him in. The footman had been well-briefed ahead of time. “It is Lord Tramondeley, Lady Valor. The duke has ordered that the doors are always open for Lord Tramondeley.”
“Yes, indeed, Charlie,” Valor said. “Lord Tramondeley, you know Lady Felicity, this is Mrs. Right, our dear housekeeper and member of the family.”
Valor could see a flicker of surprise cross his features but he bowed and said, “Mrs. Right, glad to know you.”
Mrs. Right nodded. “Charlie,” she said, “you’d best bring in another cup. And will those be flowers, Lord Tramondeley? Will we need a vase?”
“Ah yes,” Lord Tramondeley said.
Valor got the idea that he’d almost forgotten they were in his hand. He handed them over to the footman. She wished to see what they were, what message did they bring, but Charlie took them out with him in search of a vase.
“How does your Cornwall party preparation come along, Lord Tramondeley?” Felicity asked.
“It’s no trouble,” the lord said, “it’s really a simple sort of party.”
“Stratton is looking forward to it, though he says he only wishes for a sketch of me as nobody will want a sketch of him,” Felicity said. “However, I want a sketch of him so I will cajole himinto complying.”
“Is it usual in Cornwall?” Valor asked. “That people want sketches at their parties?”
“No,” Lord Tramondeley said. “I must admit that it’s not. Most of the people in my neighborhood would assume I’d gone mad to suggest such a thing, but I thought it might be amusing.”
“I think it’s very original,” Valor said.
“Why do not you come too, Mrs. Right?” Lord Tramondeley asked.
Valor beamed over the idea. How considerate!
“Gracious me, I do not suppose you want the housekeeper at your fancy party,” Mrs. Right said.
“It is not particularly fancy,” Lord Tramondeley said. “That is not the Cornwall way. In any case, I think you will know most of the guests, as there is a preponderance of the duke’s daughters and their husbands coming.”
Just then, Charlie slipped back into the room quietly, as if he did not wish to be noticed. He turned his back to the party and hurried to a small table by the window. Then he whipped around and stood in front of it.
“Charlie,” Mrs. Right said. “Is that the vase of flowers you’ve just set down?”
He nodded sadly. “Yes, Mrs. Right.” He slowly stepped away to reveal a vase containing marigolds.
“Goodness,” Felicity said.
Marigolds? What did he mean by it? Why would he wish to communicate a message of sorrow and melancholy?
Lord Tramondeley seemed to notice that the ladies were staring at his flowers with various expressions of chagrin. He said, “Lady Valor did say orange was one of her preferred colors.”
Valor and Felicity looked at one another. Then it occurred to Valor that if Lord Tramondeley had arrived to London without knowing how to dance, it would be unlikely that anybody had ever handed hima book on the meaning of flowers.
“Lord Tramondeley,” she said, “I have a feeling that you are unaware that flowers, depending on the type you choose, send a particular message.”
“Really?” Lord Tramondeley said, glancing over at the flowers. “What message does orange send?”
“Oh, it’s not orange, it’s marigolds,” Valor said.
“Sadness and grief,” Felicity said with a snort.
Mrs. Right held a napkin near her lips but it was evident that her shoulders shook.
“I most certainly did not mean to send sadness and grief,” Lord Tramondeley said.
