That was the official story, anyway. Unofficially, it was Lord Jacomo who brought the Dombeghs, because only Lord Jacomo had a coach sturdy enough to withstand the rutted country roads. If you dug deeper still, it became clear that only Lord Jacomo had his own coach, period.
When the coach rolled up, the denizens of Cragmarog went out to greet the new arrivals, Tess trailing after her sister like a proper lady-in-waiting. She didn’t mind being last; she was going to have the best view of her mother and Duchess Elga, a meeting she’d been looking forward to with a certain sadistic glee. What would they make of each other? They were so alike, and so different, that it could go either way: they might be best friends or implacable enemies.
Tess hoped for the latter, not because she harbored ill will toward her mother—or not only because of that—but because friends might see a common target in her and work together.
The mothers approached each other cautiously, like two wolfhounds, the duchess fresh from the house and Anne-Marie dusty from the road (advantage: Elga). The duchess’s gown, a textured emerald-green velvet, shone resplendently in the morning sun—but wait! Wasn’t Anne-Marie’s mien movingly humble? Younger and blonder than the duchess (advantage: Anne-Marie), she kept her glory of hair under a wimple and her face bare of any cosmetic but piety.
For what greater adornment need’st thou, woman, than the radiance of Heaven’s approbation? So saith St. Vitt, who surely should know.
The initial superficial assessment round went to Anne-Marie, Tess decided. Duchess Elga narrowed her eyes cattily. Best friends they would not be.
“So you’re the twin,” drawled a scornful voice. A young man, who could only have been Jacomo the seminarian, had sneaked up on Tess and stood at her elbow. He had the duchess’s piercing dark eyes and heavy scowling brows, and the same thick black hair as Richard (and Duke Lionel, presumably, before his mane went white). He was taller and fatter than his elder brothers; the seminary must employ excellent cooks.
“You have the advantage of me,” said Tess archly, pretending not to know who he was. This was a subtle way of underscoring his rudeness; he ought to have led with his name.
His mouth arced into the bitterest smile Tess had ever seen. “Yes,” he said. “I do have the advantage. Don’t forget that.”
His long stride carried him past her into the house, and Tess stood wondering what he had meant, a pool of anxiety condensing in her belly.
Dinner was the second proving ground for the dueling mothers-in-law. Duchess Elga sat at the head of the table, dominating the meal like a castle on a hill above a village. No, like a dragon perched on the ruin of the castle on a hill. She frequently turned her iron gaze toward Jeanne and Lord Richard. This was the first meal where she’d permitted the betrothed pair to sit beside each other, but there was to be no hand-holding or—Saints forfend!—kissing. The duchess didn’t realize Tess’s mama was of much the same mind about these things. Tess wouldn’t tell her. Making the two women get along was outside the scope of her responsibilities.
Duchess Elga ostentatiously refused wine (causing Tess’s mother to pause mid-sip), and then Mama recited St. Abaster’s Triticum Benedictio over the rolls. Tess imagined them holding a devotional after dinner—secretly a competition, of course. St. Abaster’s champion versus St. Vitt’s. Who read with the most tear-filled, heartfelt piety? Who chose the most severe verses? They’d look devoutly toward Heaven and daggers toward each other.
This was the first meal where wine had been served, a concession for Tess’s family. Tess was grateful; interfamilial tensions were more manageable with a little lubrication. By the end of her first cup, Duke Lionel’s bloviations seemed almost witty. Pumpkin-headed Lord Heinrigh was no longer a terminal bore, droning on about hunting, but a congenial bonhomme regaling them with tales of high adventure and dead animals. Lord Jacomo scowled, but the wine made this seem rather comical. Clearly, his face had frozen in that position when he was young. It would have been tragic if it hadn’t seemed so well deserved.
He seemed to be scowling at her. That was absurd, of course. Lord Jacomo could have no reason for such instantaneous dislike, especially when Tess was such a charming specimen of impeccable respectability. She flared her nostrils and made a frog face back at him, and he looked away in apparent confusion.
Pleased with any small victory, Tess traded her empty goblet for Neddie the Terrible’s full one. Neddie didn’t notice; he and the Abominable Paul were wholly occupied with kicking each other under the table.
Mama noticed, however, and tried to send Tess a message across the table using only her eyeballs. This might have seemed like an obscure means of communication, but Tess could read it perfectly well: Don’t you dare! Spoil things for your sister, and I shall never forgive you. All this could have been yours, but you threw your future away and broke my heart and—
Tess quit reading; she knew how that epic ended. Mama assumed she was a liability, even after two years of concerted effort. The Saints might offer redemption for the fallen (even angry old Vitt, if you fulfilled his strict conditions), but there were no second chances with Mama, and no forgiveness. It didn’t really matter what Tess did.
On that bitter note, Tess threw back her second glass of wine.
* * *
Tess retired early, pleading a headache, but in truth she could bear her mother’s glare no longer. No amount of wine could mitigate that. As she climbed the stairs toward her lonely wing of Cragmarog Castle, the strained voices faded like a weight falling from her shoulders.
Tess crossed her dark bedroom and opened the curtains; she’d stowed a little green bottle upon the windowsill. She had discovered bottles squirreled away all over the house—brandy in a bookcase, sherry under the stairs. Tess had deduced that these belonged to Duchess Elga. Anyone who drank only water in public was the first suspect for enjoying a tipple in private.
Tess had some sympathy for that; it was one of her hobbies, too. In her off moments, when Jeanne had not required her solicitous care, she’d sought out the duchess’s liqueur collection like a pig after truffles. Most bottles seemed to see regular use, so while she might sneak a sip here and there, she couldn’t abscond with a whole bottle. This green bottle, however, had been tucked beneath the fuzzy bottom of the black bear in Lord Heinrigh’s trophy room (FRITZ’S BEAR, the placard read, which Tess thought rather cute). It was caked in dust and had surely been forgotten. Tess had liberated it before her parents arrived, along with a crocus-shaped glass, but hadn’t had a chance to try the stuff yet.
She poured a dram while the moon rose over the manicured gardens outside her window. A cloying scent tickled her nostrils. Tess frowned and sniffed at the glass to be sure.
Feh. Crème de menthe. No wonder the bottle had been abandoned. Beggars, alas, could not be choosers. That could have been her life’s motto right there.