They were greeted by a Mr. Berwick, who introduced himself as the majordomo of the castle. He announced that he would personally escort Kate, trailing Rosalie, to a bedchamber in the west wing, and sent Algie and his man off in the charge of a footman.
They walked through long, quiet corridors illuminated by the deep eyes of slitted windows open to the outside air, and then through a room hung with a worn tapestry depicting two knights on horseback.
It all fascinated Kate. How did one keep the castle warm in the winter, when most of the outside windows seemed to have no glass? And what happened when rain drove through those narrow slits, as it sometimes must? She paused for a moment and peered through one of the little openings onto the courtyard. She found, to her delight, clever gutters built to drain away water. The wall was extraordinarily thick, at least the length of her arm.
Berwick had waited for her. “I was just investigating the gutters,” she told him.
“The windows are slanted to reduce wind pressure,” he told her, setting out again. “The west wing is just ahead. This is the main gallery. All chambers in this wing lead from this hall; yours is the second from the end on the left. I have given you a room facing the courtyard, as even in this clement weather, those facing the outside can be a trifle chilly at night.”
The gallery was punctuated at regular intervals by doors, on either side of which sprouted pilasters. After one glance, Kate broke out laughing; at the top of each pilaster was a cherub, a frivolous, laughing cherub. And they were all different. On one side of her door was a naughty child with flower petals in his hair, and on the other, an irritable little priest with starched wings instead of a neck cloth.
Kate stood in the middle of the corridor, turning around to make sure that she saw every one. Finally she glanced down again to see Berwick patiently waiting, not in the least annoyed.
“How on earth did this come about?” she asked.
“As I understand it, a young son of the Pomeroy family traveled in the 1500s to Italy and found himself enamored of Italian sculptors. So he stole one and brought the poor man here. The sculptor was so irritated by his kidnapping that he turned everyone in the household into a cherub, and when he was finished, escaped in a butter churn and was never heard from again.”
“He absconded with a sculptor?” Kate asked, fascinated.
Berwick nodded. “This is your chamber, Miss Daltry. Please do not hesitate to ring if there is anything we can do to further your comfort.” And he showed them where the bell cord was to summon Rosalie, and how the tin bath was cleverly secreted under the tall bed.
He cast one look around the room, frowned at a vase of roses as if warning them not to droop, and took himself off.
“Oh miss,” Rosalie said, “didn’t it take us an hour to walk here, then? And that cold stone went straight through my slippers. My, but I’d hate to live here.”
“Really?” Kate said. “But it’s so interesting. Like living in a fairy tale.”
“Not a fairy tale I’d like,” Rosalie said. “The place must be horribly damp in the winter; just feel the stone over by the window. Ugh. And I expect it smells when it rains too. I prefer Yarrow House, with nice wood paneling to keep a body warm, and a proper water closet. I do love a water closet.”
“But this is the kind of place that people committed crimes to build,” Kate said, rather dreamily. “I wonder what the Pomeroy family was like. From what I saw of one portrait we passed, the men had long upper lips and hawk noses. Perhaps he was the one who stole the Italian sculptor.”
“That’s not a nice thing to do,” Rosalie stated. “Though I did see an Italian at the fair once that was so small he would probably fit in a butter churn easy-like. When do you suppose those footmen will be bringing up your trunks, then? I’ll say this, the room has wardrobes enough for Miss Victoria’s garments, and that’s handy.”
Berwick was nothing if not efficient; there was a brisk rap on the door and in came a string of footmen carrying the trunks, as well as cans of hot water ready to be poured into the tin bath.
A few minutes later, Kate settled into that bath with a sigh of pure joy. All in all, she’d done less so far that day than she had for years, since her position was not the sort that allowed one to relax of a Sunday—or even Christmas Day, for that matter. But somehow it was as exhausting to travel in a coach as it was to ride a horse.
“I don’t wish to hurry you, Miss Katherine,” Rosalie said after a time. “But Mr. Berwick said that once the bell rings, you must make your way down all those stairs to the silver drawing room, wherever that is, though I believe he left a footman to guide your way. Still, I’m worried about the fit of this gown.”
So Kate reluctantly climbed from her bath, though she wouldn’t allow Rosalie to dry her. “I’m not a child in the nursery,” she said, positively wrestling the maid for the toweling cloth. “I’ll do it myself.”
“It isn’t proper,” Rosalie said, yielding.
“Why on earth not?” Kate demanded. “Why shouldn’t a lady dry her own body? If you ask me, the impropriety is in having someone touching you all over.”
“You’ll just have to accept it,” Rosalie said. “Ladies don’t towel themselves. Not ever.”
“Lord almighty,” Kate said with a sigh. “I suppose it’s too late for me to try to become a lady. It would take a magic wand at this point.”
“You are a lady,” Rosalie said stoutly. “It’s in your blood.” She braided Kate’s hair and pinned on a frizzled wig in a delicate shade of violet, with a jeweled comb to hold it in place.
Her gown was cream-colored and sewn all over with pearl embroidery. Rosalie had stitched pockets into the bosom and filled them with mounded wax, so Kate looked miraculously endowed in the front.
“It’s not terrible,” Kate said, viewing herself in the glass.
“How can you say that?” Rosalie demanded. “You look wonderful, miss. Just beautiful!”
Kate turned to the side. The gown was caught up under her jutting (wax) breasts and the cloth fell lightly to the ground, with just the tips of her slippers showing. They too were embroidered with pearls.
“I’d put you in a pair of glass slippers,” Rosalie said, almost to herself, “but they’re only good for one night, and it’s just a family dinner. They won’t be inspecting your toes.”
Kate turned herself square to the glass and forced herself to look critically. “I look like my stepmother,” she said finally.
“You don’t!”
“I look as if I’m trying to be young. Virginal.”
“Well, but you—” Rosalie stopped. “You’re no old biddy, miss! You should be—”
“No,” Kate said flatly. “I look as if I’m past my first blush, which I am. I don’t even mind that, but I don’t want to look as if I’m pretending. Do you see what I mean, Rosalie? The way my stepmother pretends to be thirty.”
“You make yourself sound haggish!” Rosalie protested. “You’ve no more than what, twenty years?”
“Twenty-three,” Kate said. “And I’m tired. I suppose there are some twenty-three-year-olds who would carry this off with aplomb, but I’m not one of them. I look . . . wrong.”