CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
TRUE TO HER WORD, THE NEXT MORNING MRS. Nightwing has us traveling the five miles to Balmoral Spring. As the carriage bounces over muddy roads, I find I’m eager to see Ann again, and I’m hopeful that she will accept an apology for my beastly behavior at her departure.
At last we arrive. Balmoral Spring is a nightmare of a country estate purchased by the sort who have new fortunes, old ambitions, and an appalling lack of taste in all regards. I wonder whether there is a servant left in the whole of England, for footmen stand at the ready for our carriages, and butlers and maids of all stripes line the walk and bustle about the grounds, tending to every need.
I whisper to Fee, “Do you see Ann?”
“Not yet,” she answers, searching the throngs. “What on earth is that?”
She nods toward an enormous marble fountain that features Mr. Wharton as Zeus and Mrs. Wharton as Hera. The rays of a bronzed sun shine behind them. Water trickles from Mr. Wharton’s mouth in a rather unfortunate stream, as if he were spitting.
“How absolutely appalling!” Felicity says, clapping in delight. “What other wonders await us?”
Mrs. Nightwing takes in the spectacle of the fountain, the lawns, the ceramic cherubim posed near groomed shrubbery, the newly constructed bandstand. “Merciful heavens,” she mutters.
Mrs. Wharton’s laugh can be heard above the din. We have come in simple summer-weight dresses, straw hats perched upon our heads, but she wears an elaborately beaded blue gown more appropriate for a ball. Diamonds drip from her neck, though it is afternoon. And her hat is a continent unto itself. One quick turn of her head and she nearly takes out a contingent of servants.
“How wonderful you could come,” she says, welcoming us. “Do try the caviar—it has come all the way from France!”
I do not recognize Ann at first. In her stiff gown, her hair pulled back severely, she does not resemble the girl who left us several weeks ago. She is one of those gray phantoms haunting the edges of every party, not quite family, not quite servant, not a guest—something in between acknowledged by none. And when our eyes meet, she does not hold the gaze. Little Charlotte tugs hard on Ann’s dress.
“Annie, I want to play in the rose garden,” she whines.
“You broke the roses last time, Lottie, and I was called to account for it,” Ann says quietly.
“Oh, Miss Bradshaw,” Ann’s cousin calls to her, “let her play in the roses. She loves them so.”
“She does not handle them with care,” Ann answers.