Forever My Love(106)

"More rue," Mary said, busying herself with small tasks around the room.

"More…" Mira started to repeat, flushing guiltily.

The maid's expression was perfectly calm and frank as she looked at her. "I learned that recipe before I knew how to mix bread dough. More rue."

Mira ducked her head and put more of the strong-scented root into the mixture, poking at it with a spoon and then taking an experimental sip. "Ugh." The taste seemed to cling to the back of her throat, and she nearly gagged on it. "This is terrible."

"Every morning," Mary said, and Mira pulled a face as the maid left. Closing her eyes and pinching her nose shut, she swallowed more of the tea.

The day was sultry and humid as the races, parties, and festivities progressed along the river and around the Brighton grounds. Mira and Rosalie exchanged friendly but guarded conversation, making no refer­ence to anything that had happened during the mas­querade. It was the best quality of their friendship, the mutual respect that caused them not to pry or make demands of each other. Rand escorted them to one of the many gardens near the Pavilion, and Mira grad­ually drifted several yards away from the Berkeleys, who seemed especially close to each other today and were deeply involved in conversation. As she exam­ined some of the plants that grew along the hedges, Mira heard a vaguely familiar voice.

"Ah, the little chit with the punch stains." Turning sharply, Mira saw the elderly woman she had encoun­tered last night, sitting in the small courtyard adjoin­ing the garden. Her iron-gray eyes narrowed as ashrewd expression settled on her face. "Come over here, child… I can barely make you out through all this sun." Casting a dubious look at the hazy sky, Mira made her way over to the shady tree and the chairs where the woman and her stern-faced companion were seated. "Who is chaperoning you? Why do I always see you wandering about alone?"

"I dislike being supervised." Mira said, and smiled slowly as the woman's lips twitched in amusement.

"By Lucifer's wig, so do I. Sit down here and talk to me."

Mira obeyed immediately. "My chaperon is Lady Berkeley."

"Lady Berkeley…" the old matriarch mused. "Egad, you're the one. I've heard many rumors about you, my gel."

"You don't believe them, I hope."

"I believe there's a grain of truth in every rumor. Very few people have, the imagination to create one that is entirely false, you know. Of course, when I was younger, some of the rumors about me were indeed outright lies, but they were manifestly more compli­mentary to me than the truth would have been."

"And what was the truth about you?"

The woman looked at her approvingly. "It's rare that anyone dares to ask me that. I'm certainly not going to answer, but it speaks well for you that you asked." The graying, elaborately dressed head tilted to one side. "I heard that you were toasted many times last night while the men were liquoring… it seems that the gossip has done nothing to harm your popularity."

"How flattering."

"Don't be too pleased. A man will drink to a woman much more readily than he'll choose her to wive."

"I'm not overly concerned with finding a husband."

"How delightfully unconventional. But are you not afraid of becoming an ape leader?""A… a what?" Mira asked, beginning to smile at the odd phrase. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the expression."

"It is an old maid's punishment for refusing to 'be fruitful and multiply.' She will go to hell, of course, and her duty will be to lead apes around." The matri­arch eyed her wickedly, apparently hoping to shock her. Undaunted, Mira grinned at her.

"It was, I assume, an unmarried man who devised this punishment?"

The question caused the old woman to laugh and the companion to choke behind a lace handkerchief. "Go find my son," the woman said to her sour-faced companion. "He should be down by the river with the rest of the family."

"Your son?" Mira inquired politely.

"Yes. I intend to introduce you to him."

Another one. Mira suppressed an inner sigh as the companion rose from her chair and left. Briefly she contemplated the idea of telling this sharp, aggressive little woman that she did not care to meet anyone. She wondered what the son of such a mother would be like—crushed and submissive, or gruff and surly?

"You're not English."

"No, madam," Mira answered docilely.

"French?"

"Yes, madam."

"French," the old woman repeated dourly. "Well, I suppose you can't help it."

"No," Mira agreed gravely, smiling slightly at the typically English attitude. What was it that caused the Britons to consider themselves so superior to the rest of the world? In France, Englishmen were regarded as cultural barbarians for their lackluster manners and tasteless food, for their lack of grace and crude commercialism.