“He ought not to push the children to talk about their mother.”
“You know, if you’d talked more about Andrew since his death, it would be easier to forgive yourself for surviving.”
Eugenia almost spit out something about how that was absurd . . . but was it?
“I’ll write that if you wish,” Susan said, tapping ink from her quill. “It’s your letter.” She started writing, reading aloud once more. “I advise that you not press the children for particulars regarding their mother. I still dislike talking about my husband, who died some years ago.”
“You didn’t write that!” Eugenia gasped.
“Yes, I did,” Susan replied, and went on, “I realize, of course, that Lady Lisette was your mother as well, and perhaps, like the children, you feel her loss but are reluctant to speak of it.”
“This is an appallingly inappropriate letter,” Eugenia noted.
“It’s not inappropriate; I’d prefer to call it candid. Don’t you ever tire of bland conversation?”
Eugenia looked at her over her glass. “I grew up in a house in which polite subjects were far too tedious to be discussed. So no, I don’t get bored.”
“Considering your father’s disreputable house parties, it’s amazing that he has settled down to such happy domesticity with your stepmother.”
“I spent my early years in a chaotic mix of the most intellectual, albeit debauched, company in all England, until Harriet taught me the joy of an ordered life.”
Eugenia shook her head at Susan’s frown. “My father never allowed debauched behavior in front of me. He was ferociously protective, but children aren’t stupid. They instinctively understand the tenor of a household.”
“All that debauchery led you to appreciate polite conversation,” Susan said, summing it up.
“I’m dreadfully boring, aren’t I?”
“No. On the contrary. You are a lady who observed enough unconventional behavior to give her the courage to start her own business and turn it into a wild success.”
Eugenia gave a startled little laugh. “I opened Snowe’s because Andrew died.”
“I find myself wondering if Lizzie wears her veil to bed,” Susan said aloud, turning back to the letter.
“How did you know about Lizzie’s veil? I didn’t tell you that!”
Susan raised her head. “The peephole, you ninny. After I realized that a gorgeous man, who appeared undaunted by your pedigree and accomplishments, was paying you a second visit? I was glued to the wall.”
“I didn’t . . .” Eugenia fell silent.
“How is Otis?” Susan said, scribbling away. “I expect that Miss Midge put a stop to his gambling activities, yet a boy that creative will find ways around her rulings.”
“We will not post this letter,” Eugenia stated.
“Certainly not,” Susan said soothingly. “We’re merely fooling about.” She dipped her quill back into the ink.
“You know, Lady Lisette was completely mad,” Eugenia said. “The newspaper accounts were right about that.”
“Did you ever meet her?” Susan tapped the nib carefully against the lip of the bottle.
Eugenia nodded. “Once. When I was around ten, she came to one of my father’s house parties. She was beautiful, in a threatening sort of way. She had lovely blue eyes, but there was something vindictive about them. She glittered.”
“‘Glittered’?”
Eugenia waved her hand, and nearly spilled her sherry. “Like Rundell & Bridge’s window when coal smoke turns everything dark, and the street lamps light up the diamonds.”
“Very poetic,” Susan said approvingly. “I do believe that Mr. Reeve brings out your romantic side.”
“It’s the wine,” Eugenia said, and set her glass down. “After a day or so, my father summoned a carriage to take Lady Lisette away. He said she was the type who would keep drinking tea while faint screams came from the dungeon.”
“I can see where you inherited that poetic bent,” Susan said. She was still scrawling on the letter.
“It’s no wonder the children don’t mention their mother,” Eugenia said. She stood up and stretched. “I must go home. I have appointments from eight in the morning straight through the day.”
“I cannot remember the last time you left London.”
“There’s always something to do,” Eugenia pointed out as she placed the empty glasses on a silver tray in the corner.
She turned. “No, you cannot!”
Susan was carefully sanding the letter. “Certainly I can. Mr. Reeve is a client like any other. He wrote a letter asking you about a delicate situation with his orphaned wards. The poor man deserves the courtesy of a reply. Unless you want me to rip up his letter?”