Dear India,
I know you left only two days ago, but we've descended to the level of animals here, and civilization is but a dim memory. Remember when we visited Italy, and Papa read aloud The Inferno? That's what Starberry Court is like at the moment. I know you will say that Addie inherited her temper from you, but there is no excuse for this: She cut Antigone's hair short in the front! You know how I feel about Antigone. And now my poor dear has shorn hair and looks like a fever victim.
How can you both spend so much time at Starberry Court? I am positively dying of ennui. I have finished my study of Heraclitus and Xenophanes, but Twink can scarcely have a philosophical conversation when he's busy chasing after Addie. I truly think she should have a governess, as should Peter. For myself, I am counting the days until I can return to school.
Please arrange for the baby to be born tomorrow, as I should like to share a birthday.
Love,
Rose
From Master Peter Dautry at Starberry Court,
to his parents at 40 Hanover Square, London
Dear Mama,
Mister Twink says I shud rite but I don't like riting.
Peter
From Mr. Dautry at 40 Hanover Square, London to his butler at Starberry Court
Fred,
Thank you for sending on the children's letters. Please inform our irritating offspring that babies arrive on their own schedule, and their mama and I will return to Starberry Court just as soon as their new sister or brother chooses to make an appearance.
Dautry
Daybreak
Margot is perfect," India whispered, one finger tracing her newborn daughter's winged eyebrows. "And she's so calm! I suspect she will be a better sleeper than Addie or Peter. Rember how Peter bawled?" The infant had opened her eyes just long enough to reveal that they were gray, like her father's, and had promptly fallen to sleep again.
"I wouldn't count on it." Thorn was measuring one of the baby's tiny feet against his thumb. "I suppose Peter and Addie were once this small, but it doesn't seem possible. Rose is almost at my shoulder, and yet fourteen years ago her feet must have been this size."
"But she was already reading," India reminded Thorn with a choke of laughter. It had become a family joke that Rose claimed to have been reading "ever since I was born."
"Margot, do you already know how to read?" her father asked the baby.
Margot would have said yes (she passionately wanted to be like her oldest sister in everything), but instead she slept on, even when her father pretended to bite her toes, when he put her foot down and kissed her mother, when she was in danger of being smothered as they whispered to each other.
She slept the dreamless sleep of an infant who would never be hungry, who would never scavenge in the Thames, who would grow up in the arms of a family so loving that even after the children had grown and left home, Starberry Court would remain their fulcrum, drawing them back with their spouses, and then their children, and, later still, their grandchildren.
In time, a new wing would be built, at least in part to house the overflow of books (mostly Rose's, though Margot contributed quite a few as well). The kitchen would acquire new iron stoves, the water closets would be replaced by bathrooms with ceramic bathtubs, and the house would be the first in the county to be electrified. Peter's grandson would proudly drive one of the very first automobiles into the courtyard.
No matter the modernizations that Starberry Court underwent, it remained the glowing, comfortable home that India created in 1799: the heart of her family and her descendants, where they learned to laugh, to dance (for the pink ballroom became famous through three counties), to love . . . in short, to live.
And even two hundred years later, the chandelier that India had found in Venice on their first trip to Italy still hung in a place of honor in a dining room decorated with swallows.
A Note about Toy Shops, Stethoscopes, and Rubber Balls
I must confess that I toyed-pun intended-with history at several points in this novel. Three Weeks with Lady X takes place in 1799, a date predetermined by the fact that Thorn first appears as a mudlark-Juby/Tobias-in two of my earlier novels, This Duchess of Mine and A Duke of Her Own. I envisioned the boy, once grown, as a man whose years as a mudlark led him to recognize value in materials others had discarded, and at some point I became stubbornly attached to the idea that Thorn and India between them would rescue a failing rubber factory. Rubber's early uses in England included making it into a kind of string, which was then incorporated into fabric, creating a gathered look called "shirring." The problem? The rubber threads melted in the heat, making a shirred bodice a risky proposition.
Unfortunately, the first rubber factory in England wasn't established until 1811, and it wasn't until 1844 that Charles Goodyear patented the vulcanizing process, which stabilized rubber. India's "rubber band" first appeared with that usage in 1849. By 1850, many stores were selling India rubber toys, such as balls (and yes, the various puns on names-India rubber, as well as Rose and Thorn, were deliberate). Obviously, I played fast and loose with the dates of vulcanization in England: in my defense, other methods of curing rubber have been dated to prehistoric times. Indigenous peoples, for example, amazed Columbus's crew with rubber balls.
I also took liberties with Dr. Hatfield's "ear trumpet," which was a simple device at the time, without articulated joints. His trumpet is an early version of the stethoscope, which wouldn't be invented until 1816.
Lest you think that everything in the book was made up by me, the toy shop that supplied Rose with her wonderful doll, Antigone, was indeed called Noah's Ark. It was opened in 1760 by Mr. Hamley in Holborn, London. The bookshop that provided Thorn with fourteen Bibles for Starberry Court's library was the Temple of the Muses bookshop in Finsbury Square. The owner, Mr. James Lackington, specialized in buying entire libraries from grand houses.
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London's Roman Baths
Duchess of Beaumont's ball to benefit the Baths
June 14, 1784
The duke must be here somewhere," said Mrs. Bouchon, née Lady Anne Lindel, tugging her older sister along like a child with a wheeled toy.
"And therefore we have to act like hunting dogs?" Lady Eleanor replied through clenched teeth.
"I'm worried that Villiers will leave before we find him. I can't let you waste another evening chatting with dowagers."
"Lord Killigrew would dislike being identified as a dowager," Eleanor protested. "Slow down, Anne!"
"Killigrew's not eligible either, is he? His daughter is at least your age." Her sister turned a corner and peered at a group of noblemen. "Villiers won't be in that nest of Whigs. He doesn't seem the type." She set off in the opposite direction.
Lord Thrush called after them, but Anne didn't even pause. Eleanor waved helplessly.
"Everyone knows that Villiers came to this benefit specifically to meet you," Anne said. "I heard it from at least three people in the last half hour, so he might have been civil enough to remain in the open where he could be easily found."
"That would deny most of London the pleasure of realizing just how desperate I am to meet him," Eleanor snapped.
"No one will think that, not given what you're wearing," her sister said over her shoulder. "Rest assured: I would be surprised if you attained the label interested, let alone desperate."
Eleanor jerked her hand from her sister's. "If you don't like my gown, just say so. There's no need to be so rude."
Anne swung around, hands on her hips. "I consider myself blunt, rather than rude. It would be rude if I pointed out that at first glance any reasonable gentleman would characterize you as a bacon-faced beldam, rather than a marriageable lady."
Eleanor clenched her hands so that she didn't inadvertently engage in violence. "Whereas you," she retorted, "look as close to a courtesan as Mother would allow."
"May I point out that my recent marriage suggests that a more tempting style might be in order? Your sleeves are elbow-length-with flounces," Anne added in disgust. "No one has worn that style for at least four years. Not to mention that togas are de rigueur, since your hostess requested the costume."