Anne Perry - Dorchester Terrace

Vespasia had contemplated this while taking a bath perfumed with her favorite mixture of essences: lavender, rosemary, and eucalyptus in bicarbonate of soda crystals, which always invigorated and lifted the spirits. Now she sat in her dressing room before the looking glass while her maid arranged her hair before assisting with the tiny buttons of her dress. Today Vespasia had chosen a gown of indigo-shaded wool, which was both flattering and warm. She firmly believed that one should dress for the sick with as much care as for a party.

Still, she had not made up her mind about what to say; whether to speak of the present, which was so different for Vespasia than for Serafina. Perhaps remembering the past-rich, turbulent, filled with both triumph and disaster-would be a happier choice.

It was also difficult to know what to take as a small gift. In February there were few flowers; those that were available had been forced to grow in artificial circumstances, and seldom lasted long. There was hardly any fruit at all. Vespasia had then remembered that Serafina liked good chocolate, so a box of carefully selected and beautifully wrapped Belgian chocolates with cream centers seemed a good choice.

She had considered a book of memoirs, or foreign travels, but she did not know if Serafina was well enough to read. She still lived in her house in Dorchester Terrace, with her great-niece as a companion, but was there anyone who would read to her with spirit and charm, if she was not well enough to read for herself?

“Thank you, Gwen,” Vespasia said as her maid finished dressing her hair. Kindness required that she make this visit generously and with good spirits. It would be best that she do it quickly, before her anxiety got the better of her mood.

The morning was brisk and cold, but fortunately she did not have far to go. Her carriage was waiting at the door. She gave the footman the Dorchester Terrace address, and accepted his hand to step up. Seating herself as comfortably as possible in the chill, she arranged her skirts around her so as not to crush them more than necessary.

She watched the tall houses pass by, the few people out walking in the windy streets, heads bent against the first spattering of rain, and thought back nearly fifty years to her first meeting with Serafina Montserrat. The world had been in a turmoil of excitement then. The revolutions of ’48 had filled them with hope and the willingness to sacrifice everything, even their lives, for the chance to overthrow the old tyrannies. It was illusory-perhaps it always had been-but for a brief space their ideas were passionately alive, before the barricades were destroyed, the rebels were dispersed, imprisoned, or killed, and everything was put back as before.

Vespasia had come home again, settled into an acceptable marriage, and had children, but never again had she felt so profoundly passionate about anything as she had then. Serafina had also married, more than once, but remained a fighter, both physically and politically.

Their paths had crossed since, many times. Vespasia had traveled all over Europe. She used her beauty and intelligence to effect good where she was able to, but with a degree of discretion. Serafina had never been discreet.

They had chanced across each other in London, Paris, Rome, Berlin, occasionally Madrid, Naples in the spring, Provence in the autumn. When they met they had spoken with laughter and grief, and exchanged new hopes and old memories. This might be their last meeting. Vespasia found herself stiff. Her hands were clenched as if she was cold, yet she was well supplied with rugs, and the carriage was not uncomfortable.

They pulled up outside the entrance in Dorchester Terrace and Vespasia’s coachman opened the door for her to alight. She accepted his hand and took from him the ribboned box of chocolates. “Thank you. Please wait for me,” she instructed him, then walked across the pavement and up the steps. It was early for a call, and she was very aware of that, but she wished to see Serafina alone, before any others might come at a more usual hour.

The door opened and she handed her card to the footman.

“Good morning, Lady Vespasia,” he said with only mild surprise. “Please do come in.”

“Good morning,” she replied. “Is Mrs. Montserrat well enough to receive visitors? If the hour is too early, I can return.”

“Not at all, my lady. She will be delighted to see you.” He smiled, closing the door behind her. She thought she detected something more than good manners in his voice, perhaps even a thread of gratitude.

She walked into the wide hall with its beautifully parqueted floor and sweeping staircase. She noticed that there was a very handsome lamp built into the newel post at the bottom.

“I’m certain Mrs. Montserrat will wish to see you, but of course I will take the precaution of going up to ask her maid,” he explained. “If you would be good enough to wait in the withdrawing room, where the fire is lit, I shall return in a few moments. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Thank you, that would be most welcome. It is inclement weather.” She accepted because it would make him feel less uncomfortable about leaving her, if it should require several moments of assistance before Serafina was ready to receive anyone.

The withdrawing room was warm and elegant in a most unusual manner. The floor carpeting was pale blue, and the walls were papered in the darkest possible green. The somberness of it was brilliantly relieved by furnishings in Indian red and warm amber brocade, with cushions also in amber and green. Thrown carelessly across them were silk blankets with tasseled edges, woven in the same beautiful colors.

The fire was low, but had clearly been lit since early morning, filling the air with the scent of applewood. There were paintings of northern Italian landscapes on the walls: one of Monte Bianco gleaming white in a clear evening sky; another of early morning light on Isola San Giulio, catching the roofs of the monastery, and making shadows in the clear water of Lago d’Orta, where half a dozen small boats lay motionless.

The decor was chaotically eclectic, and full of life, and Vespasia smiled at a score of memories that crowded her mind. She and Serafina had sat at a pavement cafe in Vienna and drunk hot chocolate while they made notes for a political pamphlet. All around them had been excited chatter, laughter at bawdy jokes, voices sharp-edged, a little too loud with the awareness of danger and loss.

They had stood on the shore at Trieste, side by side, the magnificent Austrian buildings behind them and the sweeping Adriatic skies above, high-arched with clouds like mares’ tails fanned out in the evening light. Serafina had cursed the whole Austrian Empire with a violence that twisted her face and made her voice rasp in her throat.

Vespasia returned to the present with a jolt when the tea was brought. She had nearly finished it by the time a young woman came in, closing the door softly behind her. She was in her mid-thirties, dark-haired, but with such unremarkable brows and lashes that the power of her coloring was lost. She was slender and soft-voiced.

“Lady Vespasia. How gracious of you to call,” she said quietly. “My name is Nerissa Freemarsh. My aunt Serafina is so pleased that you have come. As soon as you have finished your tea I shall take you up to see her. I’m afraid you will find her much weaker than you may remember her, and somewhat more absentminded.” She smiled apologetically. “It has been quite some time since you last met. Please be patient with her. She seems rather confused at times. I’m so sorry.”

“Please think nothing of it.” Vespasia rose to her feet, guilty that it had been so long since she had come to see her friend. “I daresay I forget things myself at times.”