care: delicate Sèvres boxes, Murano crystal vases in front of the window to form a rainbow on the far wall when the sun shone through them, and two exquisitely arranged vases of flowers. On the walls hung airy French paintings by Watteau and Fragonard. On a cushion beside Prance with one paw placed possessively on his master's knee sat the new addition to the decor.
"Oh, you've got a new kitten, Reg," she said. "How pretty she is. What do you call her?"
"Actually this is a fully grown miniature cat," Prance explained. "One of those lovely freaks of nature that some benign deity occasionally throws up to delight us, like the mute albino peacock I was fortunate enough to find for Granmaison."
"It ain't a her, it's a him," Coffen added. "Prance called him after Shakespeare."
"So his name is William, or do you call him Willie?" she asked Prance. He was on such familiar terms with all the literary giants that he usually called them by their first names.
"Petruchio is his name. I call him Pet for short. It's a boring story. Come and sit thee down, my dear. You will pardon me if I don't rise as I ought. Petruchio doesn't like it." He darted a warning glance at Coffen, to prevent him from discussing what he had actually come to discuss. "Let us begin to make plans for our wedding. What will the weather be like in Ireland in December?"
"Wretched," she said. "It must be an indoors affair entirely. Luten can't be standing about in the damp chill with his sore ankle."
"Pity. I could have done something handsome with those hundred shades of green one hears so much about. But there, I daresay I shall contrive to bring enough of the outdoors in to satisfy you."
"You don't have to go bringing trees and bushes and things inside, Reg," she said hastily, knowing his lavish way. "Ardmore Hall is not a huge place, you know."
He gave her a smile of great condescension. "Fear not, my dear. I do not plan to bring Great Birnam Wood into Ardmore Hall, but I must insist on some significant token of green in an Irish wedding."
"Marry in green, ashamed to be seen," Coffen recited.
Prance said mischievously, "We can hardly expect the bride to wear white. I mean to say, white has a symbolic meaning which does not apply to a widow."
She gave him a sharp look. "I hope you don't expect me to wear black."
"Marry in black, you'll ride in a hack," Coffen said.
Prance glared. "What colour do the ignorant and superstitious approve of?” he asked.
"Marry in white, you've chosen white."
"Obviously. I expect you mean chosen right."
"Well I can't wear white," Corinne said. Then to Prance, "What about a pale yellow?"
Coffen shook his head. "Marry in yellow, ashamed of the fellow. Marry in red, you're better off dead. I say go with the white and to hell with it."
"Blue?" she asked, but with very little hope and waning interest.
Coffen furrowed his brow a moment then said, "It's safe. Marry in blue, your lover is true."
"Blue, with the green background I envisage to highlight Corinne's famous emerald eyes? Oh dear, now who is that?" Prance said with a tsk of annoyance when the door knocker sounded.
"Cheer up, it might be Byron," Coffen said. "That sounds like a limp dragging along the hall."
"Really, Coffen!" Prance scolded.
His scowl disappeared when it was indeed the famous poet who came into the room. He had met the others and made a series of bows, coming forward to take Corinne’s hand. He was half convinced he was in love with the Irish beauty. But then who would not love a perfect oval cameo of a face, surrounded by a halo of raven curls? And the eyes! As green as his envy of Luten. The figure, too, was good. He hated a dumpy woman.
When Prance gave a warning cough, Byron realized he had been gazing at Lady deCoventry too long and shook himself to attention–but not before noticing the pretty flush of pink that suffused the lady's cheeks. "Have I come at a bad time?" he asked, when the greetings were over.
"Not at all, we were just
"Oh, you've got a new kitten, Reg," she said. "How pretty she is. What do you call her?"
"Actually this is a fully grown miniature cat," Prance explained. "One of those lovely freaks of nature that some benign deity occasionally throws up to delight us, like the mute albino peacock I was fortunate enough to find for Granmaison."
"It ain't a her, it's a him," Coffen added. "Prance called him after Shakespeare."
"So his name is William, or do you call him Willie?" she asked Prance. He was on such familiar terms with all the literary giants that he usually called them by their first names.
"Petruchio is his name. I call him Pet for short. It's a boring story. Come and sit thee down, my dear. You will pardon me if I don't rise as I ought. Petruchio doesn't like it." He darted a warning glance at Coffen, to prevent him from discussing what he had actually come to discuss. "Let us begin to make plans for our wedding. What will the weather be like in Ireland in December?"
"Wretched," she said. "It must be an indoors affair entirely. Luten can't be standing about in the damp chill with his sore ankle."
"Pity. I could have done something handsome with those hundred shades of green one hears so much about. But there, I daresay I shall contrive to bring enough of the outdoors in to satisfy you."
"You don't have to go bringing trees and bushes and things inside, Reg," she said hastily, knowing his lavish way. "Ardmore Hall is not a huge place, you know."
He gave her a smile of great condescension. "Fear not, my dear. I do not plan to bring Great Birnam Wood into Ardmore Hall, but I must insist on some significant token of green in an Irish wedding."
"Marry in green, ashamed to be seen," Coffen recited.
Prance said mischievously, "We can hardly expect the bride to wear white. I mean to say, white has a symbolic meaning which does not apply to a widow."
She gave him a sharp look. "I hope you don't expect me to wear black."
"Marry in black, you'll ride in a hack," Coffen said.
Prance glared. "What colour do the ignorant and superstitious approve of?” he asked.
"Marry in white, you've chosen white."
"Obviously. I expect you mean chosen right."
"Well I can't wear white," Corinne said. Then to Prance, "What about a pale yellow?"
Coffen shook his head. "Marry in yellow, ashamed of the fellow. Marry in red, you're better off dead. I say go with the white and to hell with it."
"Blue?" she asked, but with very little hope and waning interest.
Coffen furrowed his brow a moment then said, "It's safe. Marry in blue, your lover is true."
"Blue, with the green background I envisage to highlight Corinne's famous emerald eyes? Oh dear, now who is that?" Prance said with a tsk of annoyance when the door knocker sounded.
"Cheer up, it might be Byron," Coffen said. "That sounds like a limp dragging along the hall."
"Really, Coffen!" Prance scolded.
His scowl disappeared when it was indeed the famous poet who came into the room. He had met the others and made a series of bows, coming forward to take Corinne’s hand. He was half convinced he was in love with the Irish beauty. But then who would not love a perfect oval cameo of a face, surrounded by a halo of raven curls? And the eyes! As green as his envy of Luten. The figure, too, was good. He hated a dumpy woman.
When Prance gave a warning cough, Byron realized he had been gazing at Lady deCoventry too long and shook himself to attention–but not before noticing the pretty flush of pink that suffused the lady's cheeks. "Have I come at a bad time?" he asked, when the greetings were over.
"Not at all, we were just
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