every bit the conventional young widow dressed for an afternoon of calling.
The Lady Isadora Birmingham sat to her right. She was a vibrant woman in her midsixties, pink-cheeked and lively, softly rounded in figure, probably lovely in her early years, and the only one of the group to allow Madeleine any kind regard, as sheâd asked a question or two of her with actual interest in the reply.
Mrs. Catherine Mossley occupied the next seat, a corpulent woman who continued to stuff pudding cakes into her mouth while she talked, which was incessantly. She was a lady in only the broadest stretch of the word, for she had the table manners of a country hog, in Madeleineâs opinion. But undeniably, making her worthy of an invitation, she also had wealth bestowed upon her by her late husband who realized a fortune in the gas industry before his untimely demise in an industrial fire that fortunately left his money and good name intact.
Next to Mrs. Mossley, and directly across from Madeleine, rested the sober but erect figure of Mrs. Penelope Bennington-Jones, followed by her daughter, Desdemona Winsett. Mrs. Bennington-Jones possessed shrewd black eyes, coarse brown hair streaked with silver, and a nose like a hawkâs. She was large of stature, though not particularly fat, and not in the least attractive. She was, by far, the keenest of the bunch, however. She looked upon Madeleineâs presence as an intrusion, occasionally glowering at her with a scorn she couldnât hide. She was the greatest threat at the table.
Desdemona was entirely different from her mother. A rather homely, fair-haired bride of nineteen, sheâd been married only two months to an Army officer now away on duty, but she was already showing signs of pregnancy. This would probably be one of her last outings before socially retiring to await the birth, as her baby, by Madeleineâs estimation, would arrive sooner than the expected and normal nine months of carrying. Of course, the family would be saved from direct scandal by declaring the child early but amazingly strong, large, and healthy, which would likely go unproved but not unheeded as society whispered about it secretly. Desdemona bore a particular shyness of personality that, when coupled with a domineering mother, encouraged pity. And although sheâd hardly spoken to anyone beyond initial introductions, Madeleine knew the youngest lady found having a Frenchwoman in their midst strangely fascinating. Desdemona stared at her continuously from across the table while sipping her tea.
To complete the circle, Sarah Rodney, the acknowledged Winter Garden historian, and their hostess, sat at Madeleineâs left. She personified an Englishwoman in every sense of the word, down to her pale skin, generous bust and hips, soft demeanor, white hair and exquisite manners. Madeleine thought Mrs. Rodney to be outwardly charming and intelligent, but inwardly flawed in that her invitation to a socially acceptable Frenchwoman was predicated not on kindness or hospitality, but on curiosity and the underlying desire to discover flaws.
The conversation had been about nothing that mattered so far, starting with superficial chatter about the unusually cold autumn weather and everybodyâs health,including that of Lady Claire Childress, who had been invited but was feeling too poorly to attend, which apparently had become a frequent occurrence. The topics from there flowed naturally into more confidential gossip regarding Winter Garden residents and those just coming south for the season. Madeleine listened raptly, adding her own comments where appropriate, though being generally ignored where it wasnât socially required to acknowledge her opinions. Finally, after two cups of tea, filled for her by the ever present but silent servants who stood between the rhododendrons and African violets as if nothing more than decoration for the colorful room, she wanted to turn the talk in a direction to
The Lady Isadora Birmingham sat to her right. She was a vibrant woman in her midsixties, pink-cheeked and lively, softly rounded in figure, probably lovely in her early years, and the only one of the group to allow Madeleine any kind regard, as sheâd asked a question or two of her with actual interest in the reply.
Mrs. Catherine Mossley occupied the next seat, a corpulent woman who continued to stuff pudding cakes into her mouth while she talked, which was incessantly. She was a lady in only the broadest stretch of the word, for she had the table manners of a country hog, in Madeleineâs opinion. But undeniably, making her worthy of an invitation, she also had wealth bestowed upon her by her late husband who realized a fortune in the gas industry before his untimely demise in an industrial fire that fortunately left his money and good name intact.
Next to Mrs. Mossley, and directly across from Madeleine, rested the sober but erect figure of Mrs. Penelope Bennington-Jones, followed by her daughter, Desdemona Winsett. Mrs. Bennington-Jones possessed shrewd black eyes, coarse brown hair streaked with silver, and a nose like a hawkâs. She was large of stature, though not particularly fat, and not in the least attractive. She was, by far, the keenest of the bunch, however. She looked upon Madeleineâs presence as an intrusion, occasionally glowering at her with a scorn she couldnât hide. She was the greatest threat at the table.
Desdemona was entirely different from her mother. A rather homely, fair-haired bride of nineteen, sheâd been married only two months to an Army officer now away on duty, but she was already showing signs of pregnancy. This would probably be one of her last outings before socially retiring to await the birth, as her baby, by Madeleineâs estimation, would arrive sooner than the expected and normal nine months of carrying. Of course, the family would be saved from direct scandal by declaring the child early but amazingly strong, large, and healthy, which would likely go unproved but not unheeded as society whispered about it secretly. Desdemona bore a particular shyness of personality that, when coupled with a domineering mother, encouraged pity. And although sheâd hardly spoken to anyone beyond initial introductions, Madeleine knew the youngest lady found having a Frenchwoman in their midst strangely fascinating. Desdemona stared at her continuously from across the table while sipping her tea.
To complete the circle, Sarah Rodney, the acknowledged Winter Garden historian, and their hostess, sat at Madeleineâs left. She personified an Englishwoman in every sense of the word, down to her pale skin, generous bust and hips, soft demeanor, white hair and exquisite manners. Madeleine thought Mrs. Rodney to be outwardly charming and intelligent, but inwardly flawed in that her invitation to a socially acceptable Frenchwoman was predicated not on kindness or hospitality, but on curiosity and the underlying desire to discover flaws.
The conversation had been about nothing that mattered so far, starting with superficial chatter about the unusually cold autumn weather and everybodyâs health,including that of Lady Claire Childress, who had been invited but was feeling too poorly to attend, which apparently had become a frequent occurrence. The topics from there flowed naturally into more confidential gossip regarding Winter Garden residents and those just coming south for the season. Madeleine listened raptly, adding her own comments where appropriate, though being generally ignored where it wasnât socially required to acknowledge her opinions. Finally, after two cups of tea, filled for her by the ever present but silent servants who stood between the rhododendrons and African violets as if nothing more than decoration for the colorful room, she wanted to turn the talk in a direction to
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