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  A maid stuck her head in and asked if she was ready to have her hair washed. Adi looked at her helplessly and continued to do what she had been doing for the past hour. She simply nodded, yes.

  She’d tried to tell them she was capable of doing these things herself, but they either did not understand her clumsy gesturing or simply chose not to.

  No one had washed Adi’s hair or dried her after a bath or anything like that since she was a child. Since Mother, most likely. Gita would have just pointed to the towel and told her to do it herself. Adi sighed, missing the little tyrant and her unsmiling steadfastness. She wouldn’t lose her head in all this.

  After they’d dried her (with towels the size of bedsheets), there were lotions and unguents and clouds of lovely powder.

  And the undergarments, the corsets, and the camisoles. She’d no idea they could be so beautiful, so delicate and light. Nothing like the commonplace stuff she was accustomed to.

  And they were nothing compared to the dress.

  A seamstress came in and made adjustments to the fit. The woman was most kind, and very effusive about Adi’s appearance. This only added to her growing concern.

  Who was she fooling?! It was all well and good playing dress-up in this room, but she couldn’t possibly go outside wearing something like this.

  As one of the maids dressed her hair, Adi gazed out of the balcony doors. Beyond the great wall, the countryside, in its endless perfect detail, stretched on forever. It only made her more aware of the absurdity of her task. Two boys, in that—endlessness.

  She looked around her room. The Chinese House. Wouldn’t they be amazed. Oh, how she wished they were here being amazed. Instead of . . . wherever they might be. Her eyes teared up again.

  Stop it! she thought, surprised at herself. You don’t even like them. All the trouble they’ve caused. And now look what they’ve gotten you into.

  It doesn’t matter. Not like you have any choice. This is your best chance. Do what you have to do.

  She caught herself in the mirror, hair piled extravagantly upon her head. Yes, this is torture.

  • • •

  George sat at the huge round table under the wisteria arbor. He was on time for a change—early, really; only a few cousins were midway around the circle. They waved. George smiled back.

  He was considering, as he often had lately, the merits of trying to chase away a hangover with more drink.

  “Hair of the dog,” as his British friends would say. Though George never knew exactly what the dog had to do with it. He wasn’t sure if it worked either, though he kept trying. He’d gotten to be something of a connoisseur of headache remedies.

  “Perhaps a small beer.” He looked about for a servant, but they were all busy setting up.

  George was, despite the dark circles under his eyes, now looking resplendent in a suit of azure—Thomas’s idea, to pick up the blue of the wisteria. George sighed, thinking how ridiculous his life was; he would have gone with the gray, picking up what the inside of his head felt like.

  The table sparkled in the afternoon sunshine as the family began to take their places, coming in twos and threes, swarms of children being herded away by governesses. They took their seats, chattering away amidst the glasses and the silverware and spectacular vases of flowers.

  Cousin Cecil looked as if he might be considering a chair next to George. He took one a few seats down instead, adjacent to an attractive cousin his age, a head taller. One of Uncle Audie’s girls, I think, thought George.

  • • •

  The family (Adi would make it an even forty at the table) loved it when the season and weather permitted them to eat outdoors. This was a recent development; something George’s mother’s had initiated before she died. Previously, luncheon had been held in a cold, depressing dining room in a section of the house that dated to the twelfth century.

  The Sunday gatherings had been happening since April 27th, 1856, to be precise. This was the day that George’s father was born, and coincidentally also the day of the funeral of George’s grandfather, George I, who had, to everyone’s dismay, been reported killed in the siege of the Mamelon, one of the last battles of the Crimean War.

  Happily, the funeral turned to celebration when George I walked in the back of the church (at 4:15) just in time to hear his own eulogy and then to hold his newborn son in his arms. Since then, the family had (with the exception of a few weeks in the spring of 1882 when the Audet overflowed) dined together on Sundays.

  George complained about the luncheons but, if pressed, he had to admit that he enjoyed the tradition. As much as he had loved being in school in Paris before his father died, he’d ached with homesickness on Sunday afternoons.

  Uncle Lionell and his new young wife Cici greeted George with kisses on the cheeks and took seats nearby. Following close behind, his stepmother (with Halick trailing) glanced over at him as she took her place on the opposite side of the table. Looking for the girl, no doubt.

  He knew his stepmother wasn’t the only one looking. Talk of the young woman he’d brought home would have spread like wildfire through the house. (What? No shoes, no voice!) He knew as well as anyone here that nothing stayed private for long in this place.

  Seemed a good idea at the time, thought George, leaning his face into his hands. Something else for them to talk about, other than me ditching the ambassador.

  He winced, imagining what his mother would say. (“You know, you’re only making it worse, Georgie.”) He knew he would never be behaving this way were she still alive. It wasn’t the criticism he minded; he would have preferred someone yelling at him for his misbehavior. It was the quiet disappointment that he dreaded. The kindness of people who loved him even when he let them down.

  Chapter 12

  As Thomas led Adi down the stone steps through the garden, she was wondering if she might get out of all this luncheon business by fainting. She wouldn’t have to fake it—her head felt as light and empty as air. It was one thing to sit in a cafe or motorcar and do twenty questions with someone, but with . . . She could see through the greenery into the arbor to the huge round table.

  Oh, dear God! There were dozens of them!

  Thomas presented Adi under a canopy of the bluest wisteria that, in addition to matching George’s suit, also complemented the sash on the delicately pleated white linen summer tea gown she wore. It was high-collared, with long elegant sleeves and fitted to her slender waist; she was grace itself. Her only adornment was the watch and chain around her neck. One might have thought she looked a little nervous and not entirely sure what to do with her hands, but it was barely arguable that 1914 could have seen someone more beautiful.

  She balanced on her heels beneath the blossoms. Never in her life had she had so many people staring at her. Definitely not so many in fine clothes and huge hats. Peering around the hedge, she saw several teenage girls, only a little younger than herself, whispering about her. She glanced behind to see if someone had come along after.

  She felt rooted to the spot, like the ancient wisterias twining above her head. Might she be allowed to simply stay there like Daphne escaping from Apollo, her arms, branches, growing up into the canopy?

  George turned from the conversation he was having on the other side of the table. Adi thought he appeared dumbfounded.

  Rising from his chair, he came around the table to her. He gave Thomas a look as he took her by the arm. Thomas inclined his head ever so slightly and looked pleased with himself.

  George leaned over to her, as if he were about to say something clever, but hesitated when Adi looked up into his eyes.

  “You look . . . lovely,” he said.

  “George,” said the duchess in a clear voice from the other side of the table, “I think it’s high time we met your mysterious little friend.”

  A number of the family members chimed in.

  Adi looked pleadingly at George.

  “I apologize in advance,” he said as he escorted her to the
table. “Don’t worry, they don’t bite,” he whispered to her. “Most of them, anyway.”

  Adi caught a look on the duchess’s face. The woman was leaning over, making a comment to her son. The handsome young man didn’t appear to respond; he was looking at Adi.

  Most of those gathered seemed to have heard that she didn’t speak and went out of their way to not ask questions she wouldn’t be able to answer with a simple nod or shake of her head. The rest were considerate enough to think her merely shy, as one certainly might be, faced with this many strangers. Mostly, they just welcomed her and told her how lovely she was and how delightful to have guests for luncheon.

  The two of them worked their way around the circle, through the endless aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, grandparents and in-laws until they arrived at the head of the table, and the duchess.

  George’s stepmother reclined in her chair in a dress the color of an overripe plum, examining Adi from under heavy-lidded eyes.

  “And finally,” said George, catching his breath, “may I introduce you to my stepmother, Johanna, duchess of Alorainn, and her son Halick.”

  Adi tried something between a bow and a curtsy, having little idea what was proper in these circumstances. She didn’t quite succeed at either. The duchess nodded as if Adi had confirmed something to her. She then proceeded to greet the girl—in nearly perfect Hindi.

  When it was clear from Adi’s expression that she comprehended the shift in language, the duchess smiled and continued.

  “I’m afraid my Indian languages are not what they used to be,” she said. “I don’t get to use them much in this part of the world, as you might imagine.”

  Adi could see from the puzzled expressions around the table that she and the duchess were the only ones who understood what was being said. She smiled, unsure how she might respond.

  The duchess gave a little trilling laugh. “Trust me, my dear, none of these bumpkins has the slightest clue as to even what language we’re speaking. Just keep smiling,” she said, as Adi’s eyes grew wide.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, my dear, with your silence and your pretty little dress. I don’t care. I simply want to keep our friend,” she gestured to George, “from shaming this family any more than he already has. Not that I care what he does, as long as he does it unobtrusively.”

  “Mother!” said Halick in the irritated tone of a child not being paid attention. “What are you on about? No one has a clue what you’re saying.”

  The duchess turned to the table. “Isn’t it wonderful!” she said with a bright smile. “Someone with whom I can practice my Hindi! It was just a guess, of course, but there was something about that lovely brown skin. I knew at least one of her parents is Indian!”

  Adi watched in amazement as everyone laughed and looked pleased with the explanation. Everyone except for George, she noticed. Maybe he knew some Hindi, or maybe he just knew his stepmother.

  Halick looked at the girl and fiddled with the stem of his glass as if he were considering raising it. He stood up from his chair instead, a thin smile on his face.

  “As no one bothers themselves with introducing me, I shall . . .”

  The duchess interrupted him, “Darling, you were introduced and now you’re keeping all these people from their lunch.” Halick sat back down, his cheeks reddening.

  Adi reached a hand to the young man. He glanced to his mother and half stood from his chair. A bit awkwardly, he kissed her hand. Adi blushed and took it back.

  “Now,” said the duchess, looking around the table, “let’s find a place for our guest and we can start. How about next to—Albert! He does enough talking for two, my dear,” she said to Adi, as if they were old friends. “Albert, would you be a dear and—”

  “That’s all right, Mother,” George said, taking Adi by the arm. “She can sit over here with us.”

  “Whatever you wish, George,” said the duchess, signaling to the servants to start the meal. “Hurry along then. They’re pouring the wine. I imagine you’re quite thirsty with all this.”

  Adi could hear George muttering something under his breath. As they made their way around the table she glanced over at him but he wouldn’t return her gaze. She looked through the wisteria up at the clouds drifting away in the afternoon sun. Oh, how she envied them.

  Chapter 13

  Though the crow had been flying a great distance for several hours, it displayed no sign of fatigue. Nor did it show, despite the beauty and variety of the passing landscape, the slightest interest in what was beneath it. At least not until in the distance there appeared a huge estate circled by an equally impressive wall.

  As it arrived over the gardens, the crow swung down, attracted perhaps by the shimmer of the silver and crystal on the round table below the arbor. It circled for a time and then fell like a shadow upon the house.

  • • •

  Turned out, it wasn’t only Uncle Albert that did enough talking for two. Even if Adi had been able, she would hardly have gotten a word in edgewise.

  Not that she minded. They were odd, this family. But they were all so funny and bright and they seemed to know something about everything. Accompanying the most remarkable feast, the conversation rolled and tumbled across topics with the greatest of ease.

  One of George’s aunts delivered a scathing critique of Mark Twain’s book about Joan of Arc. This led to a disagreement about women’s rights, which grew heated upon the subject of Mary Richardson, a British suffragette who had several months earlier taken a meat cleaver to a painting of a naked woman in the National Gallery. This turned into a discussion of hemlines and women’s hats for a time, but came full circle back to the Maid of Orleans and the surprising revelation that there were scores of women who had disguised themselves as men to fight in the American Civil War.

  As all this was proceeding, Adi couldn’t help but notice that the weather appeared quite different on the other side of the table. The duchess conversed only perfunctorily with those around her and seemed to be doing her best to ignore the laughter and cheer coming from the other side. Mostly she fed scraps to the little dog sitting in her lap. The only person over there who appeared interested in her side of the table was Halick. It seemed that every time Adi glanced over, he was staring at her.

  • • •

  George sat back in his chair and watched the girl. She had her hands to her mouth trying not to laugh out loud at some story of Aunt Elodie’s, about her luggage falling into a canal in Venice.

  I’d have brought a girl to lunch sooner if I’d have known it would go over so well, he thought. Nobody here seems to mind her not talking.

  Though the longer George watched her bright smile and sparkling green eyes, the more he had the feeling that it was unlikely this would work so well with just anyone.

  I wonder what her voice would sound like if she were to talk?

  Everyone was looking at him.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “Tell Adi the story about Klimt and your father,” said Uncle Henri.

  George laughed and scratched at the back of his head and said to Adi, “Just a funny thing, a few years ago in Vienna, at the coronation. Do you know this painter, Gustav Klimt?”

  Adi shook her head.

  “Austrian man. Always mixed up in some controversy. But he’s really great! Amazingly talented.” George popped a grape into his mouth and continued. “Well, my father had seen something or heard something about this man that he didn’t like. And at the ball after the coronation he got into an argument with someone and yelled out, very loudly: ‘Gustav Klimt! The man is nothing but a damned pornographer!’ ” George did this bit, presumably imitating his father’s bearish roar.

  Everyone laughed, including George.

  “Then my father turned around and there was Gustav Klimt, standing right behind him, having a conversation with the archduke and his wife.”

  Everyone laughed and groaned.

  • • •

  Adi
watched George as he told his story. This was a far cry from the hung-over young man at breakfast, with the sleepy eyes and the grass in his hair.

  She took another bite of some delicious pie with meat and vegetables. Pastetli, they called it. She repeated it to herself a few times so she wouldn’t forget.

  Glancing about at the faces of George’s family, it was obvious. They all adored him. She shook her head in wonder. What must that be like?

  Great Aunt Jacquelyn leaned over to Adi and said too loudly, “We have a Klimt drawing in the library! It’s quite risqué.”

  “Guests, Aunt Jackie,” said George, loud enough for her to hear. “Behave yourself.”

  “I’ll show it to you later,” Aunt Jackie whispered.

  “Father had Klimt up to the house a few times,” George said to Adi. “Klimt gave him a drawing.”

  Adi looked confused.

  “Oh,” said George. “The ‘damned pornographer’ comment. Well, Father always came around, eventually.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  “Only for you, Georgie,” Aunt Elodie said. “You were the only one who could ever get the old man to change his mind about anything.”

  “He always spoke well of you, though, Elodie,” said the duchess from the other side of the table.

  “Oh, no,” said Aunt Elodie. “I was only saying—”

  “I guess I’m just not one of those people,” said the duchess, “who can make sport of someone who isn’t around to defend themselves. I’m old-fashioned that way.”

  She tapped at her teacup with her long nails.

  “And I’m sure that our guest has not the slightest interest in these sorts of stories. Do you, my dear? Whomever your people might be, I’m certain they have more discretion than to gossip about the departed.”

  In dismay, Adi looked to George. George inclined his head ever so slightly toward the garden gate. Adi nodded.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, Johanna,” said George. “I think we’ve exposed Adi to quite enough for one evening.”

  George took a last drink of wine and stood.