The Specimen by Martha Lea

Author:Martha Lea [Lea, Martha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857867155
Publisher: Canongate Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter XXXI

Cornwall. February 16, 1861.

Euphemia’s meetings were reduced to two or three evenings a week. Isobel Scales came once a month. The unbridled and undiminished audacity of the woman. Once a month Euphemia’s Spiritualist meetings morphed into a game of Cheat; only two of the players were aware of the game or the lack of rules and the other players concealing tricks or double bluffs. Euphemia’s contacts with the other side were leaving her uncharacteristically ravaged with fatigue.

Isobel Scales brought with her a variety of new clients in various states of mourning and others with a nose for something a little sensational. She had a reputation for punctuality and preciseness in everything. So, it was with some bemusement that Euphemia found herself entertaining Isobel Scales at ten-thirty in the morning in the middle of the week. It was shocking to see her so garishly dressed. She wore the front of her skirt flat in contrasting layers of mauve and yellow silk, whilst her rump displayed a voluminous puff of satin and taffeta ruffles in alternating rosettes. The whole thing jarred on Euphemia’s eye, and she wondered what kind of imbecile could design such an outrage.

“I’m disturbing your reading,” Isobel perched her puff, settling herself into the nearest chair. Euphemia followed her gaze to the book lying splayed open on a small card table. She took it up and closed it, not bothering to mark the page. The polished calfskin felt cool.

“It’s just a trifle. I haven’t managed to get along with it yet. Epistolary novels!—I have it on loan from Mrs Coyne. She was anxious to hear my opinion of it.”

“Mrs Coyne, you’ll have to remind me if I have made her acquaintance, I—may I?”

Euphemia pretended not to have noticed Isobel’s request and kept the book in her lap, covering it with both hands.

“Oh, but you must remember poor Penelope Coyne.”

“Perhaps I do. I must confess that I have an ulterior motive for calling on you like this.”

Euphemia relaxed and her fingers stopped palpating the embroidered hem of her napkin. Perhaps Isobel would soon go away. She hadn’t taken off her gloves.

“I have a little occasion to organise at our London house next week and I wondered if I might borrow your cook. Of course, we can come to some sort of agreement; I would be happy to do a fair swap, if you are willing. It is just that none of the staff have your cook’s particular talent in the art of petites bouchées, and I did so want something a little more extraordinary—though all of my kitchen staff are quite excellent in their own ways.”

Euphemia did not know whether to be flattered or outraged. Instead, she sat in a fug of agitation and listened to the cranking internals of the hall clock mark the half hour. If she did not manage to get the tonic into her tea in the next ten minutes she would have to excuse herself. Her fingers tapped out a syncopated tinkle on the saucer.

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