This suggestion was greeted with everyone’s approval and relief. Boothby was tasked with bringing the presents, and as she opened them, Marjorie was obligated to put her artificial smile back on.
From Irene, she received a silver inkstand, and from Clara, a set of fountain pens inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Baroness Vasiliev had already departed for London, but she’d left behind a present that reflected her own flamboyant character—an enormous ostrich-feather quill that was clearly decorative rather than functional.
As Marjorie set these gifts aside, she wondered what letters she would write to the other teachers back in White Plains. They were eager, no doubt, to hear all about her wonderful new life and how happy she was.
Her smile faltered at that thought, and she had to clench her jaw to keep it in place as she reached for Dulci’s gift and opened it.
“Handkerchiefs,” she said. “How lovely.”
“They’re made by a firm in Paris,” Dulci offered. “Very fashionable. Happy birthday.”
She wasn’t quite certain why handkerchiefs had to be fashionable, but she didn’t inquire. “Thank you, Dulci.”
She moved on, opening more gifts—books of verse, sketches, pressed flowers, all perfectly suited to a young, unmarried woman of society. Even Lady Stansbury had sent her a present, a face towel embroidered with roses.
“What pretty needlework,” Jenna said, leaning closer. “Mine isn’t nearly as good, as hard as I try.”
Marjorie turned, puzzled. “When did you take up needlework? When we were at Forsyte, you hated sewing. Your passion was fencing.”
Jenna smiled, but it was an awkward smile, with a curious hint of apology in it. “Fencing isn’t really something many British ladies do, so I gave it up.”
That sort of conformity did not sound at all like Jenna. Granted, Marjorie hadn’t been able to spend much time with her friend, but the Jenna she remembered from schooldays had been athletic and adventurous and up for anything. That Jenna had never cared what other people thought.
That girl has a sense of adventure. That girl would love the life I’m offering her.
With an effort, Marjorie shoved the memory of Jonathan’s words aside. “When did you start caring so much about what other people think?” she asked Jenna.
Her friend bit her lip, looking uncomfortable. “The colonel’s mother doesn’t approve of fencing.”
Marjorie gave an unamused laugh. “She sounds a lot like Lady Stansbury.”
Jenna drew herself up. “Lady Stansbury and the colonel’s mother happen to be very good friends,” she said with dignity.
Marjorie was tempted to ask if Jenna would be able to find a nice boiled pudding in Bombay. She refrained, but as she studied her friend’s abashed face, she couldn’t help wondering if, in a year or two, she’d be taking up needlework and giving up things that she enjoyed to suit the sensibilities of others. Given the things she’d said to Jonathan this morning, it seemed depressingly possible, and she was relieved when Boothby diverted her with another package.
“Goodness,” she said as the butler placed a box about eighteen inches square in front of her. “Another one?”
“This is the last one, Miss McGann,” the butler murmured. “From Mr. Deverill.”
A chorus of teasing oohs and aahs rose around her, much to her irritation, and her friends at once began speculating about what the box contained.
“Maybe it’s more jewels,” Dulci said. “Didn’t you say he’d taken some of your father’s gems to Fossin and Morel? Maybe he had some of them set for you?”
Marjorie hoped not. One necklace had already gotten her into enough trouble.
“Goodness,” Hetty said in her well-bred drawl, peering across the table. “Given the size of that box, if it is jewels, the man’s certainly generous.”
“But in that case,” Jenna put in, sounding doubtful, “wouldn’t Marjorie have to give them back? Jewels aren’t appropriate. He’s Marjorie’s guardian, not her husband.”
“He is the former, but maybe he wants to be the latter,” Dulci said, making most of the ladies laugh.
Marjorie bit her lip, staring at the package, in no mood to laugh with them.
“I think,” Irene said, her voice so gentle Marjorie wanted to burst into a fresh fit of weeping, “we should stop any pointless speculation and let Marjorie open it.”
Aware that everyone’s eyes were on her, Marjorie reached for the scissors, cut the string, and pulled away the paper, revealing a plain, unimpressive wooden crate.
“Heavens, what is it?” someone asked with a tittering laugh as Marjorie lifted the lid. “Eggs from the farm?”
