Free Cinderella Six Feet Under by Maia Chance Page B

ago, and Mademoiselle Smythe, too. It is—”
    â€œ
Today
,” Eglantine said, “we received a supplement of sorts to the invitation, to the effect that Prince Rupprecht will make an important announcement at the ball.”
    Austorga made a seal-like bark.
    â€œHe writes,” Eglantine said, “that his announcement will be of particular interest to the young ladies in attendance—”
    Austorga muffled another bark in her palm.
    â€œâ€”but that is all.”
    â€œThe prince loves surprises,” Austorga said. “He adores them!” She bit into a chocolate bonbon, and cried out in pain.
    â€œWhat is the matter?” Ophelia asked.
    â€œIt is my teeth.” Austorga kept chewing, but her eyes brimmed with tears. “They are terribly sore.”
    â€œIt is because of all that vinegar you have been drinking,” Eglantine said. “Everyone knows vinegar weakens one’s teeth.”
    â€œBut Mademoiselle Smythe said every English rose drinks vinegar to slim herself,” Austorga said.
    Ophelia looked at Seraphina. Seraphina said nothing, and her expression was bland.
    â€œI must be slim for the ball,” Austorga said, taking another bite of bonbon. “I
must
.”
    â€œOh, do shut
up
!” Eglantine flailed her thin arms for emphasis. One of the seamstresses, still stitching Eglantine’s hem, tumbled backwards. Eglantine muttered something waspish.
    The seamstress crawled around the carpet, picking up pins. She was delicate, with a waxen complexion, lank blond hair, and blue half circles under her eyes.
    â€œIs your seamstress well?” Ophelia asked Austorga. The seamstress glanced over. Had she heard? Could she understand?
    â€œJosie is always a miserable little thing,” Austorga whispered. “Do not mind her. She is only one of Madame Fayette’s assistants.”
    â€œIs the other seamstress over there Madame Fayette?”
    â€œNo, no, Madame Fayette is our dressmaker. Surely you know of her, for I have heard tell of American ladies traveling all the way to Paris to have their trousseaus made at Maison Fayette.”
    â€œNew England ladies always stitch their own trousseaus,” Ophelia lied.
    â€œWell, Madame Fayette does not pay house calls. Only her seamstresses do.”
    Mrs. Smythe looked up from her book. “Madame Fayette and her seamstresses are ever so busy, since every young lady of quality wishes to appear to the utmost advantage at the ball on Saturday. Or”—she threw her daughter another accusing glance—“
almost
every young lady.”
    â€œAh,” Ophelia said. Then, since everyone fancied she was a nosy old dame anyway, she said, “Why is it, I wonder, that the carriageway gate lock was changed this morning?”
    â€œWas it?” Eglantine said in an airy tone.
    â€œOn account of the murder,” Austorga said.
    â€œOh?” Ophelia leaned closer. “How so?”
    â€œBecause the gate was left open that night, you see, and the murderer dragged that girl’s body in through the gate, and only after the police arrived did Beatrice notice that the carriageway gate key, which she always keeps on a little hook at the bottom of the kitchen stair, was missing.”
    â€œGood heavens!” Ophelia said. “But the murderer is a derelict with no connection to the house. How did he obtain the key?”
    â€œNo one knows.”
    â€œBeatrice must have lost the key,” Eglantine said. “She drinks like a fish when she plays cards with her friends behind the marketplace. Lulu told me so.”
    â€œIs there only one key?” Ophelia asked.
    â€œTwo,” Austorga said. “The one kept in the kitchen, which Beatrice uses to open the gate for tradesmen’s deliveries, and the one kept by the coachman, Henri. But Henri said he still has
his
key.”
    â€œPerhaps the murderer dragged the body through the gate behind the