"For the same reason British nobles allow tours of the family castle. You'll know a little more when you meet my landlady, Augusta Blackburn. Are you ready?"
Angling to catch her reflection in the buffet glass, Trissa smoothed her hair then turned toward him. "I don't know. Am I? I'm so nervous."
"Me, too. Come on, we'll take the scenic route." He reached out for her hand and she took it without hesitance. Until that moment, it had not occurred to him that Augusta might not welcome this unexpected addition to her household. His mind had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Trissa over the past several weeks that it seemed strange to him that he was the only one here who would know her.
That he had spoken to her for the first time less than twenty-four hours before seemed beyond belief. Yet here they were, two virtual strangers trying to pass themselves off as husband and wife. Silently, they wended their way across the foyer and through the elegant formality of the front parlor with its ornate, carved mantelpiece and molding, it's graceful English antiques and the intricate patterns of its oriental rugs.
Through the music room and the back parlor, traversing the foyer again to the backstairs hall, Nicholas pondered the complexities of the coming introductions until he was sure his frown was formidable enough to frighten Trissa.
What would he do if Augusta rejected her outright? She kept her household as rigidly balanced as she must have the guest lists of her dinner parties in the heyday of this mansion. He knew they would all be sitting there at the dinner table now -- boy, girl, boy, girl. His vacant chair would mark the occasion of his absence. He imagined the turmoil that would be caused by the uprooting of Miss Hartenstein or Mrs. Lassiter to make room for Trissa. Their chairs were permanently embossed with the imprint of their posteriors for all the years they had spent in their same spots. His admittance into this elite group had been made possible only by the still-mourned passing of Chester Orthwein, member for some fifteen years.
Nicholas' steps slowed as he neared his destination. Trissa found it difficult to avoid treading on his heels. He thought to tell her that she was not to blame for his glowering, but when he halted suddenly and turned to face her, she flinched. "Should I have waited in the car?" she asked.
Some of his dread melted with the forlorn sound of her voice. No one, least of all Augusta, could be as heartless as to throw her out into the cold street. If worse came to worse, he would move out and give Trissa his place.
"Trissa, I'm sorry, I've been acting as if we were Christians about to face the lions. They're not so bad as that, I promise. They'll all love you, I'm sure. Let's go." He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze, and they plunged through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
As usual, Hattie Kenyon monopolized the table conversation, complaining about her day in her sugary, sibilant voice. She animated her tale with flaring nostrils and outraged fervor. When May Lassiter gave a little scream and dropped her fork in her plate, it took a moment for the others at the table to realize it was not Hattie's story but Nicholas' appearance that had provoked it. And then every eye at the table turned toward the new arrivals. Every eye except Hattie's, she took another full moment to become aware that she was no longer the center of attention. Then she, too, turned to face them with a petulant flounce.
"Good evening, Augusta. Forgive me for being so late. And good evening to all of you," Nicholas greeted them with false bravado. "Hattie, sorry for interrupting your story. I hope you'll fill me in on the beginning of it when you have time," he said, knowing the value of smoothing Hattie's ruffled feathers. He put his arm solidly and protectively around Trissa's shoulders and flashed a winning smile at them all. "May I present my wife, Trissa Brewer."
Augusta was the first to recover. The air practically crackled as she rose and briskly approached them. Her bright, silver hair stood out in wiry filaments from the tight captivity of her attempt at a french roll. She always dressed for dinner as if her boarders were the members of St. Louis society who graced her table regularly before her husband died, except now she preferred the