Dorchester Terrace Read Online Free PDF Page B

believed that one should dress for the sick with as much care as for a party.
    Still, she had not made up her mind about what to say; whetherto speak of the present, which was so different for Vespasia than for Serafina. Perhaps remembering the past—rich, turbulent, filled with both triumph and disaster—would be a happier choice.
    It was also difficult to know what to take as a small gift. In February there were few flowers; those that were available had been forced to grow in artificial circumstances, and seldom lasted long. There was hardly any fruit at all. Vespasia had then remembered that Serafina liked good chocolate, so a box of carefully selected and beautifully wrapped Belgian chocolates with cream centers seemed a good choice.
    She had considered a book of memoirs, or foreign travels, but she did not know if Serafina was well enough to read. She still lived in her house in Dorchester Terrace, with her great-niece as a companion, but was there anyone who would read to her with spirit and charm, if she was not well enough to read for herself?
    “Thank you, Gwen,” Vespasia said as her maid finished dressing her hair. Kindness required that she make this visit generously and with good spirits. It would be best that she do it quickly, before her anxiety got the better of her mood.
    The morning was brisk and cold, but fortunately she did not have far to go. Her carriage was waiting at the door. She gave the footman the Dorchester Terrace address, and accepted his hand to step up. Seating herself as comfortably as possible in the chill, she arranged her skirts around her so as not to crush them more than necessary.
    She watched the tall houses pass by, the few people out walking in the windy streets, heads bent against the first spattering of rain, and thought back nearly fifty years to her first meeting with Serafina Montserrat. The world had been in a turmoil of excitement then. The revolutions of ’48 had filled them with hope and the willingness to sacrifice everything, even their lives, for the chance to overthrow the old tyrannies. It was illusory—perhaps it always had been—but for a brief space their ideas were passionately alive, before the barricades were destroyed, the rebels were dispersed, imprisoned, or killed, and everything was put back as before.
    Vespasia had come home again, settled into an acceptable marriage, and had children, but never again had she felt so profoundly passionate about anything as she had then. Serafina had also married,more than once, but remained a fighter, both physically and politically.
    Their paths had crossed since, many times. Vespasia had traveled all over Europe. She used her beauty and intelligence to effect good where she was able to, but with a degree of discretion. Serafina had never been discreet.
    They had chanced across each other in London, Paris, Rome, Berlin, occasionally Madrid, Naples in the spring, Provence in the autumn. When they met they had spoken with laughter and grief, and exchanged new hopes and old memories. This might be their last meeting. Vespasia found herself stiff. Her hands were clenched as if she was cold, yet she was well supplied with rugs, and the carriage was not uncomfortable.
    They pulled up outside the entrance in Dorchester Terrace and Vespasia’s coachman opened the door for her to alight. She accepted his hand and took from him the ribboned box of chocolates. “Thank you. Please wait for me,” she instructed him, then walked across the pavement and up the steps. It was early for a call, and she was very aware of that, but she wished to see Serafina alone, before any others might come at a more usual hour.
    The door opened and she handed her card to the footman.
    “Good morning, Lady Vespasia,” he said with only mild surprise. “Please do come in.”
    “Good morning,” she replied. “Is Mrs. Montserrat well enough to receive visitors? If the hour is too early, I can return.”
    “Not at all, my lady. She will be