The weekly activity of The Gilded Cage had already begun. The air was filled with the pleasant earthy scent of oil paints and the light, floral notes of the ladies’ expensive perfus. Sunlight stread through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the room where a dozen of the most prominent won in Albion stood before their easels, dabbing at canvases with varying degrees of skill.
Duchess Lyra was entirely focused on her painting, a quiet landscape of the countryside. She mixed a bit of white and red color on her palette, creating the perfect soft pink for a sunset cloud. She was in her own world, a silent island of concentration amidst the sea of gentle chatter.
Delia, standing at her own easel a short distance away, was finding it much harder to concentrate. She would apply a dab of green paint to a tree, then her eyes would inevitably drift over to her mother-in-law. She was trying to steal glances at Lyra, to gauge her mood, to find an opening to speak with her, to apologize again for the unresolved conflict from the day before and to ask about the Dowager Duchess’ health.
The other won in The Gilded Cage were interacting with one another, their soft voices a constant, humming backdrop to the quiet scratching of brushes on canvas.
"My Alia has finally mastered her French lessons," one Viscountess said proudly to her neighbor. "Her accent is simply flawless now. She’s always conversing in French at any given opportunity round the house."
"Oh, how wonderful," the other replied. "My Thomas is still struggling with his Latin. His tutor says he has the attention span of a gnat."
They both laughed, their soft laughter filling the room.
Duchess Adeline, however, was not interested in such mundane talk. She had been watching Delia, had noticed the anxious, sideways glances she was sending towards Lyra and Lyra’s concentration hinting at avoidance. She saw an opportunity, a weakness to exploit, and she decided to use it to taunt her old rival.
"What is going on over there, Lyra?" Adeline asked, her voice a little too loud, a clear interruption. She turned to Lyra, who did not pay her any heed, her focus still entirely on her painting. "Are you and your new daughter-in-law having a little fight?"
Delia and Lyra’s eyes t for a fraction of a second across the room. Lyra imdiately went back to her painting, her hand as steady as ever.
"Fighting?" Lyra said,her head down, her concentration fixed, still painting. Her voice was cool and dismissive. "There is no need for that."
"Oh, I am sure," Adeline replied, her voice full of a false, syrupy sympathy. "It sounds and looks like the whole affair is already over. This marriage was never going to last anyway. Good for you, Lyra. It is probably for the best. A clean break is always better." She sighed dramatically. "And a quick divorce won’t even affect your son’s future. His title and wealth are still secure. He can still take another wife."
Lyra looked up from her painting, her eyes finally fixing on Adeline, a dangerous glint in them. "What did you say?"
"A man like your Eric is going to be perfectly okay," Adeline continued, letting out a short, mocking laugh. "In fact, if you would like, I can start finding so good prospects who can be a suitable second wife for your son. Soone with a bit more... standing but if your son’s taste still remains the sa, I can find one for him at a pleasure house."
She looked pointedly at Delia, who didn’t say anything. She just bowed her head, her own brush stilling over her canvas, her grip on the brush tightened with a suppressed rage at the public insult thrown at her.
That was the last straw for Lyra. She dropped her painting brush, slamming it down on her palette with a loud, angry sound. She wiped her hands on a cloth and walked over to Adeline, her movents slow, deliberate, and full of a barely contained rage.
"You think divorce is so easy, do you?" Lyra asked, her voice a low, threatening hiss. "Would you like to make your son a divorced man first?"
Adeline’s smug expression faltered. "Don’t you dare bring my happily married son into this," she snapped back.
"Happily married?" Lyra spoke, her voice rising now with a cold, clear anger. "Is that what you call it? Everyone here, in this very room, knows that your son leaves his poor, sweet wife at ho every day and night and goes out to et his mistress giving her flimsy excuses. He practically lives at the pleasure houses or at that little townhouse he bought for his favorite woman." She took a step closer. "Does the Pri Minister’s daughter, your precious daughter-in-law, know about your son’s debauched little double life?"
She paused and looked at Adeline dead in the eyes. " And you have the audacity to point finger at my son who has never touched another woman except his wife, whose moral values are still standing." She pointed a finger at Adeline. "Don’t you dare repeat this nonsense again."
Adeline, her deepest, most shaful family secret now exposed to the entire room, got angry. She reached out and grabbed the front of Lyra’s painting apron in her fist, her knuckles turning white. "How dare you?" she snarled.
Delia and the other won were completely shocked by the sudden turn of events. The quiet, polite painting session had just devolved into a raw, ugly confrontation. Lyra looked down at where Adeline was holding her, her own expression one of refined shock at the sheer audacity of the physical assault.
"Adeline, let go of ," she said, her voice a low, dangerous command.
Adeline’s voice rose with an uncontrollable anger. "How dare you speak to like that in front of everyone? I will kill you with my bare hands today!"
Lyra struggled to remove Adeline’s grip from her apron. "Adeline, let go of right now!"
But Adeline only tightened her grip. "Don’t you dare ss with , Lyra! You will regret this! I will make you pay for talking about my son like that."
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