Chapter 27
Edward had not seen his grandfather’s brother in quite some time, although, as is common with older relatives, Edward had always viewed Great-Uncle Aesop as nothing short of ancient, a veritable walking, talking mummy with his long white hair and lined, leathery face.
And so, to Edward, he did not look any different as he stepped down from the Wolseley automobile as he had the last time Edward had seen him, proudly wearing his kilt and brandishing that familiar appendage that had accompanied him as long as Edward had been alive: his trusty ear trumpet.
The dowager countess moved forward to greet him as Great-Aunt Bethilda’s cane appeared, silhouetted in the car door, followed by Great-Aunt Bethilda herself.
Just like her husband’s hearing ailment, Bethilda had never in Edward’s life possessed perfect eyesight, but it had gotten worse since Edward had last seen her.
Back then, she hadn’t needed the use of a cane to maintain her balance, but now her blue eyes were watery and narrowed, as if trying to peer through a microscope.
Aesop offered her his arm, which she took with only a scant bit of fumbling, and then, following her out of the car, appeared Edward’s cousin, Tilly. She met his gaze with wide eyes and quickly looked away.
Tilly had always been a shy, timid creature.
She could speak, he was told, but he had hardly heard her utter a single word since she was eight, when he’d offered to be her partner in a three-legged race at a garden party after all of the other children had already paired up.
They’d sent the crowd into a frenzy of delighted laughter when he picked her up and carried her to the finish line to beat everyone else.
She’d beamed at him and murmured a breathless thanks.
But after that she’d never said another word to him other than a muttered ‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or, once, a ‘please pass the butter,’ spoken so softly he’d had to ask her to speak up.
Instead of answering, Tilly had gone a bright shade of fuchsia and Bethilda had answered for her.
The last time he had seen her, his mother told him to be gentle with her, as she suspected Tilly was a bit infatuated with him. He’d assumed she would have gotten over it by now, but the way she avoided his gaze made him think otherwise.
Edward strode forward and clasped Aesop’s hand.
“Uncle Aesop,” he said. “It has been too long.”
Aesop frowned. “Why would I want you to sing me a song?”
Edward sighed and spoke again, louder this time. “I said, ‘It has been TOO LONG.’”
Aesop swiveled toward Edward’s mother. “What is your son blathering on about now?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Soppy, put your ear horn in before you embarrass yourself,” said Great-Aunt Bethilda as she accidentally smacked her cane against a footman’s shin. The footman grimaced but, to his credit, did not whimper.
Aesop glared at Edward, as if this were all his fault as he put the horn against his ear.
“It’s nice to see you, Uncle,” Edward began again. “May I introduce Mrs. Mercy Bissette Hart, visiting from Manhattan, and her daughter, Miss Calliope Hart.”
Aesop narrowed his gaze at the two Harts and harrumphed, “Americans.”
Mrs. Hart arched a brow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, too, Your Lordship.”
Aesop shook his head in reply and stalked off toward the house.
“How delightful,” Calliope whispered so only Edward could hear.
He tried—and failed—to stifle his laughter.
Bethilda was next in the round of introductions. The dowager countess had wrapped her arm around Bethilda’s to steer her away from the gardens, where she’d been headed, and toward their waiting guests.
“And this is Edward here, in front of you,” his mother said.
“I am not completely blind, Margaret. I can make out some colors and shapes. How are you doing, Edward dear?” Bethilda asked the shrubbery to Edward’s right.
“Uh, doing fine, Aunt Bethilda. Just fine,” said Edward.
“Good, good,” she remarked, patting one of the branches and frowning. “Oh, but dear, you are terribly skinny. Don’t you feed this boy, Margaret?”
Edward could see the battle playing in the dowager countess’s mind. To correct Bethilda would be horribly rude, but to not correct her would mean letting her continue talking to the foliage as if it weren’t in the slightest bit abnormal.
“I, um . . . that is to say . . .” his mother began.
Bethilda rolled her eyes. “Never mind, never mind. Just make sure you eat an extra ice cream at dinner tonight, Eddie.”
Edward cleared his throat. “Of course.”
Next to him, Calliope’s eyes watered from holding in her own laughter.
“Not a word,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she whispered back. “Eddie.”
He elbowed her, forcing her to suck in her lips to keep from giggling.
Finally, Tilly approached him. She was right in the middle of that awkward stage where she’d become all gangly arms and slightly off-proportions, but she also had thick, chocolate-colored hair that shone in the midday sun, and a set of wide doe eyes that could make even the coldest heart melt.
If they’d had a better relationship, he would tell her this cruel moment in time would pass—that a few years from now she would be one of the most beautiful debutantes presented at court and men would be lining up around the block to propose to her.
But seeing as they hadn’t spoken more than ten words to each other in nearly half a decade, he did not know exactly how he would fit such a pronouncement into regular conversation without frightening the poor girl.
Or without making her think he returned her affections.
Better to just keep silent.
“Hello, Tilly,” said Edward, taking her hand and placing a quick peck on her knuckles. “I trust your journey went well.”
Tilly swallowed audibly and nodded.
“Good, good,” he said. “Quite a trip that. From the Highlands to Hampshire. A bit . . . bumpy.”
She nodded even more vigorously, until Edward feared her head would tumble from her shoulders.
He introduced Calliope and her mother, to whom Tilly offered a very small “Pleasure to meet you,” before nearly sprinting into the house after her guardians.
“Well,” said Edward, turning to Calliope. “This should be fun.”
It seemed Calliope could hold in her laughter no longer. She snorted like a pig and clamped her hand over her mouth, to which Mrs. Hart gave her daughter the glare of the century.
“Showing an interest in your suitor’s family beyond their history and lineage is highly recommended and will endear you to any marriageable bachelor.
Therefore, a woman in search of a husband must strive to find the good in her intended’s family, even if it is nigh impossible to do so, for no one wants to hear that their family is lacking in consideration or wanting in virtue, even if the gentleman in question may say so himself behind closed doors. ”
—Madame Dupré