Chapter 7 #3
“I’ve told Peter we’re to have no more children. I made him promise… Three children one after the other and not a son to be seen. I knew a woman who had seven daughters, though it nearly killed her.”
I wanted to bow and withdraw, citing the press of some damned business or other, but one did not abandon a fellow soldier who had turned up awkwardly forthcoming in the midst of battle.
“I assure you, Mrs. Carstairs—or my sisters would assure you, were they present—that your feelings are entirely understandable and that better days lie ahead. My dear mother had seven children, and even with all the resources Her Grace commanded, I know we drove her to Bedlam regularly.”
I considered the laughing goose girl, her feet bare despite the notorious scatological habits of geese, her charges more orderly than any flock of fowl I’d encountered.
I grasped what Robin was trying to convey: The painting was a testament to the innocence of the painter, not to the innocence of any real-life goose girl.
Lady Clotilda, for all her arch acerbity, still claimed that innocence, while Mrs. Carstairs had three children, a selfish husband, and no hope of escape.
“My nephew gets up to mischief now,” I went on, “that threatens to turn my hair white again, and Her Grace merely smiles and references similar antics among her own brood. Marriage to a duke put a tiara in her jewelry box, but motherhood is what made her formidable.”
The only thing I could think to say had apparently been the right thing. Mrs. Carstairs patted my arm and smiled.
“You are kind. I’m glad Bryson has a friend like you. Very glad. We thought he and Wren might make a match of it, but that’s apparently not to be.”
He’d mentioned Wren as a passing fancy. “Was this before he bought his colors?”
“Yes, but then, he’s a charming fellow and good-looking. He was in demand as an escort and dancing partner among all the local beauties. He and Quiggy—Miss Amelia Quiggan—made a particularly handsome couple.
“Ask my sisters for his particulars,” she went on, “and they can tell you when he fell through the ice as a boy, what his marks were at public school, and the name of his first pony. Algernon plays the fribble, but Bryson has never put on airs of any sort, and that has made him the more interesting of the two surviving brothers.”
She marched off down the corridor, apparently done with maternal jeremiads. I followed and managed the introduction to Leander, who acquitted himself like a little gentleman for two entire minutes.
Thereafter, he launched his usual interrogatory volleys: Has Miss Avis started learning Latin? Does Miss Lark have a pony? Why is their papa a vicar? My Uncle Arthur is in France. Have you been to France?
Miss Hunter rescued us from Leander’s inquisition—the woman was brilliant—by challenging him to select a storybook to take with him on tomorrow’s call.
I parted from Mrs. Carstairs on the first-floor landing. She was off to consult Lady Clo’s housekeeper on a recipe for Twelfth Night punch, while I meant to return to the gathering in the formal parlor.
I was passing by the portrait gallery when I heard a female voice admonishing somebody in stern tones to, “Tell him the truth, the sooner the better.” The speaker was Her Grace, and she might have been lecturing one of her young offspring about the necessity to confess wrongdoing to the final arbiter of all serious offenses, his late Grace of Waltham.
“The situation is not that simple,” came the reply. “I want it to be simple, but you have no idea what a tangle I’m in. Haste at this juncture would only cause regret later.”
Hyperia was in a tangle. My mother knew or guessed the particulars, while I had no inkling of the topic under discussion. That put me in a tangle too. I was tempted to join them in the gallery, explain what I’d heard, and do some untangling.
“There you are.” Miss Philomel Delaplane swanned up the steps.
“Very naughty of your lordship to disappear into the upper reaches. I’m told your nephew is among Lady Clo’s guests.
I haven’t met the boy, but perhaps you’ll introduce us.
I positively adore children. Ask Robin who is the favorite auntie of her darling girls. ”
“Miss Delaplane, good day.” I met her at the top of the steps and began my descent. “Leander is at his lessons, and I would be court-martialed should I interrupt twice in the same quarter hour. Let’s have a look at the buffet. Cold weather is at least good for building up an appetite, isn’t it?”
Miss Philomel wrapped her hand around my arm and accompanied me down the steps.
“Wren says the same thing. Where has your dear mother got off to? One barely greets Her Grace, and she’s away before you’ve complimented her brooch.”
“The duchess is retiring by nature. Take heart, though. She’ll be biding with Lady Clotilda for some time yet. You’ll have many more opportunities to further your acquaintance with her.”
I felt for all the world as if I’d donned a disguise—congenial younger son doing the holiday pretty in the shires—while scavenging the sort of intelligence no general should neglect.
The parson’s wife was at her wit’s end—and very much wishing Bryson would marry and be fruitful—while my intended was keeping secrets from me, as was my own mother. Lady Clotilda was a polite schemer. Lord Dunsford in all his grouchiness was something of a fraud.
Oh, to be back at Caldicott Hall, bored and restless, simply waiting for spring.