Chapter Three #3
Widow. That was the only word that mattered, apparently, though she’d noticed that the words “with a son” could instantly end any conversation, especially when partnered with the first word.
The earl and countess turned for the dance floor, though they were far too late to join in the quadrille.
How far would they go to escape her? she wondered.
Then Aunt Margaret swatted her on the arm, and she jumped.
“Ouch!”
“What are you doing, going about saying your husband was killed by wagering?”
“He fell so deeply into debt that he got drunk and drowned. Should I have said ‘drink,’ then? Or ‘drowned in a ditch’?”
“You say ‘fever.’ That satisfies curiosity and stops the stickier questions. You used to know this, Iris.”
“I never paid much attention in the ‘how to be a successful widow’ class in boarding school. It mostly entailed which garments to wear.”
“You are nine-and-twenty, Iris. There are a handful of wallflowers here of nearly that age who haven’t even managed to be married once.
And at least you have a reason to presently be without a man; you had one, and he perished.
That’s much better than acknowledging that no one’s ever looked twice at you. ”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is. Don’t be daft. Now push me over to the fireplace before I catch a chill.”
She rolled her aunt and the chair into the half circle of guests in front of the fireplace.
This corner of the room, offering a warm, comfortable place to sit, smelled like liniment and cats.
And now she stood there, as well, the roaring fire blasting her left side and the ceaseless judgments and gossip thundering into her ears.
It was hell. Yes, that was it. She’d left Shropshire and been killed in a mail coach accident, and now she’d landed in hell.
“Oh, a widow?” an older woman, the Dowager Duchess of Richmond, as she recalled, walked up and took Iris’s hand in hers. “I’m a widow myself, my dear. My dear Charles passed on nearly twenty years ago.”
“My condolences, Your Grace,” Iris said.
“Thank you. You should come to one of our teas, Mrs. Silbern.”
“Teas?”
“Yes. We meet every other Tuesday at three in the afternoon. There are eleven of us—oh, and you’ll make an even dozen. An even number is always better.”
Thinking she’d missed something vital in the conversation, Iris put a smile on her face. “Eleven of you who…”
“Widows, my dear. Eleven—twelve, now—widows.”
Wonderful. “Do you … comfort each other, then?”
“Of course. Though a few of us are rather grateful to be without a spouse, given the state of the marriage. But it’s grand to have other ladies with whom to commiserate, and of course we’re well known for our charitable works and for giving splendid advice to young, single ladies about how to make a good marriage.
Lady Mary Heath was the youngest, but now you’ll be.
Oh, she won’t like that.” The duchess giggled.
“She’s fifty-three, you know,” she whispered, “and while I have a suspicion that she helped Lord Albert on his way, she has made a good addition to our ranks.”
So they also gossiped about each other. “Thank you for considering me,” she said. “I will see if I can manage to attend. I do have a young son.”
“I understand completely. My youngest is forty-six now.”
“Mine is ten.”
As Iris sought a way to escape the conversation, the music for the first waltz of the evening began.
A responding shiver of nerves ran up her arms. It had been years since she’d danced at any event larger than a country soiree.
But having Lord Hentrose appear so she could escape being pulled into the widows’ tea party circle would have been handy.
She likely shouldn’t have suggested he not come to collect her, then.
“That sounds delightful, doesn’t it, Iris?” Aunt Margaret took up, before Iris could invent her own distraction and slip away. “It almost makes me wish I was a widow.” She chuckled. “I’m only jesting. I do dote on Harold, you know.”
“I—”
“There you are, Mrs. Silbern,” Lord Hentrose’s voice came from behind her. “Your Grace. And Lady Margaret. I heard you’re making a valiant effort to fight off the gout. Well done, my lady.”
Her aunt tittered as Iris dragged her chair around to face the marquis. “You’re very kind, Lord Hentrose. And I’m pleased to see you in London so early this year!”
“I’ve brought my daughter with me to Town,” he commented. “And I apologize, but I’ve asked Mrs. Silbern for this dance. Might you spare her for a short time?”
“Of course I can.” Aunt Margaret reached back for Iris’s wrist and practically flung her at the marquis, who at least had the good grace to offer an arm before she could stumble. “Have fun, my dear.”
“Thank you for coming to find me, Lord Hentrose,” Iris said feelingly as they walked to the dance floor. “Did you know there’s a regular tea held by widows, for widows?”
He snorted. “Is that why you looked like you ate a bug?”
“I did not look like that,” she stated, unable to help chuckling. “I’ll have you know I would be the youngest, and the duchess understands me completely because her own youngest son is forty-six years of age.”
“Good God. Look at my ears. Are they bleeding? I think you’ve made them bleed.”
Oh, someone with a sense of humor and the wit to use it. A miracle in the middle of a stuffy ballroom. “I apologize, but I can’t see you, as I’ve gouged out my eyes.”
“It’s a good thing I’ll be leading the waltz, then.” They reached the edge of the polished dance floor, and he took her hand. “Shall we?”
“You’re a brave man, Lord Hentrose.”
“Beckett, please. We’re standing on the edge of disaster together, after all.”
“Iris.”
With a nod he faced her, put his free hand on her waist, and then twirled them into the dance. “I’m going to be very hurt if I discover there’s a widowers’ club or tea or something and no one invited me.”
“Would you attend if they did?”
Beckett Raines made a face. “God, no. I’d like to think I have more important things to do than declaring that having my wife die was the defining moment of my entire life. I have a daughter to raise.”
“Exactly. I mean, perhaps if I were sixty years old and Edmund was grown and married and happy I might consider sitting down for tea every fortnight with other old ladies, but I have been in conversations before that began with ‘my son is forty-six years old,’ and they tend to end with ‘you’d be perfect together.’”
“I have had a great many of those conversations myself, even without a club of widowers about to shove their daughters at me.” He glanced away.
“Do you ever think things might have been easier if Edmund had been a girl? Because if Rebecca had been a boy, I would have felt much more prepared to raise her—him—on my own.”
“All the time. Perhaps we should trade.” She laughed. “I’m certain that would go over without any notice at all.”
Beckett tilted his head, and for a moment she wondered if he had any idea how attractive he was. Or whether, like her, he needed a servant to inform him that his hair was on fire because he never had time to notice on his own. “Edmund told me he likes horses.”
“He likes the idea of horses and being a smashing rider. I’ve sat him on a pony here and there, but don’t let him fool you.”
“I’d be happy to show him about my stable and perhaps even provide an appropriate mount for him.
Rebecca has declared her intention to become a crack rider, as well, even if she has to flee to Spain and capture her own wild Lipizzaner to do it.
I’m about to give in to her. Adding one more pony to the mix would hardly make a difference. ”
Frowning, she looked him in the eye. “Are you resorting to bribery to sway me toward letting our children play together?”
“Yes, I am. Rebecca needs a friend her age. And one that won’t … look at her askance because she has but one parent.”
“Edmund might benefit from that, as well.” They turned about the room for a moment, his hand warm around hers, the music and other guests flowing about them, nothing more than glittering shadows glancing off the edges of her thoughts.
“Very well,” she said, feeling just a bit breathless.
“Consider me convinced, with the caveat that you help me discourage him from tunneling beneath London.”
Grinning, he pulled her a breath closer. “Agreed, with my own caveat that I might, on occasion, ask odd questions like whether you yourself liked to wear a rainbow of ribbons in your hair at the age of nine, or if it’s just Rebecca and I should naysay her.”
“Agreed. It seems a fair exchange.”
“Good. For both of us.”
Oh, stop noticing how close he was. Yes, he was handsome.
Yes, it had been a while since she’d been in a man’s arms, even if it was just for dancing.
And yes, she very much enjoyed having someone to speak to who wasn’t at least thrice her age trying to tell her how she should feel or what she needed to be doing.
Or worse, deciding without even knowing her that she was simply a thing that made her fellow aristocrats uncomfortable.
Well, tonight they could be uncomfortable.
A widow and a widower were dancing a waltz, and they were smiling. At each other. Ha!