Chapter Ten #2
“Hermia ought to join us tomorrow,” he added.
“Oh, I don’t think she will. It is too long a day out for her.”
But when they mentioned Weymouth later that evening at the dinner table—just the three of them present because his cousins were still off doing whatever stupid things all young men did to slake their thirst for drink and women—Hermia clapped her hands. “I would love to join you! What fun!”
Trajan grinned at the shocked look on Florence’s face. She was an incredibly pretty thing.
“Really, Aunt Hermia?”
“Yes, dear. I do still have a little life in me. Although I will admit that some of the spring has gone out of my step. Kindly do not place me in my burial tomb just yet.”
“Aunt Hermia! I would never—”
“There, there, dear,” she said, patting Florence’s hand.
“Do not get all worked up. I shall come with you, and that is that…and then you will tell me what nefarious deed you have been plotting. Oh, do not dare deny it, Florence. You are working on something that obviously involves the Framptons. I can be useful, you know. People think I am old and doddering, so they do not pay attention to what I am doing.”
Florence stared at Trajan. He arched an eyebrow and calmly sipped his wine.
“Trajan,” she prompted him, obviously looking for assistance.
He turned to her aunt. “Are you saying you play up your feebleness? That you have been doing so all along and fooling even Florence?”
“Yes, dear boy.” Hermia raised her glass of wine to him. “But you saw through my subterfuge, did you not? Very little escapes your notice.”
He nodded.
“My mind happens to be as sharp as ever. But I find that I have grown quite impatient with age and easily tire of people. Have you noticed how dull so many of them are? Well, old age does have its advantages. Nobody questions you when you claim fatigue or start to dither. I have gotten out of many intensely boring family dinners and unwanted invitations that way.”
Florence gasped. “What a consummate actress you are! You had me completely fooled.”
“I know, and I am rather proud of it because you are quite a clever thing, too. But it seems even the sharpest of us are prone to seeing what we want to see.” Hermia cast Florence a chiding look. “Is that not so?”
“What do you mean?”
“You tried to do the same to me, Florence. Wanting to trick me by pretending this dear boy had been courting you all year long when you probably met him just that morning. Shame on you, child.”
Florence had the good grace to look remorseful.
“I am truly sorry, Aunt Hermia. I did not mean to deceive you. But it wasn’t a complete lie.
Trajan and I did know each other. We met last year at the Bromleigh house party.
I hadn’t seen him until the other day when he brought me back to the Weymouth Inn. ”
Hermia smiled at Trajan. “Have you been in love with Florence since last year?”
He laughed. “I would describe my feelings at the time more as aggravation. Your niece can be quite infuriating. However, our being in love might prove to be real in time. It is too soon to tell.”
“Oh, dear boy. Forgive me, but you are wrong. It is obvious to me that the two of you have that spark of magic, and this is a very rare thing.”
“Why do you say that?” Florence asked, obviously surprised. “Trajan is right. He and I mostly found each other irritating. But I did think he was quite handsome and wondered whether we might meet again. I did not think I had made any impression on him at the time.”
“But you had,” Trajan assured her. “You were constantly in my thoughts.”
She nodded. “I am finding this out now. I had no idea back then.”
Hermia cleared her throat. “Then it is a good thing you two have met again. Now, let’s get to the juicy bits. Why are we going to Weymouth? And what has this trip to do with the Framptons?”
Once again, Florence turned to Trajan. He caught her aunt up on all that had happened.
“Fascinating,” Hermia said when he’d finished his report. They lingered at the dining table, finishing a lemon syllabub that had warmed and melted over the course of their conversation. “So, you think Lady Frampton is innocent in all this?”
“Well, she stole those papers from Lady Simmons,” Florence remarked. “I’m sure her husband scared her into doing it. Did she look like a thief to you?”
Hermia pursed her lips. “No, but you are about to steal them back, and you do not look like a thief either.”
“That is different,” Florence grumbled.
“How so? Because you are doing it for a good cause? Lady Frampton may believe that advancing her husband’s stature is also a good cause. I mean, Florence, you are not saving orphans here. You are reclaiming lurid love letters between a married lady and her lover, who is probably also married.”
“I am doing it for the Princess of Wales…and Lady Simmons.”
Hermia rolled her eyes. “You are doing it to save your worthless brother and hoping your parents will love you for it. He won’t be saved and your parents won’t love you.”
Trajan knew he liked Hermia for a reason. Florence’s aunt, now that she had set aside her dithering facade, was sharp as a tack and had a way of getting to the very heart of the matter.
But the matter of Florence’s parents was a raw and gaping wound for her. He wished Hermia had shown a little more mercy toward her niece.
He reached over and took Florence’s hand.
She cast him a wobbly smile. “I’m all right. Everything my aunt has said is true.”
Yes, Hermia had said a mouthful about Florence’s family situation. More important, she had been around long enough to know the true story behind her family’s resentment of their own daughter.
While Hermia probed further into their plans for Frampton and those purloined letters, Trajan resolved to take her aside and ask her what she knew about Florence’s history with her parents. Because there was something definitely off about their treatment of Florence.
She was bright and beautiful. And a girl like that should have her father’s pride and her mother’s warmth.
So, why did Florence’s mother hate her?