Chapter 13 #2
“Stay for tea at least,” Penelope heard herself say, though she couldn’t quite explain why the notion seemed suddenly important. “Hyacinth was just telling me about London. I’m certain she’d appreciate a larger audience for her gossip.”
“I wasn’t gossiping,” Hyacinth protested, but her gaze had returned to Crawford with a note of interest. “I was merely... providing updates on mutual acquaintances.”
“My mistake.” Alastair’s smile turned knowing as he claimed the chair nearest Penelope—closer than strictly necessary, his knee almost brushing her skirts. “Do carry on with your entirely factual updates.”
To Penelope’s pleasant surprise, the afternoon acquired an unexpected quality, as though four people had stumbled into a play without quite learning their lines.
Hyacinth spoke of London with determined brightness, her attention skittering away from Crawford only to return with increasing frequency.
The steward responded with dry wit that seemed to surprise both himself and its target.
And through it all, remained acutely aware of her husband’s presence, though she attempted to ignore it.
“The Weatherby ball was absolutely disastrous,” Hyacinth was saying, though Penelope had lost track of the conversation somewhere between her third cup of tea and the moment Alastair’s fingers had brushed her shoulder in what might have been accident or intention.
“Lady Weatherby wore feathers. Actual feathers. She looked like she’d lost a fight with a particularly aggressive hen. ”
Crawford made a sound that might have been a poorly suppressed laugh. “I must admit, I fail to see the reason for high fashion. Should we not dress for simple practicality?”
“Oh heavens, you cannot mean that!” Hyacinth’s eyes widened in surprise. “We dress for others, good sir. It is vital, you see. Looking one’s best to secure the best match.”
“If that were true, we’d all dress in account ledgers and property deeds.”
This time Hyacinth’s laugh escaped before she could catch it—a genuine, surprised sound that made her cheeks flush. “That’s rather presumptuous, Mr. Crawford. Not all ladies are mercenary.”
“Of course not.” His expression remained perfectly neutral. “Some merely appreciate fine drainage systems.”
The silence that followed was almost delighted, and Penelope watched her friend’s composure crack into genuine amusement.
Then Hyacinth seemed to remember herself. Her spine straightened, her smile cooling into politeness. “Yes, well. I’m certain your drainage systems are very impressive. But I should let you return to your work. I’m sure His Grace has many important... estate matters... requiring attention.”
The dismissal was clear, if delicately phrased. Crawford rose smoothly, bowing to the ladies, though his lips twitched ever so slightly.
“Indeed. Forgive the interruption.” His gaze lingered on Hyacinth for just a moment, his eyes lighting up ever so slightly as his eyes travelled over her. “I hope you enjoy your visit, Miss Fairleigh.”
Then he was gone, leaving behind a peculiar tension that Hyacinth attempted to dispel by immediately reaching for another biscuit she showed no signs of actually eating.
Alastair stood as well, and Penelope could not help but follow him with her eyes as he moved. “I should see to those drainage systems. Apparently they’re very impressive.” His hand touched her shoulder—brief, warm, deliberate. “I’ll see you at dinner?”
She could feel herself blushing—and feel Hyacinth’s eyes on her.
“Of course.”
He left, and Penelope found herself alone with her friend, who was staring at the closed door with a rather curious expression.
“Well,” Hyacinth said eventually. “Your estate steward is rather...”
“Unsuitable?” Penelope supplied gently.
“Precisely.” Hyacinth set down the uneaten biscuit with unnecessary force. “Completely unsuitable. I mean, he’s obviously intelligent, and that dry wit was rather... but no. Absolutely not. I have Sir Edmund. Who is perfectly suitable.”
“Of course.”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something I don’t.”
Penelope smiled despite herself, thinking of Alastair’s hand on her shoulder, the way he’d positioned himself at her side as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Perhaps I do.”
“Well, you can keep it to yourself.” Hyacinth lifted her teacup with renewed determination.
“Now. Tell me about this baby who’s kept you so busy.
And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you light up when you mention her.
That’s rather alarming, Penelope. You were supposed to be miserable in your marriage of convenience, not glowing like some besotted mother. ”
And there it was—the truth laid bare with Hyacinth’s characteristic bluntness.
Penelope was glowing. She was besotted. And the marriage that was supposed to remain safely convenient had become the most real thing in her life.
She opened her mouth to deny it, to deflect with the same careful distance she’d been maintaining.
Instead, she found herself smiling. “Would you like to meet her?”
“The baby?”
“Yes.”
Hyacinth’s expression softened. “I thought you’d never ask.”
They rose together, and as Penelope led her friend toward the nursery, she tried very hard not to think about what it meant that she wanted to share Rose with someone. That the baby felt less like a duty and more like a daughter.
She’d decided all too quickly to marry Alastair for the sake of this child, yet they had spoken of finding the baby’s parents, and then? Neither of them were sure. What she knew, however, was that she had begun to love this baby all too soon.
Behind them, through the drawing room windows, Mr. Crawford could be seen crossing the lawn toward the south fields. Hyacinth’s gaze followed him for just a moment too long before she caught herself and looked deliberately away.
“Completely unsuitable,” she repeated firmly.
Penelope said nothing.
But she remembered the way Alastair’s hand had felt on her shoulder, warm and claiming and terrifyingly right, and thought that perhaps suitability mattered rather less than anyone wanted to admit.