Chapter Thirteen
“Do not over-explain,” Lady Maria said. “Explanations are like lace. A little may improve the garment, but too much suggests one is hiding the cut.”
Petalia stood before the mirror in the small sitting room while Mrs Holroyd adjusted the shawl across her shoulders.
The gown Lady Maria had chosen was a soft grey muslin, high at the throat and loose enough not to press cruelly against the dressing beneath.
It was more elegant than anything Petalia owned, though plain enough that no one could accuse her of dressing for conquest.
“I am not certain I know how much explanation is enough,” Petalia said.
“Then use less than fear recommends and more than pride prefers. That is the general rule for surviving women with sharp eyes and too many acquaintances.”
Mrs Holroyd stepped back. “The dressing does not show, miss. If the shawl slips, draw it up with the left hand. Do not twist the shoulder.”
“Yes, Mrs Holroyd.”
“And if Lady Whitcombe asks to see the burn, you will decline.”
Lady Maria looked scandalised. “If Lady Whitcombe asks to see the burn, I shall have her removed from the house and blame concern for the lapse in civility.”
Petalia attempted a smile. It did not quite hold. “Is she very formidable?”
“Lady Whitcombe? She is what happens when curiosity inherits an estate and learns to curtsy. She will be kind in every tone and dangerous in every pause.”
“That is not comforting.”
“No. Comfort would be dishonest. Preparation is better.”
Petalia looked at herself in the mirror.
She saw a woman paler than she wished, thinner than she had seemed in her own mind, with hair arranged more softly because pins near the shoulder pulled at the burn.
She did not look like a schemer. She did not look like a future duchess.
She looked like a governess borrowed into better fabric after an accident that had become everyone else’s entertainment.
“If I hide, it will look worse,” she said.
“Yes,” Lady Maria replied. “If you appear calmly, answer simply, and allow Edmund to use that alarming face of his in your defence, we may yet force the county to swallow the respectable version before it develops a taste for the scandalous one.”
“His Grace should not be too alarming.”
“My dear, Edmund cannot enter a room without alarming someone. We aim only to make the effect useful.”
Downstairs, a door closed. Carriage wheels sounded faintly through the drive.
Mrs Holroyd looked towards the corridor. “Lady Whitcombe has arrived.”
Lady Maria took Petalia’s hands, careful of the injured side. “Remember, you did nothing wrong. Do not stand like a woman waiting for forgiveness. Stand like a woman tolerating concern.”
“I am not sure I have ever done that.”
“There is no time to learn gradually.”
They went down together.
***
The drawing room had been arranged with almost military propriety.
The door stood open. Pritchard hovered at a distance, visible enough to imply attendance, not so close as to imply eavesdropping.
Mrs Holroyd remained nearby under the pretext of supervising tea.
Edmund stood near the mantel, dressed in dark formal clothes that did nothing to civilise him.
His beard remained too full, his hair had resisted whatever effort had been made to govern it, and his scarf was tied high.
He looked, Petalia thought, like a man who had dressed for a duel and been handed a teacup instead of a pistol.
His gaze found her immediately.
It moved over her face, the shawl, the careful way she held her shoulder. A muscle worked near his jaw. He did not come towards her, which she understood. But something in his attention steadied her despite the impropriety of needing steadiness from him.
Lady Whitcombe rose from the sofa as they entered.
She was a handsome woman of perhaps fifty, elegantly dressed in violet silk, with silver-threaded dark hair and eyes that gave nothing away until they had taken everything in. Her smile was warm enough to pass in any drawing room and sharp enough to cut beneath the glove.
“Miss Winthrop,” she said. “How good of you to receive visitors when you should properly be resting. I was sorry to hear of your accident.”
Petalia curtsied carefully. “You are very kind, my lady. It was painful, but Mr Meredith assures me it is not serious.”
“A mercy. Hot tea can be vicious, can it not?”
“When mishandled,” Lady Maria said, seating herself. “Do sit, Lady Whitcombe. Miss Winthrop must not stand too long.”
They sat. Edmund remained by the mantel until Lady Maria’s glance moved him to the chair nearest Petalia, though not too near.
Tea was brought in. For one wild moment, Petalia feared the tray might undo her composure. Then Mrs Holroyd set it down herself, hands steady, and the absurdity of fearing porcelain while facing Lady Whitcombe nearly restored her.
Lady Whitcombe accepted a cup. “I understand the accident occurred in the library.”
“It did,” Edmund said before Petalia could answer.
Lady Whitcombe turned to him with mild surprise. “How fortunate you were present, Your Grace. A young lady injured alone might have suffered terribly before help arrived.”
“Miss Winthrop was not alone. A footman had entered with the tray. Mrs Holroyd was summoned immediately.”
“Of course. I did not mean to suggest otherwise. Only that the hour must have made the matter more alarming.”
Lady Maria stirred sugar into her cup. “Accidents are rarely improved by consulting the clock first.”
Petalia took a careful sip of tea to avoid speaking too soon.
Lady Whitcombe’s smile returned to her. “You must have been discussing the children, Miss Winthrop.”
“I had brought a report on their lessons,” Petalia said. “The matter was simple. I expected to be gone within minutes.”
“After dinner?”
The question was soft.
“Yes,” Petalia said. “After dinner.”
Lady Whitcombe lowered her cup. “How very dutiful.”
“Miss Winthrop’s conduct has been entirely proper,” Edmund said.
The room stilled.
Lady Whitcombe’s colour rose by a fraction. “I meant only to praise her dedication.”
“Then we are agreed.”
The words were quiet, but final.
Lady Maria leant back with a sigh designed to release the room before it shattered. “You must forgive my nephew, Lady Whitcombe. He has never been graceful when alarmed. We have learnt, as a family, to value sincerity where polish fails.”
“Naturally,” Lady Whitcombe said.
“And Miss Winthrop will remain at Wrenfield?” she asked after a moment.
There it was.
“For the present,” Petalia said, “yes.”
Lady Whitcombe smiled faintly. “How wise. Sudden departures so often invite speculation.”
Edmund’s hand closed over the arm of his chair.
Lady Maria spoke before he could. “Speculation is vulgar when facts are available.”
The call lasted longer than Petalia liked and less long than Lady Whitcombe wished.
Questions came dressed as concern: the physician, the servants, the children, the weather, Lady Maria’s journey.
Each answer had to be simple enough to repeat and dull enough to discourage improvement.
Edmund spoke little after his first intervention, but his silence did not leave her unsupported.
When Lady Whitcombe finally rose, she looked once from Edmund to Petalia and back again.
“I am relieved to find matters so well managed,” she said. “The county becomes anxious when stories travel faster than explanations.”
“Then let us hope the explanations overtake them,” Lady Maria replied.
After Lady Whitcombe left, the drawing room held its silence.
Edmund spoke first. “It has escaped.”
“Yes,” Lady Maria said.
Petalia looked at the door. “She knew enough to ask the right questions.”
“She knew enough to ask the wrong ones politely,” Lady Maria said. “That is worse.”
Edmund turned to Petalia. “I am sorry.”
“You defended me.”
“Too sharply.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But not uselessly.”
His expression altered at that, a grim acknowledgement that was almost gratitude.
Lady Maria stood. “There can be no long delay now. The story is already in the county. We must decide what answer it is to meet before it invents one for us.”
Petalia felt suddenly cold beneath the shawl. “What answer?”
“That is precisely the difficulty,” Lady Maria said. “A hasty departure would look like guilt. Silence may look like concealment. An engagement might help us reclaim the narrative, though that course is not without its perils.”
Edmund’s voice was low. “Aunt.”
“No, Edmund. We must name the matter if we are to judge it.” Lady Maria folded her hands.
“Marriage may be spoken of, but not as a tidy remedy. There is nothing tidy about a duke marrying his governess three days after a household accident. Nor,” she added more quietly, “is it a subject to be dismissed simply because it arises in unfortunate circumstances.”
The room went still.
Petalia felt the blood leave her face.
Marriage.
The word had existed only at the edges of her thoughts until now, lurking among consequences she had refused to examine directly. Hearing it spoken aloud was another matter.
She rose slowly. Edmund stood at once, though he did not reach for her.
“My lady,” she said after a moment, “I do not think that is truly a possibility. If anything, it would create a larger scandal than the one it tried to mend.”
“A different one,” Lady Maria said. “Possibly greater. Possibly easier to direct.”
Edmund’s expression hardened. “That is not a reason to speak of it now.”
“No,” Lady Maria said. “It is a reason to know that others may speak of it soon.”
Petalia’s hand tightened on the edge of her shawl.
“Then let them speak,” she said quietly. “I would rather be the subject of gossip than the cause of a marriage His Grace did not seek.”
Edmund looked at her then.
Edmund looked at her then, but whatever he meant to say did not pass his lips.
“You mistake the question,” he said at last. “The issue is not what I sought, but what my conduct may now require.”
Petalia held his gaze for a moment.
“And if what it requires is not what either of us would choose?”
A shadow crossed his face.
“Then I hope we are not yet at that point.”
The answer was not reassuring.
The honesty of it was.
Lady Maria spoke before the silence could deepen.
“Good. Then we have settled precisely nothing, which is considerably better than settling the wrong thing in haste.”
“Aunt,” Edmund said.
“You may thank me later. Preferably when I am dead and unable to enjoy it.”
Mrs Holroyd made a small sound that might have been disapproval.
Lady Maria ignored it.
“Miss Winthrop, you are tired. Edmund is impossible. And this discussion has done all it usefully can for the moment.”
“I agree, my lady.”
“Excellent. Then everyone may go and be anxious in private, which is the only respectable way to manage these matters.”
She moved towards the door.
Mrs Holroyd followed.
For a moment, Edmund and Petalia were left standing opposite one another, unobserved for the first time that afternoon.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly.
She could have asked which part he meant.
The library, the gossip, the servants, the county, the impossible conversation they had nearly had and somehow avoided.
Instead, she shook her head.
“You have apologised enough for one day, Your Grace.”
His mouth moved slightly.
Not a smile.
Something closer to surrender.
“I shall attempt a different occupation tomorrow.”
“I recommend it.”
He inclined his head.
Petalia curtsied.
Then she turned and left.
In the corridor, she paused beside the window. Lady Whitcombe’s carriage had vanished down the drive, carrying whatever version of the truth she preferred.
Petalia had thought the scandal had already happened.
Now she understood it was still being written.