“Frederick.” She raised a hand. When she reached them, she said, “Yes, I know I should call you Sir, but after all, we played ball together on the village green.”
His dark brows rose. “Did we really?”
She nodded. “Rose and I met there almost weekly. She and I talked while you ran about. And then you would beg me to play with you and I always obliged. The last time must have been when you were about five years old. Such a polite, handsome boy you were”—she grinned—“and still are.”
“Thank you. I wonder if that is why you seemed familiar to me, or if I simply noticed a resemblance to your sister.”
“If the former, I am surprised you would remember. If the latter, I am flattered. Either way, thank you for not pressing me for details earlier. I was not yet ready to reveal my connection here, which I feared irreparably severed. Not so, thank God. Well, I shan’t keep you. Do forgive the interruption.”
“Not at all.”
Lady Fitzhoward returned to the lodge. Rose held the door open for her and waved to them, and the sisters walked inside arm in arm.
Sir Frederick returned his gaze to Rebecca, seemed about to say something, then hesitated. “Well. I will leave you.” He untied the rein and mounted his horse. “Good-bye, Miss Lane. Please give Rose my regards.”
“I shall.”
Rebecca watched him ride away, feeling deflated. Had his words been merely polite platitudes? She doubted he would call again or invite her to Wickworth after the awful business with John as well as her own lies and misdeeds. After all, she was no wealthy, renowned beauty like Marina Seward had been, and never would be.
“Good-bye, Sir Frederick,” she whispered, after he was too far away to hear. She was afraid it truly was good-bye, and wished that little word did not sound so final.
25
One morning a few days later, as Rebecca and the pair of reunited sisters were talking together in the sitting room, the sound of an approaching carriage drew Rebecca to the window. A barouche-landau came up the wooded lane, pulled by matched bays. The equipage was familiar, as was the coachman.
“Who is it, Miss Rebecca?” Rose asked.
“The Wilford carriage.”
“It is rather early for visitors, is it not?” Lady Fitzhoward patted her coiffure, making sure every hair was in place.
As Rebecca watched, the dowager Lady Wilford alighted with the help of a liveried footman. Then she strode up the path, looking like a woman on a mission.
“It’s the dowager,” Rebecca announced, beginning to perspire.
Rose pressed a hand to her fichu-covered bosom. “Heavens above.”
“Heaven help us,” Lady Fitzhoward grumbled under her breath.
A knock sounded. Rebecca moved to answer it, but Roseforestalled her, adjusted her lace-trimmed cap, and opened it herself.
With the utmost politeness, Rose said, “Your ladyship, what an unexpected pleasure.”
The dowager Lady Wilford inclined her regal head. “Rose. You are well, I trust?”
“Yes, thank you. Do come in and be seated.”
The dowager entered with a solemn air and sat down. She looked across the room at Marguerite “Daisy” Fitzhoward and said, “That lady, I understand, is your sister?”
“Yes, my lady,” said Rose, with evident delight. “We have lately been reconciled after some thirty years.”
“How nice for you,” the dowager said, glancing around the small sitting room. “I trust our steward is keeping everything in good order?”
Rose hesitated, and Lady Fitzhoward opened her mouth, perhaps prepared to launch into a litany of needed repairs, but Rebecca spoke before either could do so.
“We, em, have no complaints.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
