The tension loosened marginally, but still swirled about them. Matthew wondered if he ought to attempt another apology, or if it was better left alone.
And then she stood, the perfect hostess wearing an appropriately charming smile once again.
“I thank you, Dr. Collier, for a riveting game.” She picked her fan up from the table. “I must seek out my son; I can only hope Sir Colin has reined him and his friend in. You know how lads are.” She sighed, idly swinging the fan back and forth. “Incessant tomfoolery.”
Matthew nodded, although he could not recall engaging in much good-natured fun when he was a lad. Uncle John and Aunt Albertine would’ve highly disapproved of that.
Lady Caplin returned the gesture, then turned and left.
He did not see her for the rest of the evening.
Chapter Five
Cressida stabbed at thetangle of yellowed foliage with her knife. She was frustrated.
Why, thenerveof that woman, calling her peonies faded. As if she tended her sainted flowerbeds herself as Cressida did.
Cressida had known Mrs. Brenchley since her debut four years ago, when she was still Miss Ada Doussot. Miss Doussot had then married William Brenchley, the younger son of an earl and a handsome, yet cruel man. Cressida frowned. Hadn’t she first set her cap for Frederick?Thank goodness that had not come to pass, she mused as she cut back clumps of tulips. Cressida could barely tolerate Mrs. Brenchley as a fellow member of the Metropolitan Gardening Society; she positively shuddered at the prospect of welcoming her into her family. Of having to endure her sniggering and snide remarks even more frequently.
But worst of all, the sad truth of the entire situation was that Cressida knew her peonies were not up to snuff this year. With a snort of irritation, she chucked her knife toward the bed, where its blade lodged itself in the soil in a most satisfying manner. She rose from the ground and brushed her hands thoroughly uponher smock. Abandoning her tools and basket, she took a stroll through the garden, considering every plant with an appraising eye.
What did one have if not a swoon-worthy garden that inspired envy and awe in one’s peers?
Anyone could wear the most fashionable gowns, or patronize the same upscale shops as everyone else. Any gentle-born lady in possession of a generous home and ample funds could entertain lavishly. Any married or widowed lady of the fashionable set could find amusement outside of the marriage bed, provided they practiced proper discretion.
Cressida realized ruefully that Mrs. Brenchley was besting her on nearly every count: Her peonies were brighter, her parties more rollicking, and her amusements, if one were to believe the rumors, ample.
She paused before an apple tree, resplendent in its pink and white blossoms.
Cressida couldn’t even manage to charm that lamb of a doctor. With a sigh, she reached for a handful of blooms, cupping them under her nose. They smelled lovely. As she was alone, she closed her eyes and leaned closer, allowing herself the luxury of a deep, heady breath. Suddenly she was a girl of nine once more, climbing trees in the early summer, making flower crowns, building fairy-houses from twigs and leaves. No one called her handsome, no one weighed her marriage prospects. No red-faced viscounts groped at her with clammy hands.
The blossoms tickled her nose and cheeks, and she withdrew her face from them.
How she wished Dr. Collier had not broached the subject of Bartholomew Caplin, the vile toad. If there was one person Cressida loathed more than Mrs. Brenchley, it was most certainly her deceased husband.
Cressida had once been one of the most charming and vivacious young women in all of London, to hear some men tell it. But time marched on, and soon her charms would fade, much like her peonies.
A sudden rustling sound brought her out of her reverie. She released the apple blossoms and straightened up; the branch recoiled, swaying back and forth.
Walking down the path toward her was a stoic Wardle, followed by a exceedingly remorseful-looking boy with an angry red mark upon his cheek.
“Henry!” she exclaimed. “Whyever are you home? The term hasn’t ended! First Arthur, and now you.”
Even as the question touched her lips, Cressida knew exactly what had happened. She steeled herself for the inevitable news.
“He arrived by himself, my lady, just now. In a hired cab,” Wardle said.
“No telegram, no advance notice?” she asked.
“Nothing at all.”
Cressida raised a brow. “Thank you, Wardle.”
The butler bowed before leaving mother and son alone in the shade of the apple trees.
“Hello, Mama,” Henry said, his shoulders slumped and his voice glum. “I suppose you wish to know what happened.”
Cressida softened.
