One day she’d have to put it to Arthur to procure her a dower house. Preferably in a warmer climate. If, that is, he were to marry well and bolster the family coffers.
At the moment, she wasn’t quite certain of that prospect.
She frowned at an errant place card upon the table.The Marquess of Middlemiss. Now, she really ought to recall—was that the short, ill-tempered one, or the fidgety, ginger-pated one who appeared to have never once slept in all his young life?
As if he could hear her thoughts, Arthur entered the empty dining room, set for the last formal engagement Cressida intended to host in Rowbotham House this season. She looked up at him expectantly.
“What ho? Something wrong, Mama?”
“Yes, darling. I don’t recall extending an invite to…” She sighed, then reached down to pick up the place card. “Middlemiss. Indulge your poor addled mother. Which of your friends is he?”
“Midder?” Arthur took the card from her, grinning. “He’s the tall bloke. Absolute brick. Tad nervous sometimes.”
He handed the place card back. Cressida returned it to its sterling holder, an ornately fashioned quail. The holders were all formed as various game birds, pheasants and swans and the like, and Cressida hated them, for Bartholomew had selected them. They had served as motivation of a sort, to remind him of all the game he yearned to slaughter at Birchover Abbey when the hunting season began. She really ought to replace them with something more to her liking… flowers, perhaps?
“He’s in town, so I told Wardle to add him to the list.”
“Yes, but now it’s an uneven number for dinner,” Cressida said with mild annoyance.
“It’s your last dinner, though. I should think no one would notice. Just stick him by poor Uncle Frederick. They can drown their sorrows together in a very excellent port.”
Arthur reached over to retrieve the place card, then walked about the long table, scanning the other guests’ names.
“Right-o. Here.” He plucked a second card from its holder. “Mrs. William Brenchley. She can slope off to the other side, then.” He casually dropped the card for the Marquess of Middlemiss into the vacated holder, this one a turkey.
“Who is Mrs. William Brenchley, anyhow?” Arthur asked as he rounded the table once more. “Is she lovely? Ought I place her alongside myself?”
Cressida sighed. Somewhere, Wardle was cringing at such wanton demolition of their carefully constructed seating arrangements.
“If you wish. She’s an absolute harpy of a woman. I’ve only invited her as I intend to put her in her place.”
Arthur laughed as he did just that, placing Mrs. Brenchley’s card back in the quail holder. “No thank you, then. I believe I shall pass.”
He craned his neck, looking over the eleven cards.
“What is it? Did Wardle forget another of your tardy additions?”
“I, er…” He frowned, walking this time in the opposite direction to see the names he’d missed on his first go around the table. “I was anticipating meeting Henry’s tutor.”
Cressida’s stomach flipped.
“A doctor, correct?”
“Dr. Collier,” she said coolly, her mask securely in place. “Dr. Matthew Collier.”
“Right. Henry certainly seems to think well of the chap.”
“Does he? I’d hardly noticed,” she said breezily, even as her heart tightened.
Henry adored the man. For a lad who seemingly cared for little, he certainly put stock in anything Matthew shared with him. Just the thought of his name sent a wave of happiness through her.Matthew. A new fear had been building, of how Henry would fare when his lessons came to a conclusion for the year. For no matter how long she cried it off, eventually they must depart to the hateful Birchover Abbey, where Cressida would stay while Henry went on to Eton.
And Matthew would remain, working quietly in his chaotic study filled with the dreadful taxidermized creatures. She felt overwhelmingly morose at that image of him, sad and lonely.
“Besides,” Cressida finally said, slowly and steadily, lest emotion seep into her voice and betray her, “perhaps you’ve met him once prior, at the ball. He usually keeps to the gaming tables. He’s rather good.” She halted, doing her best not to smile with pride. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Oh!” Arthur turned, snapping his fingers in realization. “The large fellow? Why, he handily mucked out Midder. Not a penny left on him that evening.”
“Did he?” Cressida had to turn away, steadying herself upon a chairback. She knew her face was aglow.
