It was unclear, of course, in what exactly they intended to support her. In her decision not to have him? In being persuaded to change her mind? The Westcott women were really not to be trusted, and Harry didnottrust them to leave well enough alone and mind their own business. In their minds Harrywastheir business, and since Mrs. Tavernor had got herself into a bit of bother over him, then she became their business too.
The mind boggled.
At dinner on Saturday night, Elizabeth, Lady Hodges, had announced her intention of calling upon Mrs. Tavernor the next morning. She knew from experience just what it felt like to be the target of unkind and unjust gossip, having once upon a time been the victim of a spectacular scene in which her then-fiancé had accused her in the middle of a crowded ballroom in London of flirting outrageously with Colin, the man who was now her husband. Wren, Countess of Riverdale, had promised to accompany her. So had Anna, Cousin Althea, Aunt Mary Kingsley, and Cousin Jessica before Gabriel, Jessica’s husband, had reminded them that the next day was Sunday.
There had followed a discussion upon whether it was more likely that Mrs. Tavernor would go to church and brazen things out or remain at home to hide.
“From what I saw of Mrs. Tavernor earlier today,” Harry’s mother had said, “I would say she will most certainly go.”
“And until fairly recently she was the wife of the vicar here,” Uncle Michael—theReverendMichael Kingsley— had reminded them. “Going to church is probably a matter of importance to her.”
“Gil and I and the children will sit by her,” Abigail had said with quiet determination. “If there is space beside her, that is.”
Everyone had looked at her without commenting—a rare occurrence with this family.
“We will, my love,” Gil had said.
“And so will I,” Harry had added, trying to picture the scene and wondering if Lydia really would go to church, since she must realize that a large number of his family plus all the gossips and the curious certainly would. He had believed that she would go, however.
“But not right beside her, Harry,” Aunt Louise had said.
“Close by but not next to,” Aunt Mildred had added.
“Close by. Looking amiable.” That contribution to the conversation, spoken with a great sigh of apparent boredom, had come from Avery.
“I cannot imagine Harry evernotlooking amiable,” Adrian Sawyer had commented.
“Tell that to a few thousand Frenchmen from Napoleon Bonaparte’s armies,” Gil—the former Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert Bennington, that was—had added. “The ones who are still living, anyway.”
Through Saturday and Sunday, while the drama of Lydia was rumbling along in the family consciousness and in private family consultations, the matter of the three prospective brides somehow resolved itself quickly and painlessly and without embarrassment to any of those most nearly concerned. The Westcotts, in other words, were about as successful this time with their matchmaking schemes as they had ever been.
Sally Underwood was wide-eyed and pretty and shy and a bit blushy and giggly—and all of eighteen years and one month old, as she admitted to Harry when she walked beside him on the way home from church. He had the feeling the pairing had been maneuvered by Aunt Matilda, whose stepniece she was. She talked, after Harry had finally induced her to relax a little, about the balls and routs her mama planned for her to attend after she had returned to London and her come-out Season was properly launched. And then, her tongue having been loosened by what she seemed to consider pleasant prospects, she talked about all the shopping and fittings and dancing lessons that must be got through first and about the beaux her mama had promised she would attract, what with all her new finery and the dowry her papa had to offer with her, which was more than respectable, for Papa was a wealthy man.
It had become apparent to Harry as they walked that she saw him as a sort of elderly uncle figure. All the time she was prattling—after she had recovered from her early awe of him, that was—she was eyeing Ivan Wayne and Gordon Monteith, the good-natured, freckled, slightly pimply, and very youthful nephew of Great-aunt Edith. If Aunt Matilda seriously expected that he and Miss Underwood would make a match of it, she must have windmills in her head. Or perhaps she had just not known the girl well when she chose her.
Miranda Monteith, Great-aunt Edith’s niece on her late husband’s side, had never lived in Scotland and appeared to have no connection to the country apart from her name and probably a few long-forgotten ancestors. She was, however, obsessed with all things Scottish, including its complex and gory history, as Harry discovered when he sat beside her at luncheon after church. She was serious-minded and intense and forthright in manner, and seemed quite unaware of him either as a man or as a prospective husband.
“I intend to stride about the park and countryside while I am here,” she said. “With your permission, that is, Mr. Westcott. It is unfortunate that you do not have any of the mountains and rugged scenery around here that I most admire, but the landscape seems pretty enough. Mother insisted that I come to London this year, though I abhor cities and large towns. I was very happy to accompany Aunt Edith here for a week or so as soon as I knew that Hinsford Manor was in the country. Mother was not pleased, but she did agree to my coming with Gordon after Aunt Edith had had a private word with her, though I have no idea what she said.”
If he should ever get into the business of predicting the future, Harry thought, he would say with some confidence that Miss Monteith was headed for the ranks of happily confirmed spinsters.
Miss Fanny Leeson might have been a bit of a problem, since it was obvious to Harry almost from the moment of her arrival that she was very well aware of why she had been brought to Hinsford. She had come with her mother and her sister, a vibrantly beautiful young lady who was happily engaged to an equally happy Boris Wayne. The younger sister was just as lovely, if a little less vibrant. She seemed to be a sensible young woman, however, who spoke little but usually had something decent to say when she did speak. It might be difficult, Harry thought with unkind feelings for the Westcott ladies who had trapped him in this situation, to depress her expectations without either hurting or humiliating her. However, it was to prove far easier than he feared.
She addressed the main issue with him after luncheon on Sunday when she approached him out on the terrace as he waited for several others to join him for a walk down to the lake he had suggested when they rose from the table.
“I think it only fair that you should know, Mr. Westcott,” she said, keeping her voice low as she glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed close behind her, “that my heart belongs to another.”
Harry looked at her in some surprise. With almost any other young lady, some of those words would have sounded as if they must be capitalized—“My Heart Belongs to Another.”With Miss Fanny Leeson they sounded like simple fact. She was looking very pretty and very self-contained. Her cheeks were only slightly flushed.
“We are not betrothed,” she went on to explain. “He has not yet spoken to Papa because I did not want to take attention away from Audrey, who has only very recently become betrothed to your cousin and is very happy about it. But we have a secret agreement.”
“I must wish you every happiness, then,” Harry said. He looked at her, a twinkle in his eye. “And I think it only fair that you know, Miss Leeson, that I am not really in search of a wife. I do believe, however, that my female relatives are in relentless search of one for me. They are very determined to force me into being happy.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling at last and looking even prettier than before, “I know whatthatfeels like, Mr. Westcott. Are not relatives an abomination?”
They shared a private moment of guilty amusement before Bertrand and Elizabeth and Charles, Viscount Dirkson, stepped out onto the terrace.
Seventeen
