“Oh, we will not bother you, Mrs. Tavernor,” the countess said. “We came—”
“Speak for yourself, Wren,” Lord Hodges said. “Coffee and a scone sound lovely to me.”
“Agreed,” the earl said. “Thank you, Mrs. Tavernor.”
“All we came for,” the countess said, laughing as Lydia directed them all to seats in the living room, “was to see that you had recovered from that nasty incident yesterday. The way you handled that boy was quite admirable, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Lydia said. “Jeremy Piper has caused a great deal of trouble in his short life, poor boy.”
“Poor boy?” The earl raised his eyebrows. “I cannot help but feel a bit sorry for him, you see,” Lydia said.
“Even though he was responsible for your husband’s death?” he asked.
Lydia had to excuse herself to take the scones out of the oven and brew a pot of coffee.
“Those scones really do smell heavenly. May I butter them for you while you make the coffee?” Lady Hodges had followed her to the kitchen. She had an open, kindly face and a warm manner seemingly designed to set other people at their ease. And she was the “Cousin Elizabeth” Harry had spoken of, the one who had once escaped a violently abusive marriage.
“That would be good of you,” Lydia said.
“Harry went to London this morning—at some deadly hour, before anyone else was up,” Lady Hodges told her. “To buy a shirt suitable to wear at his birthday ball, if you please. Have you ever heard of anything more absurd? He is abandoning his house guests for two whole days for the sake of a shirt.”
“Oh,” Lydia said.
“Alexander suspects a less trivial reason for his going,” Lady Hodges added as she sliced a few scones and set a pat of butter on each to melt into them.
“Oh?” Lydia said again.
“But Harry was not saying, and we—the four of us—are not going to spread any unfounded rumors,” Lady Hodges said, a thread of laughter in her voice. “There. Two scones each for the men and one each for the women.”
“The coffee is ready,” Lydia said.
Her visitors sat with her for half an hour before taking their leave. Lydia walked with them to the gate. The earl turned back to her as the others walked away.
“It is of some importance to my wife and the other ladies of the family who have been diligently planning a party for Harry since Christmastime that as many people as possible from the neighborhood attend,” he said. “Will you come, Mrs. Tavernor?”
He mustknow, Lydia thought, or at least suspect. His sister’s words earlier had suggested it.
“I will,” she said. “I am honored to have been invited.”
He smiled—a very handsome man indeed—and held her gaze for a moment before turning to catch up with the others.
And that was just the beginning. Denise called and helped her eat a few more scones. “Are you going to the ball?” she asked. “You really must. I shall come and drag you there myself if necessary.”
Hannah called a little later, and both Mrs. Bartlett and Mrs. Bailey came while she was still there. Mirabel Hill and her cousin Miss Ardreigh arrived on her doorstep a mere five minutes after they had all left, claiming to be feeling footsore after an outing during which they had been talking so much they had not realized how far they had walked.
All of them wanted to know if Lydia was going to the ball.
And no sooner had they taken their leave than the Reverend and Mrs. Kingsley came from Hinsford to introduce themselves since they understood Mrs. Tavernor was the widow of the former vicar of Fairfield. The Reverend Kingsley was the Marchioness of Dorchester’s brother and therefore Harry’s uncle. They stayed for half an hour, though they would not take refreshments, a pleasant couple who were easy to talk with. The whole time she was there, Mrs. Kingsley had Snowball on her lap, patting and petting her and threatening to kidnap her and take her back to Dorsetshire.
On Wednesday afternoon, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale came in person with Viscount and Viscountess Dirkson and accepted the offer of tea and cake.
“You have a pretty place here, Mrs. Tavernor,” the dowager said as she looked around from her chair to one side of the fireplace. “But if you weremygranddaughter, I would scold you for disdaining to have even as much as a maid to lend you respectability here.”
“But Mrs. Tavernor isnotyour granddaughter, Mother,” Lady Dirkson pointed out.
“You have scolded her anyway,” the viscount said, looking at Lydia with twinkling eyes.
“And the only way she ever could be,” his wife added, pursuing her point, “would be if she were Harry’s wife. Or Peter’s or Ivan’s, though they are far too young for her. And she has already refused Harry.”
