“She was a friend of my father’s, too.”
“I suspected when you and Henrietta went to call on her the other day. Tell me, does she still have her parrot?”
“Jolly is very much still alive,” John said, the thought of the bird making him grimace, “unfortunately for everyone.”
“I always liked Jolly!”
“I did too—when I was a child. Then I found the infernal racket amusing. Now it’s just head-splitting.”
“I suppose I will have to judge for myself,” Catherine said, her words laced with irritation that John could not comprehend.
*
By the endof the afternoon, Catherine had visited five homes. Each lady had received her, if not warmly then at least cordially. Some had been more civil than others, but she was sure that she had comported herself exactly as she should. She had enacted the ideal mixture of timidity, shame, and grief as she sat in their tastefully furnished country drawing rooms and asked questions about her missing relative.
Most had seemed sympathetic, in fact. Lady Langley had said she remembered how close Catherine had been to her aunt and how hard it must have been for her to wonder all these years. That statement had made Catherine’s heart contract uncomfortably.
Unfortunately, none of them offered anything about Mary Forster or her whereabouts.
Lady Trilling had been particularly kind, but she had also posed an unforeseen complication. She had silenced the squawking of her parrot—who, John was right, was louder and more annoying than she remembered—and inquired after Catherine herself in minute detail.
“Oh, yes,” the older woman said. “Of course I know Lady Wethersby from London. A very vivacious, lovely woman. I haven’t seen her in some time. I know that…” She had trailed off, seeming unsure of how to characterize the situation.
“Sir Francis left his family in reduced circumstances,” Catherine said, completing the sentence for her.
“I shall write to Lady Wethersby,” Lady Trilling said, “and renew our association. I always liked her immensely.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She hoped Lady Trilling wouldn’t mention her search for her aunt to Lady Wethersby—or, best of all, not write anything to Lady Wethersby in the first place. But she couldn’t forbid the woman from doing so without looking suspicious. Especially when the action was otherwise honorable and likely to be appreciated by Lady Wethersby.
Now, she was back in the carriage with John, and they were no closer to finding her aunt.
He, too, seemed displeased that their excursion had not yielded any extra information about Mary Forster.
He also seemed unhappy with her for a reason that she didn’t understand. She did not understand his sour mood when he had been the one to toss off the possibility of a future together without consideration for how it might make her feel. She was hurt by his callousness and yet he was the one who seemed upset withher.
Instead, he looked out the window into the driving rain, refusing to regard her or even address her.
The only sound was that of the rain hitting the roof and the wheels of the coach.
“What will you do if Baron Falk does indeed inherit the money?” Catherine knew the question would needle him, but frankly she wanted to provoke him.
“What could I do?” he spat out. “Nothing.”
“What is your opinion of your cousin?”
No response. She looked over at him. He still was looking out the window, rather pointedly it seemed.
“Does he deserve the funds? Maybe he deserves them more than the Duke of Edington—who already has so much.”
She heard a thwack. She realized with alarm that he had hit the side of the carriage with his fist.
“My cousin is notworthanything.”
“I take it you don’t like the man.”
“He is repulsive.”
