“Not yet.” She looked away. “However, I am, as you so helpfully pointed out, a widow in need of protection. I must consider which man can make the best offer.”
He grasped her arm.
She could not do this. As much as she needed to deceive, she couldnotfeign affection. Not with a naval braid circling her waist and the duchess’s pearls around her throat. She hadn’t felt as much like Cheverley’s wife in years.
“I do believe, Mr. Anthony,” She smiled, apologetic, “that the musicians seek an audience with you. You have my sympathies. There are so many things to consider when one is in charge.”
His gaze, heated, lingered on hers. He glanced to the musicians and sighed. “If you will excuse me.”
“Do go on,” she replied. “We all must do our part.”
He moved across the room.
Placing a hand to her stomach, she suppressed a wave of nausea. What had made her believe she could prevail?
Her determined stride for the door was stopped by the vicar and his wife.
She forced a smile and exchanged greetings. Then, Mr. Rowe returned to his favorite topic—the improvements Pen had made at Pensteague. No one else ever took as much interest.
“...I must say, Lady Cheverley, you put the men of the county to shame,” the vicar finished.
“Mr. Rowe,” the vicar’s wife said playfully, “am I to deduce that you admit a woman’s management can be superior to a man’s?”
“I must give credit where credit is due, Mrs. Rowe.” His eyes twinkled with good cheer. “In an age when many seek quick profit that sacrifices land quality, our Lady Cheverley has proven that it is possible to invest in good cultivation practices, take measures to ensure health of those in one’s employ, and still earn generous return.”
“From your blush, Lady Cheverley,” Mrs. Rowe laughed, “I gather such praise is rare.”
“Rare, indeed,” Pen replied. “I cannot, however, claim all credit. When first married, Lord Cheverley and I spent a great deal of time talking about our vision for Pensteague.”
Though dreaming was, perhaps, more apt. In truth, neither of them had known much about estate management. “I’ve employed Lord Cheverley’s approach—never saying ‘it cannot be done’ before exhausting all possible methods.”
“Lord Cheverley’s memory is important to you,” Mr. Rowe spoke with a vicar’s practiced cadence—and too-observant eye for the truth.
“I have heard, of course, of your husband’s daring,” Mrs. Rowe added. “I’m delighted to know his substance was equally impressive.”
Pen looked away.
Mr. And Mrs. Rowe’s twin expressions of concern were nearly her undoing. After thirteen years, how could grief remain so raw?
Then again, her grief wasn’t only for the young man she’d known, she grieved, too, for the life they’d planned together. A life finally yielding pearls of achievement she could not share.
“Let us speak of other things,” Mrs. Rowe suggested gently. “You’ll be happy to hear we have taken your example to heart.”
“My example?” Pen asked.
“I was a stranger...” Mr. Rowe quoted, “...and you welcomed me.”
Mrs. Rowe’s gaze moved to a veiled woman beside Lord Thomas. “We’ve welcomed into the vicarage a young woman seeking refuge from the war.”
“The lady is French?” Pen asked.
“American,” Mr. Rowe answered, “but of French descent. She lost her husband at Trafalgar,andhe was fighting on our side.”
“Extraordinary.” Pen had no idea there were Frenchmen in the Royal Navy, though with all the other nationalities, she shouldn’t be surprised.
“She has no love lost for her ancestral homeland,” Mr. Rowe continued. “Her grandparents were among those lost to the terror.”
“Nor does she have the means to return home,” Mrs. Rowe added.
