She could not be angry with him. He’d doted on his mother for as long as she’d known him. Yes, he’d joked plenty about her incessant matchmaking but always with benevolence.
And the viscountess had always been friendly and warm to Penelope. To think of the woman coughing up blood at death’s door was sobering, indeed. Without realizing it, she’d exhaled a rather loud sigh.
“You seem melancholy, Pen,” Rome said. She was used to her male friends in thetonaddressing her informally. She rather preferred it. This Miss Crone business felt rather awkward.
“I just heard about Danbury’s mother. I had no idea she was ill.” She admitted her sadness without editing her thoughts.
Rome reached up and patted her hand. “The end of an era, it would seem.”
“So, you know the extent of it? There is no hope at all?”
Rome grimaced. “Not from my understanding. Word at the club is that Danbury’s sister said she might pass any time. I hope, for his sake, he gets there on time. I believe he’s finally settled on a wife. He certainly trailed after Miss Radcliffe a great deal. His mother’s dying wish, I think would be to see him settled—or to know it was eminent anyhow.”
Not that emptyheaded child! Rome was quite, quite wrong on that point.
“What of you? Are you feeling pressure from your family to wed?”
“I have three brothers, one who already can boast of a breeding wife. There is no urgency for me to set up a nursery.”
“So, you became engaged because you wanted to.” The statement was rather unnerving. She’d known him for years. She’d thought she’d loved him even, but in truth, she hadn’t really known anything personal about him.
She’d thought she knew Hugh as well.
She’d thought matters would be so simple. Shame swept through her as the selfishness of her actions seemed glaring in that moment. Hugh deserved to choose his wife the same as she always insisted it was a woman’s right to select her own husband—if she wanted one, that was.
Except she’d taken the choice away from him.
“I thought I did,” Rome responded, both of them seemingly deep in thought, not really focused on each other at all. “But perhaps it’s all turned out for the best. I wouldn’t wish to be married to a lady who resented it. I had no idea her parents were pushing her so hard.”
“They would, of course, have seen you as a most advantageous connection for the family.”
“But not so necessary that they ought to be willing to sacrifice their daughter’s happiness.” The two stopped walking and stared across the river. “The whole messy business gave me some sympathy for what Natalie went through last year with the Duke of Cortland. At the time, I thought I would strangle her for jilting him but…”
“She was right to do as she did,” Penelope finished for him. Natalie had made more than just herself happy when she’d broken off the betrothal her father had arranged for her with the Duke. She’d left the path clear for Lilly and Cortland. And then she and Lord Hawthorne had fallen in love.
“I suppose, well, yes. She was.”
“She was,” Penelope insisted.
“That’s what I said, is it not?” She’d argued with Rome in the past. He seemed pensive today. “I am considering growing barley.”
Ah, he’d learned of the plans she had initiated on Hugh’s estate. “You’ll need a brew master.” Penelope found herself on firm ground for the first time all day.
* * *
Dearest Miss Crone,
Forgive the brevity of this message but I must leave for Land’s End immediately. Mother had this cough when I was there last, but she assured me it was nothing. I should have not have listened to her dismissal of it… I never should have left her. Margaret says it’s consumption. I don’t know when I’ll return to London. I am not defaulting on our agreement, but it will be a matter of several weeks, at the least, before I am able to discuss the matter with your father. At this time, I am overwhelmed with the condition of my mother’s health and cannot address our situation.
Yours sincerely,
Hugh Chesterton, Danbury
Post Script
Please take care! No more fainting!
Hugh had left for Land’s End, literally the very edge of the country, four days ago.
