I nibbled the corner of a cucumber sandwich before speaking. I wished I had pockets to stuff with the entire tray. “It has been less than a week.”
“And how is your grandmother this afternoon?” Mrs. Abbot asked.
“She is still unwell, but in good spirits.” I gave a soft smile. “Already the new scenery and air has improved her mood. But above all she says she enjoys the company of her granddaughters to bring her daily happiness. We do what we can to keep her comfortable.”
Clara’s cheeks darkened a shade. She would give away the lie in an instant if she reacted so obviously.
“Is something wrong, Miss Clara?” Mrs. Abbot asked. That woman missed nothing.
Clara’s eyes rounded. “Oh…the tea is hot.” She flashed a smile. “May I—er…more cream, please?”
I stifled a laugh as Mrs. Abbot graciously added three more drops to her tea. Clara shot me a glare through the corner of her eye.
“How very kind of you both,” Rachel said. “We have always preferred life here in the North. We used to visit the southern countryside nearly every summer but I was always quite eager to return here. Thankfully we haven’t left the North for several years. It is necessary formyhealth and happiness, that is for certain.” She smiled. “Have you come to appreciate these benefits yourself?”
I kept my face even. “I must admit I prefer life in the South. But more than anything, I enjoy visiting London during the Season. Being from Hampshire, I have had the opportunity to enjoy both the countryside and Town.” I pushed the emptyfeeling from my chest. I would never feel the same way about this desolate, sea-sprayed town.
Rachel swallowed a hefty chunk of cake. “I have never been to London. But I don’t wish to. If I must marry, I will find a man in this very town so I am never forced to leave.”
I studied her, wondering if she would continue speaking, but she was preoccupied by the tea tray. Lucy’s expression tightened then relaxed before I could wonder what it meant.
“Have you been acquainted with any others in the village?” Lucy asked me.
When I didn’t answer immediately, Clara spoke up. “Mr. James Wortham.”
“Oh, but briefly,” I added quickly with a laugh. “We don’t make a habit of speaking with such disagreeable men.”
Mrs. Abbot’s brow furrowed in a frown. “I must disagree. Mr. Wortham is quite respectable. I find him to be a very amiable young man. I must come to his defense, of course, because he once carried Lucy all the way home when she injured her leg in town.”
My breath came in sharply. “How improper,” I mumbled.
Lucy reddened. “I was only eleven years old,” she said quickly. “Never would I allow such a thing to happen now.”
“What a lie!” Rachel said, her voice trailing with laughter. “You would, and you would thoroughly enjoy every moment.”
Lucy opened her mouth to contradict her but seemed to change her mind. Clara giggled, and I shushed her.
“Well, I would call him kind.” Mrs. Abbot smiled. “It is a rare soul who will engage in an act of kindness for nothing in return.”
My mind wandered to the moment when Mr. Wortham had chased after the man stealing our reticule. I remembered the shilling he had offered the proud man and his hungry, dirty little girl. And then he had offered us food for a week without asking for money. A pang of embarrassment struck me when Ithought of the apple I had offered him in an attempt to settle our debt. But if I had offered him any real compensation, I strongly suspected he wouldn’t have accepted it. Perhaps it was a weakness he possessed then— too strong a conscience to refrain from assisting anyone in need, and too much pride to accept reimbursement.
A thought stabbed me with anger. But he was still taunting me. Soon enough, our shillings would run out and we would need his assistance once again. But did wereallyneed him? Mrs. Abbot and her daughters likely knew a great deal about Lord Trowbridge. As for finding work—I shuddered at the thought—Clara and I would need to do it alone. I was not going to amuse Mr. Wortham any longer.
Clara turned the conversation to the Abbots and how they came to live in Clearfield house, Mrs. Abbot’s husband, and their odd gardening habits. As soon as I found the opportunity—a lull in conversation—I posed the question that had been on my mind. “We passed an estate….beige stone, a great many windows…do you know who lives there?”
I filled the proceeding silence with three breaths. Finally Mrs. Abbot found her voice between the shifting eyes of her daughters. “You must have passed Brackenridge Hall. The Earl of Trowbridge resides there.”
I feigned a look of surprise. “An earl? Are you acquainted with him?”
Mrs. Abbot gave a small nod. “Yes, but only just. He typically refrains from making appearances. He is a widower, and tends to keep within the walls of his own home. I have only met him once, several years ago. His disposition was rather reserved and a little too arrogant for my liking.” Her voice faded at the end.
I considered her description of the earl carefully. It did seem similar to Mr. Wortham’s assessment of him. Quiet, reserved, withdrawn…those sounded like the ideal qualities in a husband.The less I saw of him the better. And to be a countess? To be saved from ruin and poverty? A little grin lifted my lips.Lady Trowbridge. How lovely.
“Does he own a house in Town as well?” I pressed further.
“None that I know of.”
I took a sip from my teacup. “Hmm, perhaps we ought to become further acquainted with him.”
