Mr Morell put down his fork. ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘The queen is an absolute advocate for ladies, and I can think of nobody better. You should definitely get seed and try again.’
‘Unlikely,’ said George, from his seat next to Thea. She tensed some more. He was on his fifth glass of wine and tended to become objectionable after the fourth. She counted, these days.
‘Probably,’ she said quietly, hoping it would placate him, but she noticed her father sawing at his meat rather vigorously.
‘You won’t because they are valuable,’ he said, ‘and cannot be wasted willy-nilly. We have talked about this.’
‘I know,’ said Thea quietly, hoping to halt the conversation and spare her pride. George took another slug of wine.
‘Knatchbull and Herbert inform me that the seeds go to the proper growers and when they have had success and there are plenty to go around, then they go to the hobby gardeners.’
Thea clenched her teeth but said nothing. So much for her pride. She could feel her father glowering across from her but knew she shouldn’t argue with George. He could boil over quickly when in this mood and she hoped not to sour the dinner.
‘Then I shall wait until they are more widely available,’ she said gently. She saw her father swallow.
‘I believe you understand that the duchess is an eminently proficient natural philosopher.’ His voice was quiet. ‘You have said so yourself on a number of occasions in the past.’
‘Mmm,’ said George, swallowing and waving his fork around a little too erratically. ‘In many ways. I am not complaining you understand,’ he went on, both hands raised in placation at Mr Morell’s stony glare. ‘She runs the house and the gardenimpeccably. But the important work is best left to the men, I am sure we both understand that.’
Thea looked up from where she had been staring at her plate to see that the opposite end of the table had fallen silent. Her mother, whilst brash and tactless, was at least skilled in noticing a potentially damaging social situation when it arose at her dining table.
‘Tea?’ she asked, motioning for a footman. We have had ten ounces of the best China tea specifically for this occasion.’
‘Is it Kangra?’ asked the Dowager Duchess. ‘My George buys it in especially for me. I drink nothing else.’
‘I… shall send the footman to check,’ said Mrs Morell awkwardly. She motioned for him to leave, and the silence returned. ‘So, who have we all seen in society lately?’ she asked loudly, directing the question at the whole table. Nobody spoke up. Mrs Morell pressed ahead. ‘Dowager, did I hear that the Duchess of Monmouth is in the capital for a spell? We must invite her for tea, Mr Morell.’ Thea’s father mumbled his agreement.
‘Quite so,’ said the Dowager, awkwardly. Silence fell again.
‘And we must invite Lady Foxmore while we are at it. I passed her in the carriage going from Denbury not two months ago, but she didn’t see me or at least didn’t stop – I assume she was heading back to London on one of her voyages.’
Thea froze. Had she heard right? Martha had been back to Denbury? She looked up at Ursula whose eyes were full of compassion.
‘The Countess of Foxmore?’ Ursula asked, knowing that Thea would want to know, but that her voice might betray her.
‘Yes, Martha. Dropping in at home to check on the place I suppose,’ said her mother. ‘It was really quite rude, she must have seen our carriage, and after so long away not to call at the house at Milford.’
‘I am not sure that spending so much time out of society was beneficial,’ said the Dowager. ‘She seems to have gone off altogether. I understand that she is away but to snub us so fully when she is back. I suppose the influence of sailors will do that to you. Perhaps she met one she preferred to society and is living in sin?’
The Dowager smiled mischievously but Thea’s stomach jolted. That was one thing she hadn’t considered but was quite possible, she supposed.
Mrs Morell pursed her lips. ‘Do you have any further insight, Thea?’ She took a sip of wine.
‘No,’ said Thea quietly. ‘None.’ She tried to keep her voice steady.
‘You two were relatively close before she went, I thought?’ said Mrs Morell. Thea saw Ursula blanch.
Relatively close. What an understatement. Into her head swam thoughts of their bodies entwined, their breath mingling, the whispered declarations of love as both their heart rates settled after hours of passion. Thea thought her mother might have gone on, but the sound of her heartbeat in her ears became all she could hear. Her head swam. She needed to take a deep breath, but her dinner corsets only allowed her to breathe at the top of her chest. Her breath became shallower if anything and she felt herself dizzy.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Relatively close.’ Then she stood unsteadily. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I need some air.’
She fled out of the room as Ursula wheeled backwards from the table and her father stood. ‘I’ll go,’ she heard him say as her shoes met the tiled floor of the hallway.
‘Did you know?’ she asked him, fifteen minutes later when she had stopped crying. While they had never spoken of it overtly, her father had once acknowledged her relationship with Martha, and she knew she was safe with him. She had known, in her heart, that Martha must have been back, whether she was away again or not. But hearing it from her mother was like a slap with wet leather.
Her father shook his head. ‘I didn’t. She has clearly kept it quiet.’ He sat on the third step up next to her on the carpeted staircase.
‘Why?’ she asked, tearing up again as she cycled through the possible reasons. It was clear that Martha didn’t want her anymore, but hearing about her silent return from her mother, of all people, was too much. And why hadn’t she been to London? Her house at Foxmore Square definitely hadn’t been opened in years.
