Gwendolyn couldn’t resist a snort. “Because that’s exactly what a woman who almost suffers a drowning immediately does—launches into an interrogation. And before you argue that point, no, I’m not going to pretend I’m drowning, which means you need to put that idea straight out of your head.”
The far-too-innocent smile Mrs. Parker sent her was hardly reassuring, but before Gwendolyn could respond to that, Mr. Hutton, Mrs. Parker’s butler, stepped into the room.
“The carriage is out front, Mrs. Parker. Are you ready for me to assist you into your chair?”
“That would be most appreciated, Mr. Hutton.”
After the butler helped Mrs. Parker to her feet and then assisted her into her wheeled chair, he began pushing her toward the door, stopping when she held up her hand and glanced back to Gwendolyn.
“Make certain you don’tconvenientlyforget that bag containing your bathing costume,” Mrs. Parker said. “Even if you’re not keen to fake a drowning, you’re still going to have to get into the water to attempt a conversation with Clarence.”
Gwendolyn permitted herself a touch of a sigh as Mrs. Parker vanished from sight, because the lady was far too astute for her own good, given that the thought of purposefully leaving her bathing costume behind had certainly crossed her mind, since that would put to rest a feigned drowning episode once and for all.
Six
It was a disconcerting position for Walter to find himself in, and one that could only be described as an assault of the feminine persuasion.
Looking past Cordelia Lowe—who was still sporting a black eye from an unfortunate tennis accident he now suspected may have been a maiming on purpose at the hands of Miss Tillie Wickham, who was currently giggling into her handkerchief over a remark he’d made about the weather—he refused a sigh when he saw seven additional young ladies marching his way. An urge to flee to less feminine pastures settled over him because he would soon be encircled by a total of fourteen ladies, a concerning circumstance given that it wasn’t much past noon yet.
Fourteen was an unprecedented number of ladies to speak with at one time, especially given that he’d brought his children for a relaxing day in the sun.
Relaxation didn’t seem to be on his agenda for the foreseeable future, not when all the ladies who’d come to see him today had come bearing gifts for what many of them called hissweet little lambs.
Unfortunately, Oscar, at nine, didn’t appreciate being addressed as a sweet little lamb, and it had sent him hightailing it down to the water with his toy sailboat under his arm, refusing to return to Walter’s side for the expected introductions to ladies arriving late to Bailey’s Beach.
If Oscar’s unacceptable behavior wasn’t bad enough, his twins, Priscilla and Samuel, were in trying states brought about by being presented with one extravagant present after another.
To say they’d behaved ungraciously was an understatement. Their increasingly dramatic moments reaffirmed his certainty that drastic measures were indeed going to be necessary to get them in hand.
As he’d watched his children’s behavior go from concerning to downright deplorable, one thought kept springing to mind—it was entirely Miss Gwendolyn Brinley’s fault he now found himself in such an unenviable situation.
If she’d not wrangled out his confession regarding one of the most pressing requirements he needed in a wife—that being a mother for his children—he wouldn’t now find himself inundated with this level of attention, nor would his children find themselves the recipients of far too many gifts.
While he’d certainly thought only the evening before that Gwendolyn Brinley was the most fascinating woman he’d ever met, he’d now had a change of heart and decided she was more on the lines of vastly annoying.
How Gwendolyn had been able to wrangle out his confession was still confusing, because he, given the delicate nature of the business deals he brokered, was always careful with his words, but wrangle out a confession she’d certainly done. That regrettable circumstance was exactly why he kept finding himself waylaid by one eligible young miss after another.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Townsend,” Tillie Wickham said, interrupting his thoughts, “but I believe the pony Miss Tildenpresented to your children has gotten loose. It appears to be eyeing Mrs. Elliott’s hat, which, unfortunately, is on Mrs. Elliott’s head.”
Chancing a glance to where Tillie was gesturing, Walter discovered the pony, which now apparently belonged to his family, was indeed eyeing Mrs. Elliott’s hat.
He refused a sigh. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to what could turn into a disturbing pony debacle.”
“We’ll help you,” Tillie pronounced, earning nods from every lady gathered around him.
Walter inclined his head. “Thank you, but I wouldn’t want the pony to turn its attention to your hats next. It may be best for me to deal with this situation alone since I’m currently without a hat, having misplaced it while attending to the needs of my daughter, who was in a slight state of distress.”
Frances Bottleworth took a step closer to him. “Little Penelope does seem to have a set of lungs on her.”
Before Walter could think of a suitable response to what was clearly an understatement, Elizabeth Ellsworth released a titter. “Forgive me, Miss Bottleworth, but Mr. Townsend’s daughter’s name is not Penelope. It’s Paisley.” She fluttered her lashes Walter’s way. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Townsend?”
Walter fought a wince. “Her name is actually Priscilla.”
“Are you certain about that?” Elizabeth asked as her forehead took to puckering.
Walter rubbed a hand over his face. “Ah, well, yes, quite certain. She is my daughter, and I’ve been addressing her as Priscilla since the day she was born.”
“I suppose you would know best what her name truly is,” Elizabeth muttered as her cheeks turned a telling shade of pink, matching the pink spreading across Frances’s face.
