Naturally diligent and purposeful, Sabine, too, was an early riser, and she would be up, dressed, and ready to explore the next quadrant of the city on her ever-ready list.
Since girlhood, Tessa was the friend most prone to sleep late into the day, but her pregnancy put an end to this practice, and now she would frequently be up before them all, too uncomfortable to sleep.
And so the brides would convene each morning, filling the small, windowed breakfast room with laughter and chatter. A buffet of fried eggs, toast, fresh breads and jams, sausages, and fruit with cream was laid by staff on a sideboard. Uncle Arthur did not take breakfast, but he always presided at the head of the table, drinking coffee and reading the news, while the women spoke around him.
The morning after Cassin arrived should be no different, Willow told herself. Eggs, coffee, chatter. And the unexpected presence ofa man, fresh from her bed. With him, a thousand unanswered questions.
It only prolonged the awkwardness to be cowardly about it, she thought. Together, the two of them had survived the potentially awkward scene of awakening to the bright light of day with him sprawled, naked, beside her in her bed. The scene had played out so shyly and sweetly, eventually giving way to hilarity. They had laughed until they became too occupied to laugh any more. Now Willow had very high hopes for breakfast. The only way to surpass the strangeness of the situation was to face it.
“Can I trouble the footman to lay a place for the earl?” Willow said brightly from the doorway to the breakfast room.
The tinkle and hum of conversation in the room stopped.
Four faces turned to the door, their expressions frozen mid-chew.
Cassin stood behind her, washed and shaved and dressed in dry clothes. Willow had struggled to stop staring at him.
She cleared her throat and took a brave step into the room. “As you may know, Cassin has made a surprise journey home from Barbadoes. He was my guest last . . . ”
Now she lost heart. It had been a glaring breach of manners not to approach her aunt and uncle about Cassin’s installment in their home as a guest. She’d simply been so overcome, and he was her husband, after all, and—
“I beg you, forgive the intrusion, Mr. Boyd, Mrs. Boyd,” said Cassin, stepping around her. He presented himself to Uncle Arthur with a deferential bow.
The middle-aged man smiled up at him, stirring his coffee. After a long moment, he tapped the spoon and stood, extending his hand. Aunt Mary rose beside him.
“Do not interrupt your breakfast, please,” Cassin said, taking Uncle Arthur’s hand. “I am so grateful to be your guest. I’ve returned to England on urgent business at my home in Yorkshire, but my first stop is London. I was also . . . urgently motivated to call on my wife.”
Tessa dropped her knife, and it landed with a clatter on her bread plate. Willow winced but did not look.
“Of course you are always welcome in Wilton Crescent, my lord,” said Uncle Arthur. Cassin bowed over Aunt Mary’s hand.
“But you must join us for breakfast,” said Mary. To Willow, she said, “We’ve already laid a place for the earl, dear. There, next to you.”
Willow released a breath and led Cassin around the table. Slowly, the clink and scrape of silver on china resumed, but the chatter did not. A rare silence descended in the sunny room. Her friends and aunt cast sidelong glances while Willow unsteadily poured two cups of tea.
“Mrs. Chance?” said Cassin suddenly, speaking to Tessa. “I’ve a letter for you. From Joseph.”
Tessa’s knife clattered a second time. Cassin reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and produced a letter. Tessa stared at it like a stolen jewel.
“My decision to sail home was hasty and unplanned,” Cassin went on. “Joseph had time only for a page or so. This was scrawled, I believe, on an overturned barrel outside the fishmonger’s.”
Tessa glanced from the extended letter long enough to nod at him. She rose and took the letter, studying the inscription. And then she was gone, dashing from the room as quickly as her swollen condition would allow.
When she was gone, silence reclaimed the room.
“And I’ve also one for you, Mrs. Stoker,” Cassin said.
Sabine’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”
Tessa received occasional letters from Joseph—their contents never discussed—but Willow knew of no correspondence between Sabine and Jon Stoker.
“From Stoker,” said Cassin, extending a second letter. “Also hastily written, I’m afraid. Even so, I’ve promised to deliver it.”
Sabine paused a moment and then smiled tightly and reached for the letter. She tucked it smoothly in the pocket of her skirts and returned to her blueberries. “Thank you, my lord,” she said.
“What? No letter for me?” asked Uncle Arthur, weary, perhaps, of the tenseness around his table. “I dare say, I might cry.”
Willow laughed; Aunt Mary, too, and Cassin made for the sideboard with his plate.
