The company spilled out of the stables, and Sir Ronald led an examination of the grounds. Much had been ravaged by the storm. Small tree limbs and leaves littered the clearing, with overturned buckets and feed barrels scattered around as well. What a mess. Clara locked arms with Sir Ronald of her own accord, and I nearly fell over at her confidence. It seemed I was not needed here after all. Slowing my pace to separate myself from the group, I saw Peter tossing a stick into a heaping pile by a fence.
Would he notice my absence? Did I want him to? As I trudged back to the house, I could not help but think that secretly I did. And that was a problem indeed.
Chapter Twelve
With nowhere in particular to go, I entered the drawing room, which was lit with afternoon sunlight.
“Miss Moore, what a surprise. Are the others far behind you?” Lady Demsworth asked from the settee she shared with Mrs. Turnball and looked up from her stitching expectantly.
“They continue their walk along the grounds. I fear I have not quite recovered from this morning,” I answered, finding a seat nearby.
It wasn’t entirely untrue, but after my conversation with Peter in Summer’s stall, I could not deny a new feeling also. A lighter, happier feeling that surpassed the lingering exhaustion from this morning. But Clara was right. What place did Peter Wood have in my life? Who knew his intentions for certain? I was here for one purpose, and one purpose only. To secure Clara’s match with Sir Ronald.
“Of course, dear, and how could you be? Though I am sure the party misses you.” Lady Demsworth returned to her stitching. “Mrs. Turnball and I were just discussing the upcoming ball my dear friends the Levins are hosting at the end of the fortnight. It was so kind of them to extend the invitation to our entire party. They are lavish hosts. I am certain their ball will feel as polished as any in London. Do you not agree, Mrs. Turnball?”
“To be sure,” Mrs. Turnball added. “Do you enjoy dancing, Miss Moore?”
“I love it. And I did not dance enough in London. A ball sounds very inviting.”
Lady Demsworth clucked, pulling her needle up through canvas. “With your beauty? Were the men blind this Season?”
Mrs. Turnball motioned to the pianoforte in the corner of the room. “Play for us, won’t you, Miss Moore?”
I had not played since arriving at Lakeshire Park, but with a nearly empty room, now seemed the perfect time. I knew Lady Demsworth and Mrs. Turnball would forgive my inadequacy. The only song I could play well was Father’s. And that did not render me an accomplished lady.
The women sitting next to me made the job of being a proper lady seem effortless, easy, as though the training was ingrained in their bones. They made conversation easy and pleasant. In fact, as I studied their faces, their gentleness and easy comradery, I could not help but wish to be like them. They were so vastly different from the women I’d met in London.
Mrs. Turnball, though quiet and serious, held depth behind her eyes. I truly believed if she was forced into a battle of wits, she would win, and yet her first instinct would not be to battle at all, I was sure of it. Her elegance and grace took precedence. The way she held her head, high and unyielding, confirmed it.
The same was true of Lady Demsworth. Even earlier while wearing her morning clothes, she exuberated dignity and propriety. In her eyes was a natural kindness, a sympathetic compassion, and yet she fiercely devoted herself to her family. Clara would do well to tie herself to such a mother-in-law. To be among such society.
A Mozart piece spanned the music desk on the pianoforte, and I slid my fingers along the smooth, cool keys to find my place. My eyes studied the notes. I could already tell my playing would be far too slow for what was required.
A knock sounded at the door, drawing my attention, and Mr. Gregory stepped inside, holding a silver platter.
“Pardon me, but a letter has just arrived for you, Miss Moore,” he said from the doorway.
Who would write to me here? My stomach rolled as I moved my heavy feet across the room to meet him. The only person who knew my whereabouts, who might need to write to me at all, was Lord Gray.
But as I took the letter from Mr. Gregory, the scrawl was not Lord Gray’s. And yet the address was Gray House, Brighton.
“Please summon my maid,” I said, hurrying toward the stairs. My intuition told me something was very wrong.
Closing the door to my bedchamber, I stopped in the center of the room, the letter weighing a thousand pounds in my shaking hand.
“Miss Moore, what is it?” Mary burst through the door, breathless. “What is wrong?”
“I have a letter from Gray House. But it is not from Lord Gray.”
Mary took the letter from my hand, eyes scrutinizing the words. “This is Mr. Jones’s hand. Why would he write to you?”
My heart sank, fearing the worst. I took the letter back from Mary, slowly pulling the fold and breaking the seal.
Mary stood beside me, waiting for my reaction. Any fate I assumed would also be hers.
Miss Moore,
Forgive me for writing to you while you are away, but I felt it necessary considering the circumstances. Lord Gray’s condition has worsened since you left us. He is now bedridden, and the doctor predicts he has but days left before his lungs fail entirely. Because of this, I have penned a letter summoning your cousin, Trenton.
