Cressida clenched her jaw. “His Grace is good practice,” she said, after a moment. “He is considerably more stubborn than Father.”
Her mother looked at her directly for the first time since sitting down. “Are you happy, Cressida? Truly.”
Cressida blinked, stunned by the honesty in her mother’s voice.
Since when did Lady Bardwell ever care about her happiness? Did she consider her happiness all these years, correcting her stance, suppressing her wit, criticizing her interests, then promptly sending her away to the tyrannical Aunt Agatha?
Her blood boiled. Did her mother truly have the audacity to consider her happiness now, after all the pain she’d caused her?
Cressida opened her mouth to challenge her, to argue with her, to shut her down. But then she paused to ponder what exactly would happen if she did. Her mother would huff, claim that Cressida hadn’t changed at all, then storm off to save face.
What was the point of that? Certainly, Cressida would feel some sense of relief by confronting her, but ultimately, would it make things any better between them, knowing her mother?
No.
Cressida let out a long breath, trying to imagine the anger coming out like steam from a kettle, then straightened her back.
“I am,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “And I believe he is, too. Which is more than I expected at our rushed wedding.”
Lady Bardwell was quiet for a moment, twiddling her thumbs. “I should have come to visit sooner, I know that, but your letters always sounded as though you were managing.”
“I was.”
“Yes. You are very good at that.” Her voice was dry, but not unkindly. “You get it from me, unfortunately. It is not an entirely useful quality.” She stood, smoothed her skirt again, and looked out the window at the grounds below. “He watched you throughout dinner, you know. He thinks he’s being subtle.”
At that, Cressida beamed, content to bask in the reality of having such a banal conversation with her mother. “He is not remotely subtle.”
“No.” Lady Bardwell nodded. “It is delightful to watch,” she said with a somewhat naughty smile.
Cressida felt herself smiling back.
And for once, her body relaxed, and she let herself enjoy a quiet little moment with her mother.
By the third day, Theodore had developed a working theory about the Bardwells: they did not so much occupy a castle as metabolize it.
Lord Bardwell had rearranged the furniture on principle. Lady Bardwell had found seventeen things to improve and worked her way through Mrs. Agnes, then Cressida, then Theodore, to communicate them.
Peter had returned three of four borrowed library books to the wrong shelves. Mary had personally introduced herself to all the servants, including the boot boy, who appeared to have never experienced this and didn’t know what to do with it.
And now, on the afternoon of the third day, they were all outside, and Mary had a toad in her hands.
Theodore had no idea how. He had watched her put it down by the lake twenty minutes ago. Yet here it was, cupped in her palms, being introduced to Peter, who had lowered his pamphlet by approximately two inches to acknowledge it.
“It’s a common toad,” he said.
“He has a name,” Mary scoffed.
“Toads don’t have names.”
“This one does. It’s Gerald.”
“You’ve had Gerald for twenty minutes.”
“That’s long enough.”
Theodore looked at Cressida. Cressida looked back at him with an expression that said clearly,Yes, and this is every day of my life.
Lord Bardwell had stopped to interrogate a section of dry stone wall with the intensity of a man who had found his purpose. Lady Bardwell stood beside him with her arms folded, her eyes following Mary.
