That made him smile down at me with his big blue eyes.
My practiced smile. Was it still there?
“Mrs. Wilky, I daresay you are getting more used to me.” He slid my palm, my clutched palm, down and took my hand in his. “Your parents are about. We shouldn’t look so forward.”
I nodded. I might even have agreed out loud. We walked a little farther. Mr. Marks on one side. My terror on the right.
Ester was close behind us. Bonnet on, short ivory gloves, but she was there.
I smiled.
I breathed a little easier. Croome girls might have words, but we made sure we each were safe. I loved that frustrating bonbon.
Blinking, I forced my eyes to John Marks. He could be my future, Chris’s and my future. The sooner I learned how to feel secure with him, the better things would go.
Marks took his time guiding me about the garden, chatting with this one and that, complimenting Mama on the food, Clancy on the manicure of the hedges.
Yet my terror stayed on my right side, the side with my scar, the worst part of my vision. The trees, the flowering hedges in the distance didn’t seem so scary, but I did keep looking back to the house.
My barrister was personable and chatty, even with the knitting women.
Mrs. Daly could find no fault in his diction. She may have even smiled back at him.
I paid attention as much as I could, but I felt my gaze drifting, hunting through the crowd for the shortest path back to the house. My lenses weren’t as strong as the ones I’d broken at Blaren House, but anything was better than seeing a few inches from my nose when I was out where things could get at me.
We crossed Mama’s path again.
Her ice-blue gown with ruffs of Brabant lace about the hem made her seem beautiful and serene. She didn’t smile as much at Marks as she did at Ester’s husband. I didn’t know why.
“Mr. Marks,” she said, “you must have a slice of my cake. Did Ruth tell you that she loves baking? She’s a good baker, too.”
I looked up, and Mr. Marks had that pout on his face, the beg-off frown.
“Mrs. Croome, this is a lovely party, but I’ll have to wait on the dessert. I have to leave. I have to meet with my solicitor. New evidence has been discovered for an upcoming trial.”
Mama’s prim expression stayed perfect, and sweet, not an ounce of disappointment exuded.
But I knew how she liked people eating her cake.
I was torn, because if Mr. Marks left, he would have to take me back to the house, but Mama worked hard for her parties.
“You’re never able to stay.” Mama’s tone gave her away. “One wonders what kind of life my daughter will have if her husband works all the time.”
The tone sounded delicate, but the words weren’t.
A stranger would think it was just a mother offering a slight critique. This was Horatia Croome’s shot over the bow. Croome women might fight, kick, and scream, but they had one another’s best interest at heart.
For the first time in a long time, I was proud to be a Croome.
“Mr. Marks,” Mama said, “at least go say your good-byes to Mr. Croome. He’s over in the shade with my grandbabies, Josiah and Ruth’s son, Christopher.”
“Yes, Mrs. Croome.” He released my hand and left me.
I focused on Mama, not the distance back to the house, which was now at least thirty paces.
I folded my arms, clutching my long sleeve, my elbows, and tried to breathe.
“Ruth, you hear me. You’re fine. Don’t embarrass yourself. You’re good.”
