Mrs. Johnson seemed agitated and too concerned with the baron’s business, but I’d not inquire. Adam’s number crunching had been deadly. I’d have no part of Wycliff’s situation.
I purled another row, right spacing, even. “Lord Wycliff, my latehusband’s cousin, will be here soon. Let’s not let him catch us gossiping.”
I loved saying husband, loved the reaction they all wore—frozen smiles, eyes lowering. Penance, perhaps? If I glared at each of these awful counselors long enough, I might see respect.
So, I did.
Pow.I caught Mrs. Daly—she smiled back.
Wham.Mrs. Johnson peered at me. Boy, she looked guilty.
Snap.Mama. Glorious Mama, nodded and beamed, beamed at me.
It was silly and childish and freeing. I loved it.
The sound of the outer door opening and shutting made me shiver with pleasure. I turned to the window. A big blur, a carriage-sized blob was outside.
Wycliff had arrived early. And there went my courage.
I held my breath, listening for footsteps, but all I heard was Clancy’s heavy footfalls.
The parlor door opened with a bang.
“Lord Wycliff has come calling, Mrs. Croome. He’s here to see Mrs. Wilky.”
I lifted my head and caught his gaze. I sensed his confident smile, his swagger as he advanced. “Ladies.”
In the baron’s arms were two bouquets, one fine set of hothouse roses, the other a bunch of daisies, each wrapped in crisp white paper.
“For you, Mrs. Croome.” He gave the roses to Mama. Then he spun and presented himself to me.
Glad for once to wear my spectacles, I savored the sight of him. Dark bottle-green waistcoat cut over snug beech breaches, finely polished boots. I didn’t mind his freshly trimmed beard or how it framed his handsome face. Sort of made him mysterious, like a pirate with a sjambok. The dormant adventurer inside me perked up.
I took the daisies and sniffed the sweet petals. Daisies were happy flowers, so free and easy.
“Leave your knitting, Ruth,” Mama said. “I’ll put it away for you. Clancy, find vases for these lovely flowers. Thank you, Lord Wycliff.”
The butler took the bouquets and began to leave, but not before Wycliff pinched off a daisy and put it in his buttonhole.
Adam used to do that.
I ducked my eyes to the scarf I was knitting for Mr. Marks’s upcoming birthday, but my head was filled with Wycliff. How could such a simple thing like a daisy in a buttonhole make me happy?
“Mrs. Wilky?”
The baron’s raspy voice centered me, led me back to the truth of where things were. Though he looked like Adam, Adam was gone, and wasn’t returning.
Wycliff extended his hand to me.
I took it. Rising from my chair, I noted again how good the creamy-white petals and happy brown button of the daisy looked against his ebony tailcoat.
The baron was tall and handsome and endearing with the flower, but was I admiring a memory or my husband’s cousin?
“Mrs. Wilky, I’ve thought of nothing else but our walk.”
Mama picked up my yarn and jabbed the needles into the bundle. “You’re going outside, Ruth? Mrs. Fitterwall has made tea and a light nuncheon upstairs in the dining room.”
He glanced at me, then turned to Mama. “Ma’am, I thank you for your generous hospitality, but I’m partial to walking. I’ve come with the expectation of walking. I don’t want to disappoint my lovely cousin.”
