Callum turned to find his mother before she managed to frighten Miss Rothwell any further.
He glanced back over his shoulder, seeing Miss Rothwell chatting with her brother, her laughter light and her manner easy, and he felt a little envious, a little sad. He could never trust anyone enough to be able to relax that much. He wished that he could give it a try—it would be lovely to see her smile at him again.
Chapter 8
The hallway was silent, the pale greyish daylight seeping in through the windows. Callum felt the cold air through his shirtsleeves and wished that he had brought his tailcoat. It was warm in his bedroom, heated by a small fireplace in the corner, but in the corridor it was icy. He walked briskly and quietly past the closed bedroom doors of the guests and towards the breakfast room.
It was eight o’clock in the morning, but the corridor was silent. The guests had obviously been too weary after the ball to venture down to breakfast that early. His head hurt, his eyes dry and scratchy. He had lain awake for hours, thinking about Miss Rothwell. Her spirited words in the entranceway mixed with her softer, warmer discussion at dinner and her excellent performance at whist. She was no shallow society lady, but a complex woman with hidden depths. He could not stop thinking about her.
Callum walked the short distance to the breakfast room and paused in the doorway, then tensed.
The room was empty, except for one person. His mother sat at the table; the morning light soft on her white hair. She was sitting hunched over and she looked weary. Callum’s heart filled for a moment with compassion, but he tensed again as she looked up.
“Son! Come in,” she said softly, clearly aware, like himself, that the guests were sleeping.
Callum hesitated, unsure of whether he felt comfortable eating alone with his mother, who he expected to be full of criticism about Miss Rothwell, but she seemed affable enough, so he walked hesitantly in.
“Good morning,” she greeted him affably.
“Good morning, Mother,” he greeted her, inclining his head and then settling in the chair beside her. The breakfast room was more informal than the dining room, with three round tables, capable of seating six guests each, taking up most of the floor space. Callum reached for the porcelain teapot and gestured to his mother’s cup. She inclined her head.
“Thank you, son. I trust you had a good night’s sleep?”
“It was reasonable,” Callum said, not quite truthfully. He had barely slept at all.
“Mm,” his mother murmured. “And yet you woke early, as I did.” She shrugged. “I could not sleep any longer.”
“I, too,” Callum replied. He contemplated a piece of toast, though he felt a little queasy.
“It was pleasant to see James here,” his mother continued, reaching for a slice of toast herself and buttering it.
Callum frowned, not sure what to say. He had never liked the man, though he had never said that to his mother, since she felt sympathy for Lady Winbrook, who was an old friend of hers, and he did not want to raise his mother’s ire by stating that there seemed to be something not quite honest about her son.
“Poor fellow,” Mama sighed. “He was always a good boy. Quiet, reserved. And their estate suffered so.”
“Quite so,” Callum said cautiously. He did not like the fact that his mother felt sorry for James. It made him feel a certain amount of resentment, given that the estate that James had inherited had not been nearly as ruinous as his own. If she had sympathy for James, he thought crossly, she might as well have some for himself too. “Do you think it will snow today?” he added, glancing out of the window. The sky was blanketed with a dense layer of grey cloud, of the sort that brought snow. He sat up straighter. He needed to hurry over breakfast and go down to the stables. Preparations had to be made if heavy snow was likely to fall.
“Mm?” His mother frowned, then glanced at the windows, and nodded. “Mayhap. Lord Bronham said he thought that it would not snow today. His leg hurts terribly before a snowfall, he said. Old injury from the war.”
“Lord Bronham was in Portugal?” Callum asked. The most recent war was the Peninsular War against Napoleon. She shook her head.
“No. He was with Nelson in the navy.”
“Oh.” Callum inclined his head. He had not known that the earl had a naval past.
“Mm. Millicent must have been a small child when he went away to the war,” Mama commented.
“I suppose,” Callum said carefully. He had wanted to avoid the topic of Lady Millicent, but his mother seemed to insist on raising it.
“Now,sheis a fine young lady,” his mother said warmly. “Poised and graceful. And so charming! What a fine conversationalist she is.”
“Mm,” Callum said noncommittally. He glanced at the window again. “I need to meet with Mr Randell. Even if it does not snow, I must speak to him about preparations. The stables need to be made ready for the snowfall.”
“Later, son,” his mother said, flapping a dismissive hand. “You must at least break your fast.” She glanced at the table, where a toast rack and a bread basket stood, the basket filled with pastries. Callum’s stomach twisted queasily. Even if he had an appetite, he felt sick, both because of worry about the horses and because of how confusing the entire situation was. He did not understand his feelings for Miss Rothwell, and he wished his mother would stop trying to convince him to approve of her friend’s daughter. Lady Millicent.
“I am not hungry,” he said quietly.
As he pushed back his chair, his mother shook her head.
