“Inordinately,” Honora said.
The dowager kept her gaze on Clara but nodded toward Honora. “Does she do this all the time?”
“Almost always.”
“Quite annoying.”
Clara bit her lower lip. She dared not respond, especially as Honora gave a slight huff and leaned back in her chair.
“So do you have many animals besides Pockets?”
Stroking along Clementina’s body, Clara finally began to relax. With one more snuffle at Clara’s thigh, the dog shifted and put her head in Clara’s lap. “More so at Beckcott Abbey.”
“Your country home.”
“Yes.” Clara looked up from Clementine to find the dowager studying her closely. “My horse, Aethelred, and Moses, who is my favorite hound. And Maid Marian.”
The dowager’s eyebrows arched. “Maid Marian?”
“My peregrine.”
The dowager leaned forward. “You have a falcon? Do you hunt with her?”
“I do.” Clara nodded. “Although not as often as I would wish.”
Tilting her head, the dowager studied Clara a bit closer. “A peregrine is a royal bird. How did you come by her?”
“Our gamekeeper’s mother is a falconer. She works on a neighboring estate, and I used to follow her around the mews. Her work fascinated me, so she allowed me to train one of her fledging peregrines, later gifting it to me, when it became clear we had bonded irreparably.” Clara paused. “What did you mean, peregrines are royal?”
The dowager sat a bit straighter and closed her eyes, reciting. “‘An eagle for an emperor, a gyrfalcon for a king; a peregrine for a prince, a saker for a knight, a merlin for a lady; a goshawk for a yeoman, a sparrowhawk for a priest, a musket for a holy water clerk, a kestrel for a knave.’” She opened her eyes. “It’s the falconer’s hierarchy, from the book of St. Alban’s. Dating back to 1486, if I remember. Quite ancient. Your falconer did not teach it to you?”
Clara shook her head.
“Neglectful. Have you bred her yet?” When Clara hesitated, the dowager went on. “You should, of course, especially given the love for her I see in your face.” The dowager paused and caressed her Skye again. “You will outlive her, and your heart will be broken. It is why we breed Skyes at our country home. You must establish her lineage.” She glared at Honora. “She must.”
“But, Your Grace—”
The dowager waved Honora silent again, focusing on Clara. “You must.”
“Your Grace—”
A sharp knock on the door brought the conversation to a halt as two footmen and the butler entered with the tea service as a clock somewhere chimed four times. The table between the two settees creaked as the laden platters of pastries, jam, cream, and small sandwiches were clustered next to a wooden tray bearing the hot water, a teapot, cups, milk, sugar, and a small tea chest. The butler paused as the last elements were set fast and gave the dowager a sharp bow.
“Do you wish me to do the honors, Your Grace?”
The dowager surveyed the table. “Not at all. I will take care of it.” She looked up at him. “But would you return at half-past? Clementina will need her walk, and I do think I am not up to it today.”
Another bow, and all three men left. With the door closed, the dowager began making the tea. “I do not know why we fall silent when they are here. The servants know everything anyway.”
Clara smiled, picked up a plate, and added two sandwiches and a pastry to it, and offered it to Honora. “Mother?”
Honora took the plate, then eased back on the settee. When the dowager glanced at her, eyebrows raised, she said, “Just tea. Thank you.”
The dowager turned to Clara, who responded, “Milk, no sugar.”
The tea and food served, the dowager leaned back against her pillows, inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. She addressed Honora. “Now that the pleasant chatter is out of the way, tell me the plans my son has for Lady Clara over the next few weeks. I know he has a regimen planned for her.” She gave Clara a nod. “It is what he does.”
Clara waited as Honora perked up, finally engaging in something she could speak about with authority. As her mother went through all the details of the planned visits to the modiste and the events the duke wished Clara to attend, she took small nibbles of the pastry. The dowager listened intently, although she occasionally offered small bits of food to Clementina. The dog found the food by touch and smell, and Clara resisted saying anything about what she had seen when she had cupped the dog’s face. She gazed at Clementina again to confirm her observation. The poor creature’s eyes were almost entirely covered with a bluish film, something Clara had seen before in the older animals at Beckcott Abbey. Clementina was blind.
