We were cousins, strictly speaking, and I suppose I wasn’t opposed to entertaining the idea of marrying him, should he decide to float a proposal, but there was a chance that that suggestion would include relocating to Germany, and I certainly wasn’t open to that, or to anything else that would include my leaving Christopher behind and returning to the land of my birth.
At any rate, I had assumed that Wolfgang would be downstairs in the breakfast room and I would see him there, but it seemed as if he had either breakfasted in his room or had come and gone early.
Or done without food, I suppose.
“I saw him for a moment,” Constance said. “He was in the breakfast room when we came down. But as soon as he saw Francis, he got up and left.”
That was considerate of him. “I don’t suppose you happened to notice what he was wearing?”
“Not tweed,” Constance said.
“I don’t think the Germans are as enamored with tweed as we are here.” And then something occurred to me, and I shot her a look. “Surely he wasn’t wearing short trousers?”
She gave me a look back. “Of course not.”
“In Bavaria they do. Even the grown men.” I remembered that much from my first decade of life. Men inlederhosenwith suspenders and bare knees, withLodenjackets and hats withGamsbarthair on top.
Constance shook her head. “He wasn’t wearing anything out of the ordinary. Brown wool breeks, a gray and green jacket with silver buttons, and a hat with feathers in the band. And tall boots.”
A German version of the traditional British hunting gear, then.
“He looked good,” I said, “I assume?”
“Good enough that Laetitia deigned to flutter her eyelashes at him,” Constance answered.
I snorted. “I can only imagine how St George responded to that.”
“From the look of him, I would say that Lord St George would be only too happy to have theGrafvon Natterdorff take his fiancée off his hands.”
I could well imagine it. Or at least it would be my own inclination, had I been the one to ill-advisedly get myself shackled to Laetitia Marsden.
“Serves him right,” I said.
Constance made a moue and pushed open the door to Primrose. Only to stop on the threshold. “Oh. Nellie.”
“Miss Constance.” Nellie made a quick curtsey.
“I was just going to change my shoes.” Constance headed for the wardrobe. I stayed where I was, in the doorway, and watched as she unbuckled the strap-shoes, tucked them away in the bottom of the wardrobe, and pulled out a pair of brogues.
When she perched on the edge of the divan to tie the laces, I turned my attention back to Nellie. “Have you been upstairs yet, Nellie? Or is there another maid doing the rooms up there?”
“No, Miss Darling.” Nellie ran her hands over the counterpane to smooth out the wrinkles. “I’ll be doing the rooms upstairs once I’m done down here.”
“You can leave mine alone,” I said. “I made my own bed. And Miss Cecily Fletcher might still be in bed, when you get up there. She wasn’t feeling well last night.”
Nellie nodded. “Yes, Miss Darling. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Just be careful when you knock on her door. If she’s still unwell, just leave her be.”
“Yes, Miss Darling.” Her hands were careful as they smoothed out Constance’s counterpane.
“I’m ready,” the latter said, getting to her feet.
I nodded. “We’re going out on the lawn for a game of croquet, Nellie, if anyone asks.”
“Yes, Miss Darling.”
We headed out of the room and along the hallway to the small staircase, the way I had done last night. “Did you sleep well?” I inquired as we entered the stairwell and started up.
