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‘I feared you had forgotten about me, Mrs Wilkinson.’ Mrs Reynaud handed Moth her treat. ‘Moth has been very bad not to insist on you coming here. And here I’d thought you and I had an arrangement, young Moth. Biscuits in return for your mistress’s company.’
Moth gave a sharp bark.
‘Your maid said that you have been under the weather.’ Hattie kept the basket in front of her. All the way here she’d debated—did she confess to Mrs Reynaud about her relationship with Kit and ask her advice or not? Mrs Reynaud was the one person in the village who had experience with such things.
‘Not so ill that I can’t receive one of my favourite people. A slight chill, nothing more. My health is less robust than I might wish. The damp of this cottage does me no good. But going out is hard. I worry about people and the lecture series. How goes it this year? Still surviving, I take it.’
Hattie felt a tug of regret. Until Kit had told her this morning about his plans to leave, she’d been so wrapped up in him that she had quite forgotten her usual routine. Stephanie was right. Her behaviour was causing comment. No more. ‘I’ve been busy. I’ve a new horse, the most lovely chestnut—Strawberry. Riding is a new passion of mine. I hadn’t realised how enjoyable it was. The freedom it gives.’
She stopped, aware that her cheeks flamed.
‘A gift from Sir Christopher, or so the gossip has it. A thank you for nursing him,’ Mrs Reynaud said with a faint frown. ‘His father always did have a good eye for horse flesh.’
‘I bought her on favourable terms with Sir Christopher’s assistance. He rescued a little stable boy.’
Mrs Reynaud waved an impatient hand. ‘You meet him on this horse of yours? Don’t lie to me, Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘I’ve discovered that I enjoy the experience far more than I thought I would.’ Hattie put down the basket. She clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling. She’d thought it over last night. She had to know more about Kit. Every time they had discussed about his childhood, he’d neatly turned the conversation away. She had to know what had gone wrong yesterday. ‘You said you knew something of Sir Christopher’s childhood. I understand it was very unhappy.’
‘A bit.’ Mrs Reynaud’s eyes turned wary and her hand trembled as she lifted the coffee cup to her lips. ‘Is it important?’
‘It was something he said, or rather didn’t say. It has been nagging at me.’ Hattie drew a deep breath. She had come this far. Other than Kit, Mrs Reynaud was the only person who might know. ‘I wondered what happened to his mother.’
‘You ought to ask Sir Christopher.’
Hattie leant forwards. ‘But you know.’
Mrs Reynaud gave a sad smile. ‘Yes, my dear, I know.’
‘Is it breaking a confidence?’
‘I doubt that. There was a criminal conversation trial which was splashed all over the papers. It became the talk of England, Europe and, I believe, America. The cartoonists had a field day with the baronet spying on his wife and her lover in the bath.’
Hattie’s heart clenched. Poor Kit. No wonder he didn’t want to speak of it. She could vaguely remember her mother discussing it in hushed tones when a friend of hers had run away. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Now you do.’
‘Unfortunately Kit’s mother was less than discreet, that is what you are saying.’ Hattie’s heart constricted. It had to be awful to have one’s parents involved in such a thing and it was never the man whose name was dragged through the mud, but the woman’s. And Kit had been left with his father, the man who saw no use for toys. ‘What a dreadful mess. The father always gets custody in those cases and Kit’s father was horrible.’
‘You call him Kit now, do you?’ Mrs Reynaud gave a warm laugh. ‘Behold the woman who will never have a flirtation, who is one of the walking dead because her husband died. Who disapproved of such things intensely.’ Her gaze became piercing. ‘I trust it remains only a flirtation. Sir Christopher has a certain reputation.’
‘We are friends.’ Hattie waved a vague hand before leaning forwards. She’d reached the crux of the matter and only Mrs Reynaud could assist. ‘He helped me when I bought my new horse, but I am interested in his mother. Do you know what became of her? Is she dead?’
‘Yes, his mother was silly and naïve. She sought romance in the wrong set of arms.’ Mrs Reynaud’s mouth twisted. ‘A hopeless romantic who didn’t realise what she had lost until too late. Pray do not concern yourself with a piece of flotsam like her.’
