The father, with frustrating slowness, removed his glasses, folded them up and placed them on a side table. ‘Am I to assume you are referring to my daughter?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m referring to your daughter—my wife.’
‘Have you had a little tiff?’ the mother asked with a small laugh, as if little tiffs were something rather delightful.
‘Have you done something to upset my daughter?’ the father asked in a completely different tone, his question coming closer to the truth.
‘Yes, I have, or should I say…’ He came to a halt, not wanting to waste time going into details. ‘I need to talk to her. I need to explain things. I need to apologise.’
‘It is a little tiff,’ the mother said, clapping her hands and looking at her husband as if he too should see what a wonderful thing a tiff was.
‘I think you need to explain yourself, young man,’ the father said, not looking at his wife but focusing entirely on Jacob. ‘Have you given my daughter reason to regret this marriage?’
To that Jacob could say a resounding yes, but he did not need the father’s threats of ruination complicating matters. ‘As I said, I need to talk to her so I can try and make things right.’
‘She’s not here,’ Mrs Whitmore said, cutting off her husband before he could make any threats. ‘She’s probably with one of her friends.’
‘Yes, that’s where she said she was going, but I don’t know… Can I have their—’
‘I’d get there quickly if I were you,’ the mother interrupted. ‘Those wallflowers are likely to try and poison my daughter against you and against marriage.’
‘Aliceismarried,’ Mr Whitmore said, frowning at his wife.
‘Yes, but to an earl, not a duke,’ Mrs Whitmore said, as if that made a difference. ‘She’s certain to be jealous of my daughter. The whole of Society is jealous of my daughter. Why, just the other day, Lady Tilsbury tried to say that—’
‘May I have the addresses of her friends?’ Jacob cut her off, not wanting to be rude, but also not wanting Mrs Whitmore to start one of her monologues, especially as she had advised him to get to the friends’ homes quickly before they poisoned Margaret against him.
The father rose and crossed the room to a writing desk, while Mrs Whitmore continued telling him what Lady Tilsbury had said. He scribbled something down, then handed it to Jacob, but kept hold of the piece of paper. ‘Make right whatever you have done wrong, young man, or you know what I will do.’
‘Believe me, sir, if Margaret does not want to reconcile with me there is nothing you can do that will cause me any greater ruin.’
With that, the father released the paper. Jacob quickly scanned the addresses, pushed the paper into his pocket and departed without saying goodbye. Again, he was showing unforgivable rudeness, but right now there was only one person whose forgiveness he wanted.
He took his carriage around to the first address on the list, but was told by the footman that neither Lady Thornwood nor the Earl were in residence, so he made haste to her other friend’s address.
The footman asked for his card, making it clear that Miss Primrose was at home, so he ignored the man and entered the drawing room, where he found three women seated closely together.
All three looked up at him with wide eyes and open mouths. Jacob stood in the middle of the drawing room, suddenly unsure what on earth he was supposed to do or say.
Alice was immediately on her feet. She took Primrose’s arm and, without saying a word to Jacob, left the room with what could under different circumstances be seen as unseemly haste.
Jacob stood at the door, looking unsure of himself and wearing a strange abashed expression. This was not like him. He never looked uncertain. Part of her wanted to run to him, to take him in her arms, but she stood her ground, or rather, remained seated. If she weakened now, she would be lost completely.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, pleased that her voice did not quaver.
‘I…’ He looked back towards the door as if trying to figure it out himself, then lifted his head and gave every appearance of puffing out his chest, exactly like the peacock she had first depicted him as.
‘I’ve come to retrieve my wife,’ he said in a decisive voice.
‘Your wife?’ she said, thankful that anger was rising up within her and hoping it would drive out all other confusing emotions. ‘Have you now?’
‘Yes, my wife—the woman who just ran out on me.’
Margaret folded her arms against her chest, covering her heart and masking all other feelings with defiance. ‘Firstly, I do not appreciate being referred to asyour wife. I am not your possession.’
‘That’s not what I—’
‘And secondly, if you remember correctly, that was not our deal.’
