“You’re quite right.” Cassie smiled. “Motherhood took its toll. Later in her life, my mother did not enjoy good health.”
“She has passed on, then?” Mrs. Bottlesworth asked.
“Yes, and my father, too.”
“How good, then, that you have the duke on whom to rely.” Though Mrs. Grayson’s words had been kind, her tone had not.
“I count myself lucky,” she responded with care.
“Your sister Elizabeth is, I believe, married to the Marquess of Redver.” Mrs. Townsend came to the rescue.
“Master Adrian?” Mrs. Bottlesworth exclaimed.
“Do you remember him?” Cassie asked.
“Oh, of course! He and Master—” she stopped. “He and His Grace ran amok all over the estate when they were young.” Her words may have been harsh, but, unlike Mrs. Grayson’s cold eyes, the older woman’s gaze held only fondness.
“They still do, I imagine,” Mrs. Grayson replied wryly. “Run amok, that is.”
“Cynthia!” Mrs. Townsend whispered.
Mrs. Grayson shrugged.
Cassie ignored the comment. “My sister and Adrian were here for the wedding, but they have gone back to Ravenswood to oversee the harvest. They took my younger sisters with them.”
“On account of your being newlyweds,” Mrs. Grayson said with a sidelong glance at Miss Clapham.
Mrs. Grayson’s sarcasm confused Cassie.
She and Harburywere, after all, newly wed.
She set to extracting a particularly resistant pod. “I wonder…” She let her voice trail and kept her gaze on the pod, knowing she had all their attention.
“Yes, Your Grace?” Mrs. Bottlesworth prompted.
“I haven’t heard much from my sisters of late. Lady Sarah is also from home. And I can no longer ask my mother, rest her soul…” She laid the pod carefully in her basket and closed her eyes. She summoned to mind painful recollections from her wedding night to force a blush. “Forgive my plain speaking, but I wonder if I might ask you a question.” She paused. “A”—she cleared her throat—“femalequestion…”
“Oh! Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Bottlesworth said. “Are you—? I mean, could you be—?”
Cassie smiled. “I’ve been a little queasy in the mornings of late.” She hadn’t, but sickness on waking was the one symptom she could remember from her mother’s last pregnancy. “Is that a sign I might be increasing?”
The collective gasp was a surprise.
Miss Clapham studied the contents of her basket. A spinster could not be expected to answer such a question. But Mrs. Grayson and Mrs. Bottlesworth said nothing either, only exchanged puzzled glances.
Mrs. Townsend, clearly feeling duty-bound as host finally said, “Why, yes. Perhaps if…”
“I am not sure, of course,” Cassie interjected. “Please, keep this in confidence.”
A cacophony of assurances followed.
“Well.” Mrs. Grayson folded her arms. “I wonder what else Mrs. Grant has been lying about.”
“Pardon?” Cassie asked.
“Cynthia.” Again, Mrs. Townsend used her friend’s name as a chastisement.
“None of us mean to gossip.” Miss Clapham laid a hand on Cassie’s arm. “Only, we’d been told—” Miss Clapham’s cheeks turned crimson. “Well, led to believe, that is…”
