For one, where was her father in all this? Where was Sandren? Neither of those two people would ever agree to such a thing.
In truth, Rosalind would not dare propose such a thing to either of them.
Juliet did have the idea that they might dissuade their father from going at all. He never really liked those sorts of things.
But then, what to do about Sandren?
To be at all successful, they’d have to leave him behind too.
Viola wondered if they might not hire a carriage and say that Lady Hightower was determined to escort them.
That might work, of course, but they did not have the first idea how to go about hiring a carriage and hiring a coachman who would agree to their rather unusual plan.
It was finally decided that they must consult with Shrimps. He was the only person they knew who might have the sort of contacts to arrange such a thing. They would invite him over to see Bess’ pups again and see what he would say.
They did not have a plan, per se, but they had at least determined something they might do.
Rosalind felt as if everything hung in the balance. As if her very life hung in the balance. She must have an answer. Would Conbatten come after her, or would he not?
If he did not pursue the carriage, then she would go home to cry her eyes out. But if he did, then all would be right with the world.
She did not know how on earth they would arrange such a scheme, but in her heart she knew it must be arranged. She must know, one way or the other. Whatever the truth was, she wished to face it head on. She could not drift from season to season, wondering and pining.
No, she absolutely refused to live in a gray uncertainty. She would be always nervous, always waiting for the crushing blow—the news that he would marry another.
If there were to be a blow, let it come quickly. Let it be a clean and swift guillotine cut and not death by endless small pricks.
They had since gone down to an early dinner, and as it was Sunday, Beatrice and Van Doren, and even Darden, had gathered too.
The earl had instantly noticed Miss Mayton’s close-held veil round her face, which was a style he had not seen her wear until this night.
Before he could inquire, she had only shaken her head sadly and whispered, “Personal ladies’ matters.”
There had been no further inquiries about it.
At table, Rosalind had said, “Beatrice, would you mind sending Shrimps to us tomorrow morning? We wish him to see the pups’ progress. Their eyes are open and they are struggling to their feet in the most charming manner possible. They are full of hi-jinks in the mornings and I think he should really like to see it.”
“That is very kind, Rosalind,” Beatrice said. “It is so thoughtful of you to remember Shrimps.”
“He is rather hard to forget,” Van Doren said. “As is his dog.”
“Now, it is true, he is of a nervous disposition,” Beatrice said. “Then, of course, Oyster naturally follows him in it. But Cook says he is a hard worker.”
“Yes, I know,” Van Doren said in a conciliatory tone. “I hold nothing against him, I just live with the hope that he eventually calms down.”
“Aswehave always lived with the hope thatyouwould eventually calm down,” Juliet said.
“A hopeless sort of hope,” Viola said, nodding.
“Just a shred of hope, really,” Cordelia said.
“I will point out,” Van Doren said, “that I have not lectured you even once since I have come to Town.”
“And yet,” Juliet said, “it is always on the horizon.”
Beatrice was doing her best not to laugh. “Aunt,” she said, in a bid to change the conversation, “shall you read to us tonight?”
“Oh, she must!” the earl nearly cried. “I have been thinking about it all day.”
