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“She is, isn’t she?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “I know a mother isn’t supposed to notice, but I’ve always thought her rather lovely. They’re the light of my life, you know.”
Melisande nodded. She wasn’t sure how long Mrs. Fitzwilliam had been Lister’s mistress, but the children were almost certainly his. What a strange half-life it must be to be a man’s concubine. Lister had a legitimate family with his wife—some half-dozen sons and daughters already grown. Did he even acknowledge Jamie and Abigail as his own children?
“They love the park,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam continued. “I come here with them as often as I can, which, I’m afraid, i [ I’t ssn’t often enough. I don’t like coming when there are too many other people about.”
She said it matter-of-factly, without any self-pity.
“Why do you suppose little boys and dogs love the mud so much?” Melisande mused. Abigail was keeping her distance, but Jamie had stood and stomped at something in the muck. Mud flew up in great lumps. Mouse barked.
“The stench?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam guessed.
“The mess?”
Abigail shrieked and leaped back as her brother stomped in the mud again.
“The fact that it disgusts little girls?”
Melisande smiled. “That certainly explains Jamie’s fascination, but not Mouse’s.”
She found herself wishing she could ask the other woman to tea. Mrs. Fitzwilliam wasn’t what she’d expected at all. She didn’t ask for sympathy, didn’t seem distressed at her lot in life, and she had a sense of humor. She might make a very good friend.
But, alas, it would never do to invite a cyprian to tea.
“I understand that you are newly wed,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “May I offer my felicitations?”
“Thank you,” Melisande murmured. Her brow wrinkled as she was reminded of how Jasper had left her the night before.
“I’ve often thought that it must be hard to actually live with a man,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam mused.
Melisande darted a glance at her.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s cheeks reddened. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Oh, no.”
“It’s just that a man can be so distant sometimes,” the other lady said quietly. “As if one is intruding on his life. But perhaps not all men are like that?”
“I don’t know,” Melisande said. “I’ve only the one husband.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam looked down at the ground. “I wonder, though, if it is even possible for a man and a woman to be truly close. In a spiritual sense, I mean. The sexes are so far apart, aren’t they?”
Melisande clasped her hands together. Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s view of marriage was rather cynical, and a part of her—the sensible, pragmatic part—urged her to agree. But another part of her disagreed violently. “I don’t think that always has to be the case, surely? I have seen couples very much in love with each other, so close that they seem to understand each other’s thoughts.”
“And do you have such a bond with your husband?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam asked. The question would’ve been rude coming from any other lady, but Mrs. Fitzwilliam seemed honestly curious.
ike was already waiting in the hallway. She looked up as Melisande entered. “Are we going somewhere, my lady?”
“I thought a walk in the park would be nice,” Melisande said briskly. She glanced at Mouse, sitting sedately by her feet. He gazed back at her innocently. “Sprat, I believe we will need Mouse’s leash as well.”
The footman hurried back to the kitchens to fetch the leash, and soon dog and women were in the carriage, headed west toward Hyde Park.
“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it, my lady?” Suchlike commented. “Blue sky and sunshine. ’Course, Mr. Pynch says we should enjoy it while we can, because soon it’ll rain.” The maid’s brows lowered. “He’s always predicting bad weather, Mr. Pynch is.”
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Melisande looked at her maid, amused. “A dour sort, is he?”
“Dour?”
