Page 84 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

It was nearly ten o’clock at night. Ophelia had spent the whole day listening for Trentham’s knock that never came. And now, they were waiting for Daddy and Aunt Grace, who should have been there hours ago.

Ophelia and Dessie sat in the ladies’ parlor playing cards. They both hated cards, but Ophelia had suggested it because she was out of diversions. She’d practiced piano and harp, written letters to friends back in New York, embroidered a blob that was supposed to be a rosebud on a silk handkerchief, then picked the stitches all out. She wasn’t bored. She wished she was bored. She was agitated enough to explode.

Dessie laid her cards face up on the tea table. “Good thing we aren’t playing for money. I’d have bankrupted myself.”

“How? I haven’t won a hand in three rounds.”

Dessie shrugged. Then she rose and stretched, arms above her head, bending side to side. She finished by putting her hands on her belly. “Can you tell?”

“Not unless I know to look.” She was thicker, but that could just be British food.

“Be careful not to say anything to Daddy or Aunt Grace until I do.”

“Of course not!” Ophelia scowled.

“Where are they?” Dessie was not generally a foot stomper, but Ophelia heard an implied stomp in her voice.

And then she heard something else. “Is that a carriage?”

They raced to the front door. Ophelia flung it open. The coach in the drive was obviously leased and hard used. Daddy climbed from the carriage, then reached back to help Aunt Grace. They both moved a bit clumsily, as if stiff from the ride. Not old. They weren’t old. Daddy looked heavier, but his hair, though graying, was still abundant. And Aunt Grace was dignified and pretty in a mazarine-blue traveling dress.

Peters appeared beside Dessie. “I’ll summon the footmen and grooms.”

“Yes, good,” she said, then she grabbed Ophelia’s hand and they ran outside.

In moments, they were caught up in hugs and kisses, talking over one another, laughing with joy. Forget Trentham, Ophelia thought—all was right with the world.

“The coach I leased snapped an axle. We had to exchange it for this,” Daddy explained, gesturing. Then he slung his arms over the shoulders of his daughters and eagerly guided them toward the house. Aunt Grace trailed behind after giving directions to the footmen who were now swarming the coach.

Lynch stood in the doorway and greeted his guests with handshakes. “Welcome. It’s good to see you both again.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, my lord,” Daddy said solemnly. Ophelia held back a giggle. He was still a little overawed by Lynch’s title.

“Not at all. Come in. Would you like to be shown to your rooms to rest? Or would you like to see the house?”

“The house,” Aunt Grace said. “We’ve been cooped up in a carriage for hours. I’d love a walk about.”

So they made a quick tour of the Lynchford townhome, with Daddy admiring everything in it, then moved on to champagne and sandwiches in the parlor. While enjoying the refreshments, Aunt Grace and their father told them about sights they’d seen together in Paris. They were particularly impressed with the Catacombs. When Aunt Grace described the intricate stacking of bones and skulls, all Ophelia could think was she was glad to have missed that. Not from squeamishness, but she envisioned herself toppling the piles.

Then Daddy regaled them with amusing anecdotes from his Atlantic crossing. He sat back, hands on his knees, grinning broadly, obviously pleased with their laughter.

“I have one more story. But it’s more interesting than amusing.”

They encouraged him with expectant smiles.

“I had a bit of excitement. I was nearly brained by a deck chair.” He chortled at their gasps. “I got too close to a pair of fellows brawling over a girl. They managed to bloody one another good before a steward pulled them apart and tossed them in the brig.”

“Daddy! What an awful story!” Dessie said.

“Yes, but here’s the interesting part. I was at the captain’s table at dinner that evening, and the ship’s physician was there, too. Talk turned to the fight. Seems the physician had to do the stitching up and it was ugly. One of our tablemates turned up his nose. He made the case that the lower classes were no better than animals.”

Ophelia and Dessie exchanged glances. Daddy hated that kind of snobbery. He was able to hold an elevated view of the aristocracy without looking down on the less fortunate.

“Were the brawlers gentlemen?” Lynch asked, as though anticipating the joke.

“No. No, they weren’t. But the physician, an Englishman, set him straight anyway. It seems, several years ago, he was prevailed upon to attend a duel between two British lords.”

Ophelia thought Lynch tensed.