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“Good.” He rose, then, and moved toward the door, saying over his shoulder, “In fact, I’ve already mentioned you’d like to speak to him on a private matter.”
The only person who could possibly know how Sybil felt was Hetty. Plump, ungainly Hetty, who always tried too hard was a younger version of herself, Sybil thought sadly as she studied her youngest child, deep in conversation with Lady Zena. Who else was there to talk to, after all? A great surge of tenderness welled up in her breast as she contemplated Hetty’s prospects during her forthcoming debut in just a couple of months.
The girl’s dowry was not insignificant. She’d in all likelihood find a husband but it was unlikely to be one who’d offer her his heart as he offered his troth.
The idea of vibrant, enthusiastic, loving Hetty living a life like hers—a life without love—was almost too hard to bear.
Sybil turned away, afraid of being unmasked in this vulnerable moment. It was time to make her exit and leave the young people to themselves. They were cousins. They should get to know one another.
As she rose to leave, Araminta called from across the room. “Mama, are you going to bed? I forgot to tell you that I saw Mrs. Wilcock in the village today. She asked after you and says Mrs. Hazlett is selling Bunty. You know I’ve always loved that horse. I thought you could suggest to Papa that he buy her for me.”
Clearly misinterpreting Sybil’s look, she went on impatiently, “You know who I’m talking about, surely? Mrs. Hazlett with the fine brown hair, who lives in the house closest to the bridge.”
Could Araminta really not know?
Sybil damped down her horror. “Why should she want to sell Bunty?” It was a rhetorical question. All Sybil wanted was to make a hasty exit and never have to hear about Mrs. Hazlett ever again.
“She’s going away. Mrs. Wilcock said she was suffering fainting and dizzy spells and the only cure for such a malady was nine months’ rest.”
Sybil fixed Araminta with a beady look. Was her daughter taunting her? Was she saying what Sybil thought she was saying? Surely Araminta was not so naïve?
It appeared she was. Certainly it appeared one could be a minx and a ja
de without knowing a thing about the realities of life.
Undaunted by her mother’s lack of enthusiasm, Araminta went on, “Mrs. Hazlett is going away for nine months, according to Mrs. Wilcock, and taking her eldest daughter with her so they’re selling that lovely bay. Do you think if I ask Papa he’ll buy it for me?”
“Oh, I’m quite sure he will if it’ll benefit Mrs. Hazlett,” Sybil said with more venom than was wise. “Good night Cousin Stephen, girls.” With a curt nod, she turned on her heel and hurried up the passage.
Mrs. Hazlett’s lack of feeling up to the mark was something Sybil could empathize with. Her fainting spells and nausea were another thing altogether. Maladies she herself should be suffering—if only Humphry would let her.
She cast herself onto the bed as soon as she gained the privacy of her room and began to sob.
Humphry had deemed an heir from another line of the family preferable to intimacy with Sybil. Not even the familiarity of twenty years could overcome his aversion. She was a repugnant old woman who couldn’t even tempt a husband desperate to beget an heir.
Mary came in a few minutes later and helped her mistress out of her clothes and into her nightdress. Though she made soothing noises in response to Sybil’s obvious recent tears and told her there’d be better days ahead, she could not understand and Sybil was too proud to make a confidante of anyone, even a trusted retainer who’d been with her for more than a decade.
She was just drifting off to sleep when a cursory knock was followed by the door being pushed open. Araminta drifted across the carpet and sat at her dressing table, looking at her reflection rather than at her mother as she said, “Cousin Stephen is very nice, don’t you think? Much nicer than Edgar.” She shuddered. “I’d have hated to marry Edgar but now I’ll have a dashing husband and still call the Grange home and live here as mistress of the manor. You’d live in the gatehouse once you’re a dowager, of course.”
Sybil listened to Araminta’s excited prattle and through bleary, tear-filled eyes, watched her confident daughter uncoil her hair as she extoled the many virtues of the “next Viscount Partington”, who it never occurred to her wouldn’t see her as the best candidate for his viscountess.
“Perhaps your Cousin Stephen is already attached, Araminta, dear,” Sybil suggested almost diffidently.
Araminta just shrugged her shoulders and replied, “Well, he’s not married and that’s all that counts.”
Finally the girl rose, her sigh of satisfaction suggesting that all was nicely in order in her world, and Sybil heaved a sigh of relief that she’d soon be able to close her eyes on this perfectly awful day.
But Araminta wasn’t done yet. “Mama, you will remember to tell Papa he must buy Mrs. Hazlett’s mare for me, won’t you?”
Chapter Four
By day three Stephen was still reveling in the excellent horseflesh beneath him as he tore through the woods that would belong to him someday.
Life was full of surprises but it would be hard to beat his elevation to all this. He cast his eye around the sweeping fields of golden corn, the beech wood to the east, the glistening lake with its picturesque rotunda just behind it and the squat but handsome house about half a mile away, which he would one day call home. Not to mention the young lady of the manor.
It was clear Araminta had set her sights on him. While he had to acknowledge this was on the basis of his recent expectations, there’d be few men not thrilled at such an alliance. She was exquisite.
Exquisite and willing. It seemed the ideal solution. His courtship would be short and straightforward and there’d be no surprises. He would sire sons who would inherit all this and he’d grow old in comfort. Respected and revered.
