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“Wouldyou care for an onion tart, Mari?” asked the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader, hand delving into the substantial wicker hamper at his side.
A nod.
“Pepper?”
A shake of head.
“Are you well, Moppet?” he questioned with concerned gaze.
Curls bounced with the frantic nodding and Isabelle closed her eyes. Mari was delightful but at times could try the patience of a saint.
Mind you, the view made up for much.
They were situated to one side of the glowering tower of the Castell y Ddraig, overlooking the azured bay, its waters rippling with white-edged mellow waves. This was one of those halcyon but rare moments of autumn when the sun gave its all, as though knowing its days were numbered. A few fluffed clouds drifted, the gulls dipped, and beyond, across the bay, stretched the rutted coastline of the Llyn Peninsula.
Thick woollen blankets with plumped feather cushions had been provided for comfort, smothering the rough-scythed grass, while a lone twisted hawthorn tree yielded some shade for delicate skins, its wind-blown form stretched to a stratus cloud of leaves and burgeoning berries.
Lady Elen had produced a picnic blanket seating plan similar to that of the dining table, positioning those of lesser importance – the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader, Mari, herself, and even Lady Gwen – at this far end, the chaperones and other guests towards the centre, while at the head, the eligible ladies clustered around the duke like covetous gulls circling a washed-up jellyfish.
Though shading her eyes, Isabelle noted the duke was at present strolling with Miss Pritchard and her bewigged father along the cliff path, prodding at ferns with his cane, brow puckered. He wore an even deeper black today, cravat a startling white with a fine damask burgundy waistcoat. The colours suited him, the red of a Welsh sunset descending to darkest night.
A few other guests also stretched their stiff legs, Captain Brecken shuffling back and forth, his sister entreating him to sit and eat a boiled egg, while beneath the branches of the twisted hawthorn, Miss Craddock was being primped by her mother who batted out the creases from her daughter’s skirts and pinched her pale delicate cheeks to scarlet.
Maids and footmen attended to needs, fetching shawls, parasols and more feather cushions, opening further champagne bottles and swatting at the lackadaisical wasps of autumn.
Lady Elen bustled hither and thither, inspecting hampers and straightening blanket corners, until she sauntered to their lesser end with a bottle of champagne in hand. She filled the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader’s raised glass. “Do you think, Hugh,” the lady mused, “that he favours Miss Pritchard?”
Isabelle shuffled her numb backside and concentrated on nibbling her pigeon pie.
Employers often considered the governess invisible and chatted on blithely about all manner of matters. Once, while Isabelle had sat quietly reading Anatomy of Man in a Mayfair drawing room, her countess employer had proceeded to detail her lover’s extensive musculature to her tea guests – which had proved to be more educative than her book.
“To be honest, Elen… No.”
The lady tutted, plumped a cushion, made herself comfortable upon it and then refilled his empty champagne glass. “I do not understand why he won’t just carry out his duty and settle.” Her foot waggled. “What particular attributes do you believe he is partial to in a duchess?”
Isabelle prodded the chicken drumstick on her plate but was aware of the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader’s gaze upon herself.
“I think he might prefer someone with a more…scholarly bent, perhaps?”
“Lady Bronwen is most scholarly in her tea pouring and would make a perfect duchess.”
“But surely,” began Lady Gwen, fingers pinched around a sliver of lobster, “there can be many reasons why a person might not wish to marry.”
Lady Elen blinked. “Such as?”
“Well…” Lady Gwen dabbed her lips. “I know Rhys has never had any formal attachments here in Wales but a disenchantment in London, perhaps?”
The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader shook his blond head and grabbed the champagne bottle from Lady Elen’s fingers. “Nothing catastrophic that I recall. Have you considered, Elen,” he mused, shifting to place his hand upon his raised knee, “that perchance Rhys is a romantic?”
“He’s a duke! Has a duty and knows it. These ladies all have impeccable lineage.”
“Perhaps he’s made a vow of some sort?” blurted Mari before she slammed a palm to her mouth, eyes dancing, but Isabelle returned a smile of absolution as her charge had lasted in silence for a fullhour.
“Hmm.” Lady Gwen tapped her lip. “Rhys can be most reticent, even with friends, so we would never know. He has always held emotion and thoughts deep within.”
Lady Elen harrumphed. “What has that to do with continuing the lineage?”
“Well, if you wish to find him a match, it might help to know what emotions he conceals from the world?”
The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader’s lips quirked. “Look, here he is. Back from squiring Miss Pritchard about. Rhys! Come join us?”
“Oh, no!” Lady Elen hissed. “Aberdare is to sit on the principal blanket and converse with Miss Brecken since he danced with her twice at the ball.”
Isabelle noted a roll of eyes from the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader. “I’m sure she can spare him for a moment, Elen, and we’ve lots of room. Big as a parson’s barn this woollen blanket.”
“This is Wales, Hugh,” declared Lady Elen with a chill tone, snatching the champagne bottle away. “Sheep and wool are abundant. Prospective duchesses with suitable bloodlines are not.”
