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“I was surprised to find her absent at dinner,” Mac said. “Is her leg bothering her again?”
Charles nodded, concern evident on his brow. “I am only glad we could convince her to rest. It is difficult for her to allow others to take her responsibilities.”
Mac recalled the moment he had caught her gaze in the ballroom, the irritation and hurt on her features. Surely Mabel was in need of this rest and not simply using the injury to stay away from Mac and the other guests. They had outstayed their welcome days ago, if not weeks, and he assumed she was eager to have her house back to the way it was before their large party descended on her with no notice and a carriage full of men.
But Mabel had borne it all with equanimity and poise. She upheld the strength and dignity he had grown to expect from her, and she had not flinched when plans changed or new guests were added to her household, or when she discovered her special vale was to be dug up and turned into tenant cottages for her father’s cast-off sailors.
Mac had watched Mabel over the last few weeks accept each and every hurdle or discomfort and move forward accordingly. Including the ridiculous man her father had brought home for her to marry.
Wright leaned over further on the pianoforte, saying something to Miss Sophy, who giggled wickedly and swatted at the sailor’s arm.
Truly? This was the man that Captain Sheffield deemed good enough for Mabel? No. No man was good enough for Mabel.
Not even Mac. But he would spend every day of his life trying to be the man she deserved, if she let him. If he could get his life in order fast enough to offer before someone else did.
Mac tapped his heel, anxious to leave the room but uncertain where he would go.
“Mabel? Where is Mabel?” Mrs. Sheffield called.
Charles sat up immediately. “She is in bed, Gram.”
His grandmother looked at him as though he had grown antlers on his head. Her eyebrows drawn together, nostrils flaring, she spoke in frigid accents. “What the devil do you mean, my Mabel is in Bedlam? Certainly you are mistaken.”
“No, no Gram,” Charles said, lifting his hands as he crossed the room. “She is in bed,” he said again, enunciating each word loudly. “Her leg pains her, and she is resting upstairs.”
She seemed disturbed but allowed Charles to help her stand. “I don’t like this, Charles. I don’t like it when Mabel is not here.”
Rising, Miss Pemberton crossed to them and offered her arm to Gram. “Might I help you to your room, ma’am?”
Gram’s mouth pinched. “No.”
Startled, Miss Pemberton looked to Charles, her cheeks pinking.
“Gram,” Charles said stiffly. “Miss Pemberton has offered to help you.”
“And I don’t want her help,” Gram said, perfectly at ease. “I will have Mabel, or I will have no one.”
Miss Pemberton’s voice grew louder. “Surely you have a servant we can fetch, ma’am.”
Mrs. Sheffield watched Miss Pemberton through narrowed eyes, stepping around her with slow, cane-assisted steps.
Mrs. Boucher got to her feet at once. “I will see you upstairs, Mrs. Sheffield.”
Mrs. Sheffield shot Mrs. Boucher an appraising glance but nodded and accepted the woman’s offered arm before they both left the room.
“Please do not take offense,” Charles finally said, running his hand through his chestnut hair. “Gram is quite aged and particularly set in her ways.”
“I am not offended by that old bird,” Miss Pemberton said kindly, though her expression said otherwise. “I am certain I could have been just as comforting as Mabel, had I been given the opportunity.”
Charles looked at her oddly before shaking his gaze away. “Of course.”
Mac leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He understood Mrs. Sheffield’s dismay at finding her granddaughter missing. He felt very much the same way. Perhaps if the two of them put up enough of a complaint, Mabel would appear again, and soon.
