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Kenver rather thought that he might have found it different when it washim. But he’d never been treated as harshly as Sarah had. Tamara, on the other hand…
“Being so ill changes your viewpoint,” his father said. “World looks different from the other side of…well, death, I suppose.” He looked at Kenver. “It was a near thing, wasn’t it?”
Kenver nodded.
“So…what are we to do exactly?”
Papa was looking to him now, Kenver realized, rather than Mama. It felt odd.
“Your mother is…”
“Fierce,” Kenver finished.
“Yes. She’s done very well with Poldene, you know. She works harder than I ever did.”
“She deserves our thanks and our respect,” Kenver said.
“Yes.”
“But not total submission.”
“Ah. She does rather prefer that.”
“Perhaps, together, we can make a change.”
His father looked doubtful, but he nodded. Then he offered his hand. Kenver shook it.
Back in their suite, Sarah was settled with a pot of tea, a buttery scone, and a pile of letters from her old school friends. The rooms were quiet. No one was likely to come in unless she rang. A steady late September rain fell outside the windows. She had left one open a crack so that she could listen to the sound and revel in the cozy feeling of being inside. A small fire crackled in the hearth. Sarah broke off a bit of scone, flaky and perfect, and ate it.
She rested her fingers on the envelopes as if they were talismans. She’d been slow about writing, but word of her marriage had reached all three of her best friends by this time. Given their far-flung locations and various attitudes toward correspondence, she was not surprised to have received all their responses at once. She suspected they would have heard from Cecelia as well. The duchess was the soul of discretion, but her opinions about Poldene had probably leaked through. Nonetheless, Sarah didn’t feel a scrap of dread about the letters. Since they’d formed their friendships at the age of thirteen, the four of them had been each other’s staunch supporters.
By chance, Ada’s letter rested on top of the pile, and so Sarah began with that. She knew it would be extensive and expansive. They’d often joked that Ada ought to write novels, because her letters were thick, meandering narratives rife with minor characters, charming incidents, and even suspense. She’d made an epic tale of the work she and her ducal husband were doing to restore a crumbling castle in Shropshire.
Ada thought Sarah’s marriage was terribly romantic and clearly mandated by Fate. The place and way it had begun showed this, because wasn’t Sarah always reading myths and legends? She was only disappointed there hadn’t been a buried pirate treasure in the cave. “That is your story, Ada,” Sarah murmured fondly. Her friend was certain Sarah would triumph over any troubles the match had brought and that all would be well. She wished to hear much more about Kenver, and they must come for a visit as soon as may be.
Sarah smiled as she set the closely written pages aside. She could hear Ada’s voice in the words—bubbling, optimistic, very happy with her duke. Theywouldfind a way to visit.
Harriet’s much shorter letter began with worry. She had painful experience with tyrannical older relatives and so found every hint that Sarah had let drop about Kenver’s parents ominous. She seemed aware of more than those hints, and Sarah suspected she had gathered more from Cecelia.
Harriet trusted that Sarah’s new husband would take steps. Sarah could hear the snap of that phrase in Harriet’s voice and visualize the crackling stare of her green eyes. She offered help, of whatever type and amount Sarah desired. Up to a swooping rescue by post chaise. Her new husband was in agreement, she said, and would join in the effort. Sarah was not to go quiet and stoically endure! “I won’t,” Sarah murmured when she read this. “We won’t.” Even with this stream of admonitions, Harriet’s letter was softer than usual. A honeymoon daze of happiness crept in, and Sarah was glad of it. “You and your rogue earl,” she said affectionately.
She braced herself a little for the last letter. Charlotte never minced words. “She doesn’t even slice them,” Sarah said, amusing herself as she opened it. The missive was predictably caustic at the beginning. Charlotte could not believe Sarah had not applied to her rather than allowing herself to be shoved into marriage with some stranger. Charlotte would have sent a phalanx of brothers—she had four—to pound some sense intosomeone. She still could, if Sarah would let her know immediately before the dratted fox-hunting season began. This Kenver person could have his responsibilities forcibly pointed out to him.
“A recipe for farcical disaster,” Sarah muttered, though she did take a moment to imagine a troop of pugnacious Deeping brothers invading Poldene. Funny for a moment or so, then a debacle, she concluded. And she didn’t want Kenver “disciplined.” Nothing of the kind. Others…but no.
Sarah knew that a deep kindness lay under Charlotte’s acerbic manner. She also knew that being in Leicestershire with her hunting-mad family tried her friend’s patience to its admittedly narrow limits. She set the last letter aside.
It was lovely to “hear” all their voices and to feel their unwavering support. Friendship was so precious. Sarah was engulfed by a wave of memories. The four of them had learned together, consoled each other for disappointments and mistakes, celebrated triumphs, had marvelous adventures, seen three of their number married. Two very happily. And herself—that was complicated.
She would have to write back soon and reassure them, assuming she could find words to do so. Her situation descended on her again after this respite. The earl’s recovery was hopeful. He seemed more sympathetic. But Lady Trestan was not. She watched Sarah with less contempt but far more calculation, as if Sarah was the sneaking sorceress who gains sway over the monarch and pulls strings from behind the throne. Only the earl was not really the monarch at Poldene, and Sarah didn’t know anything about strings. Also, unfortunately, she had no sorcerous powers.
On his way back to the state suite and Sarah, Kenver heard his name called. He turned to find his mother beckoning. Felch must have reported to her right away. Of course he would have. But there was no way she could know what he and Papa had discussed after the valet left. It had only been the two of them.
“Come and sit with me for a while,” she said.
As he followed her to her private parlor, Kenver had to fight an old apprehension. He was not a boy called in for a scold. Or a youth about to be burdened with some onerous task. Quite the contrary!
His mother sat down, smiling, and gestured at the armchair opposite, where his father usually sat. Kenver hesitated, then took it.
