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“I subject myself to our nieces. Twitting Quinn by spoiling his daughters is the most fun I’ve had since learning to ride astride. Besides, Yorkshire is pretty, but it’s desolate.”
And London—where few unmarried ladies worth the name had ever riddenen cavalier, much less learned to enjoy good brandy—was something even worse than desolate. Constance also painted with oils, another transgression against London’s version of propriety.
How in perdition did she stand the place? “I’m considering traveling to Italy,” Althea said.
“I thought people traveled the Mediterranean in winter.”
“When have I ever done what’s expected of me?” Althea set her drink aside, the lassitude fine spirits could impart having become too much of a temptation lately.
“A medicinal tot now and then is hardly scandalous, Thea. If you do go to Italy, bring me back some daring art, would you?”
“Of course, dearest.” Though that assumed Althea would be coming back soon.
They fell silent, and the hoofbeats came closer, still muffled by the evening dewfall. Althea had sent the wine and cheese to Rothhaven Hall, also the tablet recipe, but she didn’t expect His Grace would call again. With a man like that, a decision was a decision, and he’d said no quite firmly.
“Do you ever consider taking a husband?” Althea asked.
“I do not. Our mother took a husband. Look how that turned out.”
“Quinn became a husband. I’d say that’s turning out rather well.” For Quinn, Jane, and their offspring.
Constance took up Althea’s glass. “Quinn became a husband to Jane. They were extraordinarily lucky to find each other. If you’re looking for a fellow, the wilds of Yorkshire aren’t likely to offer much of a selection.”
“The wilds of London offered no choice at all. I can’t go back there.”
“That sounds dire, Thea. Do you mean you cannot go back thereever?”
“Not to socialize. Do you recall the Honorable Mr. Pettibone Framley?”
“Pretty-boy, to his familiars. He makes quite an impression. The blond Byron is another one of his sobriquets. Tell me you weren’t foolish.”
The chill was deepening, though the stars were spectacular. “I was foolish. He was charming. I let him steal a few kisses, and within a week, Stephen told me that in the clubs, I’d become the Strumpet of Birdsong Lane.”
Constance muttered an epithet unbecoming of a ladyora gentleman. “Quinn could ruin him for you, though Stephen ought not to have been bearing tales. Our baby brother exercises questionable judgment sometimes.”
“Janecould ruin Framley for me, but what’s the point? I’d be the Strumpet of Birdsong Lane if I’d permitted him no liberties at all. The year before, I was accused of trying to steal Miss Faraday’s fiancé. The year before that, Appolonius Warton stepped on my hem and landed me on my backside before half the world. Jane could do nothing about any of it, because to stir the pot is to spread the stench.”
“They go after you,” Constance said. “You threaten them and they close ranks. I’m harmless by design, because I have learned from your example. I sit with the wallflowers, dress as plainly as I can, and never flirt, so they ignore me.”
Althea suspected Constance’s determined plainness had other motivations, though now was not the time to investigate them.
“All I wanted,” Althea said, “was to make a few friends, to have a gallant or two.” Rothhaven had been right: Comporting oneself like a puppy left on the back stoop, begging to be taken inside to a place by the hearth, had been the greatest foolishness of all.Never beg.Even if once upon a time begging had been your only means of surviving.
“What do you want now, Thea?”
I want a family, people of my own to love and argue with.“My bed, I suppose. I’ll be awake to see you off in the morning, and I will look in on Thorndike Manor from time to time while you’re gone. Your people know they can call on me if anything should arise?”
“Nothing has arisen in the vicinity of Thorndike since Prince Rupert lost the Battle of Marsten Moor. Are you certain you don’t want to come to London with me? Quinn and Jane will wonder at your absence.”
“I have never liked London. Quinn dragged us south because his banking business required him to set up a household there, but my memories of London are tedious.”
Constance rose, her shawls wrapped about her like so many furs. “And your memories of Lynley Vale are so much better?”
“I’ve met His Grace of Rothhaven, Con. My sows went a-viking and paid a call upon his orchard. He was so incensed he left his property in broad daylight to scold me. He nearly called me out.”
“And does he have a squint and crooked nose?”
He has a lovely smile and kind eyes.“He’s personable when he’s not in a temper. I invited him back for a game of chess if he’s ever so inclined.”
