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“No, indeed. You are turning, what, fifteen, sixteen?”
She sighed. “Seventeen, thank you.”
“And seventeen is too old for a doll? I recall being in a French château with a soldier friend of mine, a Captain Stamford—did you know his father is the Earl of Hawkesbury? He was quite the soldier, nonetheless. Born to the role, even if he was born to a family of noble birth. But I digress. There we were in the château, caring for the sick and the maimed, when one of the orderlies entered the room holding a china doll that seemed most lifelike. To be frank, I found it a little unsettling, this babyish creature whose eyes never closed stuck in the corner. It was as if she was always watching us.”
“Oh, stop it!” She shuddered, rubbing her upper arms. “You give me chills.”
“So I take it a doll is not what you wish for.”
“Indeed not. I would much prefer, well, that is, if it has your blessing, to have a little gathering with my friends.”
He shifted on the bed, drew the blanket higher. “I don’t see why that would be a problem.”
Breath released in a loud gush. “Oh, I knew you’d be understanding. Theo—that is, Miss Stapleton—thought it best I check with you, as some might think a gathering of the sort might be seen to be indecorous, seeing as I am still in mourning. But I quite like her way of thinking about it.”
His pulse pattered faster. Why he had this infernal desire to know her thoughts on any and everything, he did not know. But there it was. “And what are Miss Stapleton’s views on the matter?”
“She thinks it unlikely that anyone would be so miserly minded, but if they were, well, they were obviously not true friends, and therefore their opinions should not matter.”
“Very sensible. I find myself in complete sympathy with her.”
Becky nodded. “She also said that a small celebration on the day would be what Mama would have wanted, and I agree. These past few years Mama and I often had a little dinner, always very small, with but one or two guests. Theo always came.”
“She has been very good to you and your mama.”
“Yes.” She fiddled with the pleat in her skirt, as if wishing for further speech but clearly troubled with what she wished to say.
“What is it, lass?”
She shook her head.
“Out with it.”
She sighed. Glanced up at him. Sighed again. “They say she is something of an eccentric,” she finally burst out.
“Who says?”
“Some of the villagers. I have heard the likes of Mrs. Cleever and Betty Holland say Theo is never going to marry because she is far too nice in her requirements.”
“I see.” Except he didn’t. Why were they now talking about Miss Stapleton’s matrimonial prospects?
She peeked at him from under her lashes, and he experienced a premonition of foreboding.
“What is it now?”
“You could marry her, Uncle.”
He laughed more harshly than he intended. “Me? I think you quite mistake the matter.”
“I am not so sure. She is kind and pretty, and you are not the sort of person to care about a birthmark, are you?”
“I would be offended if you thought I was.”
“See?”
His chest twinged. Is that why no man had ever offered for her? Memory clanged of what young Bellingham had said. Truly? Men were that superficial? “Yes, I agree with you that she is quite wonderful, but I have my career, which I fully intend to resume as soon as I am fit and able.”
“But don’t you want—?”
