A Matter of Class by Mary Balogh Page A

with a sharp knife, cutting off sentences and leaving even words unfinished.
    Every head turned their way.
    Mr. and Mrs. Mason hurried toward them, both of them smiling warmly, both with hands outstretched. Reginald Mason was coming more slowly behind them.
    â€œHavercroft!” Mr. Mason boomed, and Annabelle could only guess at how startled her father felt about having his hand grasped by Mr. Mason’s two and pumped vigorously up and down. “Grand of you to come. And you too, Lady Havercroft.” He repeated the hand pumping with her. “And Lady Annabelle, as lovely as ever.”
    He folded her into a bear hug and kissed one of her cheeks.
    Mrs. Mason, meanwhile, was bobbing curtsies and welcoming her guests to her home with considerably less volume than that employed by her husband. She did hug Annabelle after him, though.
    â€œHow nice to see you again, my dear,” she said. “You look lovely in pink. It adds color to your cheeks. Come and meet our family. A few of them have come all the
way from the north of England for Reginald’s wedding. And we invited a few close friends too. I hope you don’t mind.”
    The few family members looked like a vast number to Annabelle. So did the close friends, though she had no way of knowing which were which. The Masons, she concluded, had a different definition of a few than her own.
    Reginald Mason was bowing politely and murmuring something largely inaudible.
    â€œLet me introduce you to everyone,” Mrs. Mason said, tucking Annabelle’s arm beneath her own and patting it reassuringly. “They are all eager to meet you.”
    Her son was offering Mama his arm.
    â€œCome and meet everyone, Havercroft,” Mr. Mason was saying in his booming voice as he rubbed his hands together.
    And they proceeded about the room, all of them, Annabelle smiling and inclining her head as everyone was introduced by name and their relationship to everyone else was explained until she felt as if her head must be spinning on her neck. She was making a vain attempt to commit all the details to memory and to remember which face went with which details.

    â€œThere is no test at the end of it all,” Mrs. Mason said, patting Annabelle’s hand as they stood smiling at the last group of six equally smiling people who all resembled one another to a remarkable degree. “You are not expected to remember everyone, my dear.”
    Everyone obligingly laughed and assured her that indeed she was not.
    â€œBut you will know them all eventually,” Mrs. Mason said. “You will be married to Reginald, and we are a close family.”
    Her father, Annabelle saw in a quick glance, was looking his haughtiest and most aristocratic. She could be sure that he was making no attempt whatsoever to memorize faces and names or who was second cousin or first cousin twice removed to whom. Her mother, on the other hand, was smiling graciously—even warmly—at everyone.
    â€œYou may sit over here if you wish,” Mrs. Mason said when everyone had been introduced. She indicated a group of three empty chairs, which had clearly been set up and kept empty for their use. “You may relax and enjoy your tea. Everyone is satisfied now that they have met you. My family and Bernie’s have not met a real
live earl and countess before. And of course, they were all eager to meet Reginald’s bride.”
    Annabelle’s father sat down without further ado.
    Her mother, still on Reginald Mason’s arm, was talking with the last group to whom they had been introduced. She was being polite.
    And so must she , Annabelle thought. She had hurt Papa lately. Deeply hurt him and forced him into doing something that would perhaps forever humiliate him. Not that she was responsible for his reckless investments and expenditures, it was true. But she might have released him by marrying the Marquess of Illingsworth. He would have felt far less shame over that