Masters as he held her chair, took her place beside Gerrard.
Angela immediately appealed to her. “I was just saying to Mr. Cynster that it would be such a welcome diversion if we could get up a party to go to Northampton. Just think of all the shops!” Eyes bright, she looked earnestly at Patience. “Don’t you think that’s a wonderful idea?”
For one instant, Patience was sorely tempted to agree. Anything—even a day shopping with Angela—was preferable to facing what had to be faced. Then the idea of sending Vane shopping with Angela occurred. The vision that rose in her mind, of him in some milliner’s establishment, teeth gritted as he coped with Angela’s witlessness, was priceless. She couldn’t stop herself glancing up the table . . . her priceless image evaporated. Vane wasn’t interested in Angela’s wardrobe. His grey gaze was fixed on her face; his expression was impassive, but there was a frown in his eyes. He narrowed them slightly, as if he could see through her facade.
Patience immediately looked at Angela and increased the intensity of her smile. “I think it’s a little far to do much shopping in a day. Perhaps you should ask Henry to escort you and your mother down for a few days?”
Angela looked much struck; she leaned forward to consult Henry, farther down the table.
“It looks like it’ll stay fine.” Gerrard glanced at Patience. “I think I’ll take my easel out and make a start on the scenes Edmond and I decided on yesterday.”
Patience nodded.
“Actually”—Vane lowered his voice so its rumble ran beneath Angela’s excited chatter—“I wondered if you’d show me the areas you’ve been sketching.”
Patience looked up; Vane trapped her gaze.
“If”—his voice turned steely—“your sister approves?”
Patience inclined her head graciously. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
A frown flashed through Vane’s eyes; Patience looked down at her plate.
“But what can we do today?” Angela looked about, clearly expecting an answer.
Patience held her breath, but Vane remained silent.
“I’m going sketching,” Gerrard declared, “and I won’t want to be disturbed. Why don’t you go for a walk?”
“Don’t be silly,” Angela returned scornfully. “It’s far too wet to go strolling.”
Patience inwardly grimaced and forked up her last mouthful of kedgeree.
“Well then,” Gerrard retorted, “you’ll just have to amuse yourself doing whatever it is that young ladies do.”
“I will,” Angela declared. “I’ll read to Mama in the front parlor.” So saying, she stood. As the gentlemen rose, Patience blotted her lips with her napkin and grasped the moment to make her exit, too.
She needed to hunt out her most waterproof walking shoes.
An hour later, she stood at the side door and surveyed the expanse of sodden grass between her and the ruins. Between her and the apology she had to make. A brisk breeze was blowing, carrying the scent of rain; there seemed little likelihood the grass would dry soon. Patience grimaced and glanced down at Myst, sitting neatly beside her. “I suppose it’s part of my penance.”
Myst looked up, enigmatic as ever, and twitched her tail.
Patience determinedly stepped out. In one hand, she twirled her furled parasol; there was just enough weak sunshine to excuse it, but she’d really picked it up simply to have something in her hands. Something to fiddle with, something defensive—something to glance at if things got truly bothersome.
Ten yards from the door, and the hem of her lilac walking dress was wet. Patience gritted her teeth and glanced around for Myst—and realized the cat wasn’t there. Looking back, she saw Myst, sitting primly on the stone stoop of the side door. Patience pulled a face at her. “Fine-weather friend,” she muttered, and resumed her stroll.
Her hem got wetter and wetter; gradually, water found its way through the seams of her kid boots. Patience doggedly slogged on. Wet
Angela immediately appealed to her. “I was just saying to Mr. Cynster that it would be such a welcome diversion if we could get up a party to go to Northampton. Just think of all the shops!” Eyes bright, she looked earnestly at Patience. “Don’t you think that’s a wonderful idea?”
For one instant, Patience was sorely tempted to agree. Anything—even a day shopping with Angela—was preferable to facing what had to be faced. Then the idea of sending Vane shopping with Angela occurred. The vision that rose in her mind, of him in some milliner’s establishment, teeth gritted as he coped with Angela’s witlessness, was priceless. She couldn’t stop herself glancing up the table . . . her priceless image evaporated. Vane wasn’t interested in Angela’s wardrobe. His grey gaze was fixed on her face; his expression was impassive, but there was a frown in his eyes. He narrowed them slightly, as if he could see through her facade.
Patience immediately looked at Angela and increased the intensity of her smile. “I think it’s a little far to do much shopping in a day. Perhaps you should ask Henry to escort you and your mother down for a few days?”
Angela looked much struck; she leaned forward to consult Henry, farther down the table.
“It looks like it’ll stay fine.” Gerrard glanced at Patience. “I think I’ll take my easel out and make a start on the scenes Edmond and I decided on yesterday.”
Patience nodded.
“Actually”—Vane lowered his voice so its rumble ran beneath Angela’s excited chatter—“I wondered if you’d show me the areas you’ve been sketching.”
Patience looked up; Vane trapped her gaze.
“If”—his voice turned steely—“your sister approves?”
Patience inclined her head graciously. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
A frown flashed through Vane’s eyes; Patience looked down at her plate.
“But what can we do today?” Angela looked about, clearly expecting an answer.
Patience held her breath, but Vane remained silent.
“I’m going sketching,” Gerrard declared, “and I won’t want to be disturbed. Why don’t you go for a walk?”
“Don’t be silly,” Angela returned scornfully. “It’s far too wet to go strolling.”
Patience inwardly grimaced and forked up her last mouthful of kedgeree.
“Well then,” Gerrard retorted, “you’ll just have to amuse yourself doing whatever it is that young ladies do.”
“I will,” Angela declared. “I’ll read to Mama in the front parlor.” So saying, she stood. As the gentlemen rose, Patience blotted her lips with her napkin and grasped the moment to make her exit, too.
She needed to hunt out her most waterproof walking shoes.
An hour later, she stood at the side door and surveyed the expanse of sodden grass between her and the ruins. Between her and the apology she had to make. A brisk breeze was blowing, carrying the scent of rain; there seemed little likelihood the grass would dry soon. Patience grimaced and glanced down at Myst, sitting neatly beside her. “I suppose it’s part of my penance.”
Myst looked up, enigmatic as ever, and twitched her tail.
Patience determinedly stepped out. In one hand, she twirled her furled parasol; there was just enough weak sunshine to excuse it, but she’d really picked it up simply to have something in her hands. Something to fiddle with, something defensive—something to glance at if things got truly bothersome.
Ten yards from the door, and the hem of her lilac walking dress was wet. Patience gritted her teeth and glanced around for Myst—and realized the cat wasn’t there. Looking back, she saw Myst, sitting primly on the stone stoop of the side door. Patience pulled a face at her. “Fine-weather friend,” she muttered, and resumed her stroll.
Her hem got wetter and wetter; gradually, water found its way through the seams of her kid boots. Patience doggedly slogged on. Wet
Similar Books
