to know.”
“I have a number of redeeming qualities, Lady Antonia,” he said warmly, handing off his hat to the old butler, then dropping his gloves one at a time into its upturned crown. He closed the distance between them, smiling his most charming smile. “Punctuality is only one of them. I would not want you to think I had welshed on our wager … not even for a minute.”
“Excellent,” she said, stepping back. “Then you’re ready to begin. If you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you to my household and your duties.” She led him across a vaulted center hall that was constructed of soaring Gothic arches, and he could have sworn the daft old butler said something very like “poor bastard” as he shuffled away.
She led him into a drawing room and into the midst of a veritable sea of women who were seated on plush divans, fringed settees, and at tea tables. All had some degree of white in their hair, all were clothed in dark colors done up with a white blouse or collar, and all wore tidy lace caps, except one—a rather knotty old woman who wore an extravagantly flounced red dress and a straw bonnet thatseemed to be erupting with papier-mâché fruits. His confusion must have shown in his face, for Lady Antonia smiled as if she had expected it.
“Do come in, Lord Carr, and meet my family.” She went to stand beside the chair of a dignified elderly woman with a gently aged and beatific countenance. “This is my aunt, Dame Hermione Paxton-Fielding, widow of First Admiral Sir Thomas Edgerton Fielding.”
“Also of Sir Dennis Stewart, Mr. Peter Binghampton, and Brigadier Stephen Devere. It’s important to remember and give credit where it is due,” the old cherub said with an upraised finger. Then she rose and extended her hand with a twinkle in her eye. “It’s an honor, your lordship.”
“The pleasure is mine, madam,” he said, bowing over the old lady’s hand with as much dignity as he could muster while trying to make belated sense of what Antonia had said to him. This was her
family
? When he looked up, a tall woman with large, bony features and a severe expression filled his vision.
“May I present Mrs. Pollyanna Quimby, widow of Magistrate Farley Quimby,” Antonia said, “and her sister, Mrs. Prudence Quimby, widow of Frederick Quimby, late member of the Board of Trade.” The second woman was shorter, rounder and wore a rather engaging smile. “They are sisters,” Antonia explained, “who married brothers.”
Only the barest resemblance and the fact that they were dressed identically marked the two women as related in any way. He nodded, taking their hands while searching their faces for some trace of familial resemblance to Lady Antonia.
“This is Mrs. Eleanor Booth, widow of Edmond Booth, the inventor of the self-inflating fountain-pen bladder. And Mrs. Molly McFadden, widow of Cecil McFadden, who had a shop in the Farmer’s Market for many years.”
“A butcher, ’e was,” rotund Molly said, beaming.“Pleased to meet yer lordship.” She pumped his hand nervously and blushed. “Who’da thought I’d be shakin’ hands wi’ a belted earl?”
Bubbly Molly was shortly replaced by a slight, well-dressed woman: “Mrs. Florence Sable, widow of Mr. Jeremy Sable, tailor to the elite of Oxford for many years.” Another, somewhat younger woman appeared next: “Mrs. Victoria Bentley, widow of Harold Bentley, carriage maker.” When Antonia started to move on, Victoria prodded her with a frown that caused her to recall: “And also of Lieutenant Edgar Jamison, who had a brief but valiant career as an officer in her highness’s royal dragoons.” Victoria smiled and made a graceful half curtsy.
In short order he met three more women; Gertrude—Mrs. Somebody-or-other, Pansy—Mrs. Whatever-his-name-was, and Maude—Mrs. Dearly-departed. He couldn’t be sure later that there hadn’t been more, for he was distracted by the thought that this disparate group of females could
“I have a number of redeeming qualities, Lady Antonia,” he said warmly, handing off his hat to the old butler, then dropping his gloves one at a time into its upturned crown. He closed the distance between them, smiling his most charming smile. “Punctuality is only one of them. I would not want you to think I had welshed on our wager … not even for a minute.”
“Excellent,” she said, stepping back. “Then you’re ready to begin. If you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you to my household and your duties.” She led him across a vaulted center hall that was constructed of soaring Gothic arches, and he could have sworn the daft old butler said something very like “poor bastard” as he shuffled away.
She led him into a drawing room and into the midst of a veritable sea of women who were seated on plush divans, fringed settees, and at tea tables. All had some degree of white in their hair, all were clothed in dark colors done up with a white blouse or collar, and all wore tidy lace caps, except one—a rather knotty old woman who wore an extravagantly flounced red dress and a straw bonnet thatseemed to be erupting with papier-mâché fruits. His confusion must have shown in his face, for Lady Antonia smiled as if she had expected it.
“Do come in, Lord Carr, and meet my family.” She went to stand beside the chair of a dignified elderly woman with a gently aged and beatific countenance. “This is my aunt, Dame Hermione Paxton-Fielding, widow of First Admiral Sir Thomas Edgerton Fielding.”
“Also of Sir Dennis Stewart, Mr. Peter Binghampton, and Brigadier Stephen Devere. It’s important to remember and give credit where it is due,” the old cherub said with an upraised finger. Then she rose and extended her hand with a twinkle in her eye. “It’s an honor, your lordship.”
“The pleasure is mine, madam,” he said, bowing over the old lady’s hand with as much dignity as he could muster while trying to make belated sense of what Antonia had said to him. This was her
family
? When he looked up, a tall woman with large, bony features and a severe expression filled his vision.
“May I present Mrs. Pollyanna Quimby, widow of Magistrate Farley Quimby,” Antonia said, “and her sister, Mrs. Prudence Quimby, widow of Frederick Quimby, late member of the Board of Trade.” The second woman was shorter, rounder and wore a rather engaging smile. “They are sisters,” Antonia explained, “who married brothers.”
Only the barest resemblance and the fact that they were dressed identically marked the two women as related in any way. He nodded, taking their hands while searching their faces for some trace of familial resemblance to Lady Antonia.
“This is Mrs. Eleanor Booth, widow of Edmond Booth, the inventor of the self-inflating fountain-pen bladder. And Mrs. Molly McFadden, widow of Cecil McFadden, who had a shop in the Farmer’s Market for many years.”
“A butcher, ’e was,” rotund Molly said, beaming.“Pleased to meet yer lordship.” She pumped his hand nervously and blushed. “Who’da thought I’d be shakin’ hands wi’ a belted earl?”
Bubbly Molly was shortly replaced by a slight, well-dressed woman: “Mrs. Florence Sable, widow of Mr. Jeremy Sable, tailor to the elite of Oxford for many years.” Another, somewhat younger woman appeared next: “Mrs. Victoria Bentley, widow of Harold Bentley, carriage maker.” When Antonia started to move on, Victoria prodded her with a frown that caused her to recall: “And also of Lieutenant Edgar Jamison, who had a brief but valiant career as an officer in her highness’s royal dragoons.” Victoria smiled and made a graceful half curtsy.
In short order he met three more women; Gertrude—Mrs. Somebody-or-other, Pansy—Mrs. Whatever-his-name-was, and Maude—Mrs. Dearly-departed. He couldn’t be sure later that there hadn’t been more, for he was distracted by the thought that this disparate group of females could
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