![Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03]](https://fs.ageofbook.com/441280/thumbs/152x264/cecilia-grant-blackshear-family-03.jpg)
Had it not occurred to her, when the young lady in ivory muslin proved not to be a daughter of Richard, that she might be a daughter of Charles?
Did she even know Charles had children? They hadn’t spoken in many years, but it was the sort of thing Kate had always assumed a mother would want to know.
For the entirety of Miss Smith’s tale—which, as she’d warned, did not prove amusing, the only twist in the narrative occurring when one of the horses halted to munch on a shrub on the side of the road and then showed a disinclination to move again—she stole sideways glances at the two ladies Harringdon. The countess, she could now see, had a small red-and-white spaniel on her lap and was using her fan to direct a gentle breeze upon the creature as she listened, all gratifying attention, to Miss Smith. She even laughed once or twice, with an unfeigned enjoyment that could be accounted for only by the fact that she’d resolved in advance to find the story amusing.
The dowager listened, too, the furrows in her brow deepening when Lady Harringdon laughed. “I fear I missed the joke,” she leaned over to murmur, loudly, when Miss Smith’s silence indicated there was no more story to come. “Was it to do with the horses, or with the gentleman himself?”
“There wasn’t a joke, precisely.” Lady Harringdon sent a kindly smile to Miss Smith, as if to reassure her that her tale had been a success. “Rather there was a general air of mishap attending the outing from start to finish. The humor was cumulative in nature, one might say. And so, Miss Smith.” She plied her fan for a dramatic few beats, causing several of the spaniel’s silky hairs to lift and fall again. “Having now spoken with Sir George at Lady Stapleton’s ball, this drive of which you’ve told us, and, if I recall correctly, a pair of morning calls, what are your impressions of the man? Has he any qualities that particularly recommend him to a young lady’s affections?”
In among Miss Smith’s tactful answers, and the remarksof everyone else, a few things became clear. First, that Sir George was too old for a lady of Miss Smith’s years: references to his being “worthy,” “wise,” and “distinguished” left little doubt of that. Second, that Mrs. Smith believed it an advantageous match.
And third, and most pertinent to Kate’s errand here, was the fact that she’d guessed rightly at her aunt’s fondness for matchmaking. Lady Harringdon entered into the matter of Sir George with all the authority of a woman who’d married off six daughters, one of them to a duke, and also with an obvious concern for the happiness of Miss Smith. If Kate was reading the situation correctly, the countess thought the man no great prospect for a young lady and meant to sow doubt among both Smith women as to the merits of the match.
Whether the dowager had any opinions on the subject, Kate could not say. The elder lady seemed often to not be following the conversation, despite her sedulous use of the quizzing glass. Once or twice she looked as though she was not altogether sure of who these people were, and how they’d come to be in her parlor. Which was no longer her parlor, after all, but Lady Harringdon’s.
Sorrow stole in among Kate’s thoughts like a blanket of fog. Papa, not having spoken to any of his family in so long, would have no way of knowing his mother had grown so frail. Maybe he wouldn’t care by now. The dowager countess’s confusion over the name Westbrook took on a new poignancy, too. What if the memory of her second son had faded away altogether?
“What would you say, Miss Westbrook?” Lady Harringdon’s voice broke suddenly into her melancholy reverie.
Kate marshaled her attention on her aunt, groping for the most recent thread of discussion. This was why she’d come here. She had a clear purpose. Sentiment might liesomewhere behind that purpose, but she must not let sentiment deflect her from her course.
The countess
Did she even know Charles had children? They hadn’t spoken in many years, but it was the sort of thing Kate had always assumed a mother would want to know.
For the entirety of Miss Smith’s tale—which, as she’d warned, did not prove amusing, the only twist in the narrative occurring when one of the horses halted to munch on a shrub on the side of the road and then showed a disinclination to move again—she stole sideways glances at the two ladies Harringdon. The countess, she could now see, had a small red-and-white spaniel on her lap and was using her fan to direct a gentle breeze upon the creature as she listened, all gratifying attention, to Miss Smith. She even laughed once or twice, with an unfeigned enjoyment that could be accounted for only by the fact that she’d resolved in advance to find the story amusing.
The dowager listened, too, the furrows in her brow deepening when Lady Harringdon laughed. “I fear I missed the joke,” she leaned over to murmur, loudly, when Miss Smith’s silence indicated there was no more story to come. “Was it to do with the horses, or with the gentleman himself?”
“There wasn’t a joke, precisely.” Lady Harringdon sent a kindly smile to Miss Smith, as if to reassure her that her tale had been a success. “Rather there was a general air of mishap attending the outing from start to finish. The humor was cumulative in nature, one might say. And so, Miss Smith.” She plied her fan for a dramatic few beats, causing several of the spaniel’s silky hairs to lift and fall again. “Having now spoken with Sir George at Lady Stapleton’s ball, this drive of which you’ve told us, and, if I recall correctly, a pair of morning calls, what are your impressions of the man? Has he any qualities that particularly recommend him to a young lady’s affections?”
In among Miss Smith’s tactful answers, and the remarksof everyone else, a few things became clear. First, that Sir George was too old for a lady of Miss Smith’s years: references to his being “worthy,” “wise,” and “distinguished” left little doubt of that. Second, that Mrs. Smith believed it an advantageous match.
And third, and most pertinent to Kate’s errand here, was the fact that she’d guessed rightly at her aunt’s fondness for matchmaking. Lady Harringdon entered into the matter of Sir George with all the authority of a woman who’d married off six daughters, one of them to a duke, and also with an obvious concern for the happiness of Miss Smith. If Kate was reading the situation correctly, the countess thought the man no great prospect for a young lady and meant to sow doubt among both Smith women as to the merits of the match.
Whether the dowager had any opinions on the subject, Kate could not say. The elder lady seemed often to not be following the conversation, despite her sedulous use of the quizzing glass. Once or twice she looked as though she was not altogether sure of who these people were, and how they’d come to be in her parlor. Which was no longer her parlor, after all, but Lady Harringdon’s.
Sorrow stole in among Kate’s thoughts like a blanket of fog. Papa, not having spoken to any of his family in so long, would have no way of knowing his mother had grown so frail. Maybe he wouldn’t care by now. The dowager countess’s confusion over the name Westbrook took on a new poignancy, too. What if the memory of her second son had faded away altogether?
“What would you say, Miss Westbrook?” Lady Harringdon’s voice broke suddenly into her melancholy reverie.
Kate marshaled her attention on her aunt, groping for the most recent thread of discussion. This was why she’d come here. She had a clear purpose. Sentiment might liesomewhere behind that purpose, but she must not let sentiment deflect her from her course.
The countess
Similar Books
