Not by Sight by Kate Breslin

Grace asked, confused.
    “Married,” he said. “Does this aunt of yours have a husband?”
    “No, she never married.” Grace was growing tired of their one-sided exchange.
    “A spinster, then.” He dropped his arm from the back of the seat. “I take it the ‘behavior’ to which she subscribes prohibits you from having fun?”
    “I beg your pardon. I didn’t say—”
    “Is she sister to your father or your mother?”
    “My father, but I still don’t see why—”
    “What does he do for a living?”
    “Lord Roxwood!” Grace brought the car to a halt. “I understand you’ve been without company a long while, but this ‘stimulating conversation’ you seem to think we’re having is all on your part. I haven’t gotten a word in for all of your questions, none of which has to do with my driving skills.” She felt like an insect beneath a microscope.
    “I apologize, Miss Mabry. I’m merely curious.” He leaned back against the seat. “Your driving skills seem adequate enough. You haven’t yet hit a rut to knock me out of the car.”
    “Thank you,” she said with forced politeness.
    “Where are we now?”
    Grace surveyed the landscape. “There is a grouping of trees off to the right,” she said. “They surround a lake—”
    “Camden Pond. Look for a dirt track coming up beside a large ash tree. It will take us directly to the water’s edge, so remember to brake.”
    Grace rolled her eyes. She soon spied the large leafy tree and a wide dirt track beside it. Taking the turn, she brought the Daimler to a stop within a few feet of the bank.
    “You didn’t answer my question, Miss Mabry. What is your father’s occupation?”
    She struggled for patience. “He’s in the tea business and the owner of Swan’s Tea Room in London.”
    “Is he from London?”
    “Dublin, if you must know. He came to Britain when he was my own age of twenty and started working at the docks. He came to know men in the tea import business, and after years of hard work and establishing the right connections, he was able to invest with others in a large tea plantation abroad.”
    “I imagine he’s a rather affluent tradesman, then?”
    “If you mean is he wealthy, the answer is yes,” she said tersely.
    “And when did he open this tea room of his?”
    The man was relentless. “Seven years ago,” she said wearily. “A few years after my father bought his own tea distributorship. Since he loves all varieties of tea, he opened Swan’s as a way to share his passion with others. He plans to expand the franchise and build four more tea rooms across London. Now, sir, do you wish to cross-examine me further? Perhaps you’d like to go to Swan’s in London yourself and corroborate my story?”
    “Not my sort of place.” He spoke with infuriating calm. “I much prefer the club atmosphere. Playing cards and sipping on a glass of twelve-year-old Scotch.”
    No truer words, she thought, recalling his exploits from the newspaper. Jack Benningham was hardly one to enjoy a proper tea.
    “Does your father entertain much?”
    Grace felt like screaming. “Swan’s keeps him extremely busy. Shall I take you back to the house now?” She felt desperate to be rid of him.
    “Perhaps you’d care to get out and view the pond.”
    His suggestion startled her. “Why, yes, very much. You don’t mind?”
    “Go ahead and turn off the car.”
    Grace set the brake and pressed the engine’s kill switch. Then she exited the Daimler and went around to open his door.
    “You go ahead, Miss Mabry. I’ll wait here. There’s no breeze yet this morning, so you should find the water smooth as glass.”
    Stymied at his indulgence toward her, Grace thought he might regret having asked so many questions. “I won’t be long.”
    She walked to the bank and surveyed the pond. He was right; without a breeze, the water stretched outward like a mirror. She could see in it the perfect reflection of the trees, tall and unmoving along the opposite