plain. Not gossip or ravings but open, and I wish to know if in doing so I will be indulged with the true state of things.”
He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he held her gaze for several seconds, wondering whether to allow her to proceed or to point out politely that she did not have the right to challenge him. To open himself to her scrutiny would lead to certain admissions: onebeing that things were not proceeding as had been hoped. Could he face that?
Sir William thought Mary Cadogan a good woman, a beauty herself once, though not in comparison with Emma. In any exchanges they had had he had been happy to acknowledge her good sense, as well as the wry wit that never exceeded the bounds of her position. She had even managed to impress his irascible nephew. Here, in his establishment, she had fitted seamlessly into the domestic arrangements, undertaking tasks his own servants were happy to surrender, never interfering in duties that didn’t concern her.
“It would grieve me to be treated as just a stupid woman.”
“And I, madam, would be a fool to do that, for you are very far from it.”
“Then I’d be obliged if you would tell me what is going on, sir, not that I ain’t formed a notion of my own.”
“I’d be interested to hear it.”
“Folk hereabouts have Emma as your mistress. That you make no attempt to deny them leads me to believe that you would wish that was true.”
“She is attached to my nephew.”
“Would that he was attached to her,” she replied briskly. “You don’t see it, ’cause my Emma hides it from you. She writes sometimes more than one letter in a day. In three months not one reply has come from Mr Greville.”
“He is a poor correspondent.”
“He has found time to pen several letters to you.”
A flash of annoyance crossed the Chevalier’s face. The quizzical expression on that of Mary Cadogan was evidence that she had noticed it.
“You get a lot of letters from Greville,” she continued. “Your man was happy to save his legs and let me bring them up.”
“A glass of wine?” said Sir William, standing up quickly. He manoeuvred his slim frame between the statue of a bearded ancient and a large decorated pot, poured from the decanter and returned to present her with the glass. “What is it you want?”
“The truth, sir. I expect you have an arrangement with Mr Greville. What I see is my own girl near to despair sometimes, she loves him so.”
“I doubt you approve.”
She took a deep drink of wine before replying. “I learnt long ago, sir, an’ in a hard school, that the heart don’t often adjoin to the head. Whether I approve of your nephew is neither here nor there. What my Emma suffers because of it is. If she is to be cast out I need to know of it.”
Sir William helped himself to a glass of wine and sat down again. “There is no intention to cast her out, I do assure you. She’ll always have my protection, should she want it.”
“The question is sir, does she need it?”
Again, he had the temptation to dismiss her, to say that what she was asking might be her business but she was being above herself in demanding to know. But he had a nagging thought that would not go away: matters were stalled with no sign of a way to break the deadlock. Was the key to that sitting before him? The natural diplomat in him rebelled at revelation; the frustrated suitor in him demanded that something happen.
“Would I be allowed to tell you a story, Mrs Cadogan?”
“I judge it to be a long one, so I’d be obliged to see my glass recharged.”
That made him laugh and he rose to accommodate the request. There was a moment when their hands touched, as he took her glass, a moment when he thought he saw the woman she had once been, the lively eyes that could hold humour so easily, the notion that in her mind there was judgement, but rarely condemnation.
“Your Emma is quite remarkable, but so are you. You’ll be aware of my nephew’s prospects, but I
He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he held her gaze for several seconds, wondering whether to allow her to proceed or to point out politely that she did not have the right to challenge him. To open himself to her scrutiny would lead to certain admissions: onebeing that things were not proceeding as had been hoped. Could he face that?
Sir William thought Mary Cadogan a good woman, a beauty herself once, though not in comparison with Emma. In any exchanges they had had he had been happy to acknowledge her good sense, as well as the wry wit that never exceeded the bounds of her position. She had even managed to impress his irascible nephew. Here, in his establishment, she had fitted seamlessly into the domestic arrangements, undertaking tasks his own servants were happy to surrender, never interfering in duties that didn’t concern her.
“It would grieve me to be treated as just a stupid woman.”
“And I, madam, would be a fool to do that, for you are very far from it.”
“Then I’d be obliged if you would tell me what is going on, sir, not that I ain’t formed a notion of my own.”
“I’d be interested to hear it.”
“Folk hereabouts have Emma as your mistress. That you make no attempt to deny them leads me to believe that you would wish that was true.”
“She is attached to my nephew.”
“Would that he was attached to her,” she replied briskly. “You don’t see it, ’cause my Emma hides it from you. She writes sometimes more than one letter in a day. In three months not one reply has come from Mr Greville.”
“He is a poor correspondent.”
“He has found time to pen several letters to you.”
A flash of annoyance crossed the Chevalier’s face. The quizzical expression on that of Mary Cadogan was evidence that she had noticed it.
“You get a lot of letters from Greville,” she continued. “Your man was happy to save his legs and let me bring them up.”
“A glass of wine?” said Sir William, standing up quickly. He manoeuvred his slim frame between the statue of a bearded ancient and a large decorated pot, poured from the decanter and returned to present her with the glass. “What is it you want?”
“The truth, sir. I expect you have an arrangement with Mr Greville. What I see is my own girl near to despair sometimes, she loves him so.”
“I doubt you approve.”
She took a deep drink of wine before replying. “I learnt long ago, sir, an’ in a hard school, that the heart don’t often adjoin to the head. Whether I approve of your nephew is neither here nor there. What my Emma suffers because of it is. If she is to be cast out I need to know of it.”
Sir William helped himself to a glass of wine and sat down again. “There is no intention to cast her out, I do assure you. She’ll always have my protection, should she want it.”
“The question is sir, does she need it?”
Again, he had the temptation to dismiss her, to say that what she was asking might be her business but she was being above herself in demanding to know. But he had a nagging thought that would not go away: matters were stalled with no sign of a way to break the deadlock. Was the key to that sitting before him? The natural diplomat in him rebelled at revelation; the frustrated suitor in him demanded that something happen.
“Would I be allowed to tell you a story, Mrs Cadogan?”
“I judge it to be a long one, so I’d be obliged to see my glass recharged.”
That made him laugh and he rose to accommodate the request. There was a moment when their hands touched, as he took her glass, a moment when he thought he saw the woman she had once been, the lively eyes that could hold humour so easily, the notion that in her mind there was judgement, but rarely condemnation.
“Your Emma is quite remarkable, but so are you. You’ll be aware of my nephew’s prospects, but I
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