have a sister who was Princess of Wales?”
“Dear Lord, yes!” Iris rose to her feet. “Whatever you do, Rory, don’t even put the idea of it in her head or she’ll be planning her outfit for the wedding! And while you two continue to sit out here, baking in the sun, I’m going inside where it’s cooler.”
She walked away from them toward the house, Homer loping after her, and when she was out of earshot, Rory said, “How is Marigold these days, Rose? Do you still have anxieties where she and Theo Jethney are concerned?”
“I did have until I spoke with Marigold earlier this morning.” With no father to turn to for advice, and with a grandfather who was very unworldly, Rory had always been Rose’s sounding board if she had any family worries. “She promised me she’ll never flirt with Lord Jethney again and she told me that at your grandmother’s party, she never even danced with him.”
Rory moved from the grass to Iris’s vacated chair. “Whom did she dance with?” he asked, knowing that where Marigold was concerned it was always best to try and stay one step ahead of the game.
“Toby, Patrick Shaw-Stewart, the Duke of Stainford.”
Since the Duke of Stainford was so elderly as to be doddery, Patrick Shaw-Stewart pallid-faced and freckled, and Toby uninteresting to anyone but Iris, it didn’t sound to Rory as if Marigold had had a very exciting time.
He didn’t say so, though. It would only make Rose worry about what Marigold might next do that would be exciting, for with Marigold there always had to be something. Her need to be the center of attention was an annoyance to everyone in the family but him.
He understood. Marigold had only been three when her father had died and five when her mother had remarried and gone to live in Paris. They were abandonments that Rose, four years older than Marigold, had toughly come to terms with and that Iris, always stoic and practical, had also come to accept. Lily had been saved from damaging grief by being so young. For Marigold, though, things had been very different.
He could vividly remember her pathetic bewilderment when her father had died—and then the heartbroken crying, crying that hadn’t ceased when everyone else’s had. “The little mite sobbed herself to sleep for months,” Millie had once told him. “And when her mother upped and went off to Paris … well, that was terrible, truly terrible. She was so distraught, it made her ill.”
It was after that that the fibbing had started—something he thought Marigold still did—and that her urgent need for attentionfirst appeared. She was forever putting on impromptu theatricals, singing and dancing for anyone she could persuade to sit down and watch her. Even now if she could capture an audience she would put on a
tableau vivant
, transforming herself into Hiawatha with the aid of a magnificent feather, or Joan of Arc, eyes raised up to heaven, one of her grandfather’s antique swords clasped fervently in her hands. Another favorite subject was the beheading of Mary, Queen of Scots. Kneeling with a scarf around her eyes, her arms stretched out behind her, she always attempted extra realism by persuading Fizz or Florin to hide under skirts as the Queen’s little dog had done.
Rose’s bafflement when she had first suspected Marigold of flirting with Lord Jethney—a man old enough to be her father—had not been shared by Rory. He found it perfectly plausible that when it came to falling in love, Marigold would seek a father figure.
He rose to his feet. “It’s time I was getting back to London. When Marigold is next staying at St. James’s Street, I’ll keep an eye on her for you—and I’ll let you know of any inside gossip I get about your friend, Daphne.”
Rose stared at him. “Daphne? Daphne Harbury? Why on earth should there be gossip about her? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rory.”
“You didn’t read yesterday’s
Times
?” He frowned. “No, I can
“Dear Lord, yes!” Iris rose to her feet. “Whatever you do, Rory, don’t even put the idea of it in her head or she’ll be planning her outfit for the wedding! And while you two continue to sit out here, baking in the sun, I’m going inside where it’s cooler.”
She walked away from them toward the house, Homer loping after her, and when she was out of earshot, Rory said, “How is Marigold these days, Rose? Do you still have anxieties where she and Theo Jethney are concerned?”
“I did have until I spoke with Marigold earlier this morning.” With no father to turn to for advice, and with a grandfather who was very unworldly, Rory had always been Rose’s sounding board if she had any family worries. “She promised me she’ll never flirt with Lord Jethney again and she told me that at your grandmother’s party, she never even danced with him.”
Rory moved from the grass to Iris’s vacated chair. “Whom did she dance with?” he asked, knowing that where Marigold was concerned it was always best to try and stay one step ahead of the game.
“Toby, Patrick Shaw-Stewart, the Duke of Stainford.”
Since the Duke of Stainford was so elderly as to be doddery, Patrick Shaw-Stewart pallid-faced and freckled, and Toby uninteresting to anyone but Iris, it didn’t sound to Rory as if Marigold had had a very exciting time.
He didn’t say so, though. It would only make Rose worry about what Marigold might next do that would be exciting, for with Marigold there always had to be something. Her need to be the center of attention was an annoyance to everyone in the family but him.
He understood. Marigold had only been three when her father had died and five when her mother had remarried and gone to live in Paris. They were abandonments that Rose, four years older than Marigold, had toughly come to terms with and that Iris, always stoic and practical, had also come to accept. Lily had been saved from damaging grief by being so young. For Marigold, though, things had been very different.
He could vividly remember her pathetic bewilderment when her father had died—and then the heartbroken crying, crying that hadn’t ceased when everyone else’s had. “The little mite sobbed herself to sleep for months,” Millie had once told him. “And when her mother upped and went off to Paris … well, that was terrible, truly terrible. She was so distraught, it made her ill.”
It was after that that the fibbing had started—something he thought Marigold still did—and that her urgent need for attentionfirst appeared. She was forever putting on impromptu theatricals, singing and dancing for anyone she could persuade to sit down and watch her. Even now if she could capture an audience she would put on a
tableau vivant
, transforming herself into Hiawatha with the aid of a magnificent feather, or Joan of Arc, eyes raised up to heaven, one of her grandfather’s antique swords clasped fervently in her hands. Another favorite subject was the beheading of Mary, Queen of Scots. Kneeling with a scarf around her eyes, her arms stretched out behind her, she always attempted extra realism by persuading Fizz or Florin to hide under skirts as the Queen’s little dog had done.
Rose’s bafflement when she had first suspected Marigold of flirting with Lord Jethney—a man old enough to be her father—had not been shared by Rory. He found it perfectly plausible that when it came to falling in love, Marigold would seek a father figure.
He rose to his feet. “It’s time I was getting back to London. When Marigold is next staying at St. James’s Street, I’ll keep an eye on her for you—and I’ll let you know of any inside gossip I get about your friend, Daphne.”
Rose stared at him. “Daphne? Daphne Harbury? Why on earth should there be gossip about her? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rory.”
“You didn’t read yesterday’s
Times
?” He frowned. “No, I can
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