Hecate sipped to be polite, but nursery tea would have offered more sustenance. “Her mother and grandmother doubtless harangued her with if-onlys and why-couldn’t-yous?”
“If Miss DeWitt had a chorus of only two to sing those laments, then she had it a good deal easier than you did, my dear. I gather you are to attend along with Lord Phillip?”
“Even Edna Brompton wouldn’t expect me to pay for a house party in absentia. His lordship refuses to attend unless I’m on hand.”
“Shrewd of him. Would you like me to have a look at the guest list?”
How Betty Blanchard, retired companion living out her years on a quiet lane in Chelsea, knew Society’s goings-on, Hecate did not care to speculate. On the one hand, Miss Blanchard’s information was useful when Hecate faced yet another London Season. On the other hand, why did Miss Blanchard bother? Why remain attached to a world that hadn’t treated her all that well?
“This is my first crack,” Hecate said, extracting a list from her reticule. “If Charles is to have his merry widows, then I’ve recruited some bachelor uncles to partner them at whist.”
“And a half dozen of the titled cousins. Edna doubtless hopes to snabble Lord Phillip for Flavia or Portia. Is Lord Phillip frivolous?”
“One look at him, and you’d know the term could never apply.”
Miss Blanchard perused the list. “Dour, then?”
Lord Phillip had an off-putting quality that made Hecate uncomfortable, even though she understood it.
“Reserved,” she said. “Brusque. No need to announce himself with horn blasts and fluttering doves. He’ll lurk by the potted palms and manage to look perfectly content doing it.”
Unlike Hecate in her years among the ballroom greenery.
“Doesn’t take after his father, then. The old marquess was full of his own consequence. His poor wife was entirely cowed. I wonder if Lord Phillip wasn’t a little rebellion on the part of the late marchioness.”
All of Society would wonder the same thing, if they hadn’t already. “He claims not to know, and I suspect he doesn’t care. Lord Phillip describes himself as a farmer, and he has a plowman’s physique and a yeoman’s interests.”
Miss Blanchard wrinkled her nose. “Clodhopping sort? Bull in a china shop? Lord knows you’ve stood up with plenty of those.”
“He doesn’t know how to dance, but I wouldn’t call him clodhopping. He will sit out every waltz until he can give a good account of himself on the dance floor.” And Hecate understood that too.
“How would you describe him, my dear?”
A puzzle Hecate had been considering for days—and nights. “Prudent enough to know that his rural ways need some polishing, smart enough to know Society will find fault even with perfection. He will make a reasonable, dedicated effort, then get back to his plowing and pamphlets.”
Miss Blanchard passed over the guest list. “He sounds tedious, but then, to the average suitor, Miss Hecate Brompton is tedious.”
By design. Hecate had spent years being tedious to all suitors under all circumstances. The strategy had worked, though the price was a life that had become tedious in truth.
“I’m content,” she said. “The Bromptons thrive for the most part, and that is all Papa has ever asked of me.”
Miss Blanchard was the picture of the fading spinster. Past her half-century mark, graying hair in a tidy bun, hands still those of a lady, but wrinkles showing that lady’s age. Her dark eyes missed nothing, and her hearing was sharp.
“Do you ever wish you’d married your Johnny?” she asked.
Hecate hadn’t heard the name in forever, hadn’t thought about the man for months. “I’m told he’s happy. Canada’s gain is our loss. We both had growing up to do.”
“But the whole family hoped you two would suit.”
Hecate had begged Johnny to take her to Canada with him, but he’d smiled, hugged her gently, and declined to put his foot in parson’s mousetrap for her convenience. The only Brompton on that side of the family with any sense, and he’d talked Uncle Nunn into buying commissions for him and his devil-may-care younger brother.
“Being an officer’s wife would have been challenging,” Hecate said. “If John’s letters were to be believed, a Canadian winter lasts forever and makes the ninth circle of Dante’s hell look cozy.” And yet, Johnny had written of the vast wilderness with a sort of enraptured awe—and never used his leave to return to England.
“You were too young to marry,” Miss Blanchard said, “but when has youth ever stopped a Brompton from pursuing a goal?”
I’m not a Brompton. “Lord Phillip asked if I was legitimate.”
“Ye gods and little fishes. I hope you pinned his ears back.”
“He wasn’t being unkind. I’d asked after his antecedents. I suspect he was trying for levity in the face of homesickness.”
“An odd sort of levity. Your tea will get cold, dear.”
Hecate sipped again, though the tea had gone tepid. Her life was tepid tea, ledgers, and newspapers, leavened by the occasional charitable committee, but what had Lord Phillip’s life been in that time before his brother had acknowledged him?
Happy, according to him. Free. Hours in the out of doors, rambling the countryside. Probably a friendly hound or two at his side. Fishing in his beloved River Twid, the occasional pint at the local inn shared with merry old fellows who’d watched him grow up. Lord Phillip likely knew each acre under his care, every fox’s covert and badger run, just as his neighbors knew him.
“I felt as if his question were a snare,” Hecate said. “He’d know how to set a snare, know exactly where to place it to catch an unsuspecting rabbit. One moment, I was prattling on about French pronunciation. The next, I’m caught fast and struggling to keep my balance.”
And laughing. Truly, honestly laughing.
“Was he threatening you?”
“No. I’ve been threatened. There’s no malice in Lord Phillip, but a man that perceptive doesn’t have to be unkind to see too much or say something too insightful.”
An enormous orange cat leaped into Miss Blanchard’s lap and commenced purring at the first stroke of her hand on his furry head.
“And Lord Phillip came to you for help?”
Hecate nodded. “Offered to compensate me for being his finishing governess. I wanted to smack him, but he was trying to be respectful. Said my time was valuable.” Precious had been his word.
“He interests you,” Miss Blanchard said as the cat began to circle on her lap. “He has won your notice.”
The purpose of this call had not been to discuss Lord Phillip Vincent. “One ignores a titled caller of sizable dimensions at one’s peril.”
“Nonsense. One can do the ignoring while smiling across the tea tray and remarking on the dreadful heat, or the dreadful drought, or how quiet London can be in summer. You haven’t noticed a man in years, my girl. I suggest you take this fellow to Nunnsuch and enjoy the fresh country air with him.”
Perhaps that was the real purpose for this call. To hear Miss Blanchard suggest what Hecate’s imagination had dared only to whisper.
“I promised I’d attend the house party, and I am not about to allow Edna and Eglantine a free hand with my exchequer in any case. They’d like nothing better, but Papa would never forgive me.”