I’m not a young girl anymore, Papa.” She drew herself straighter and met his eyes. “If I am old enough to be out in society, then surely I’m old enough to know what is going on in my own family.”
He looked at her then—really looked at her, she thought, as he hadn’t for a long time—and let his hand drop from the door latch. “Yes … very well. But I shall have to give you the abbreviated version, or Isabel will be down here to drag me bodily up the stairs. When she was your age, your aunt Molly fell in love during her first season with a young Frenchman. He had escaped from the Terror, which had just gotten under way in France, and though he was heir to his family title and estate, there didn’t seem to be any chance that he’d ever inherit any of it, since the aristocracy of France had been abolished. So your grandfather forbade them to meet, and…” He hesitated.
“Go on.” Poor Aunt Molly!
Papa coughed. “Your grandfather arranged for the young Frenchman to be arrested and deported. It was not hard to do—there was concern that the Revolution might spread outside France, brought by secret agents, and in fact it was proven that the revolutionary government did try to encourage it here, to destabilize England and reduce any threat from us.”
“So that’s why she never married,” Sophie said softly.
“Indeed. The, er, problem was that she very nearly succeeded in running away with him. There was rather a scandal that had to be smoothed over, and your Aunt Isabel is sure that it cost her an offer of marriage from a duke.”
Ah. So that was what had Aunt Isabel so upset. Still … “But it’s all so long ago!”
“True, but I do not think she ever forgave Molly, and it turned her bitter. Never bear a grudge, Sophie. It will eat up your soul. Furthermore, she now has your cousins to find wives for—preferably wealthy wives—and doesn’t want old scandals revived. I expect she wants me to bundle Aunt Molly back to Lanselling and pretend we never met the comte last night.”
“Gilbert!” Aunt Isabel’s voice drifted down from the head of the stairs.
Papa grimaced. “That’s it in a nutshell. I had better go before she has apoplexy.”
“Wait, Papa—one more question. What will you say to them?”
He looked at her. “My sister—both my sisters—are adults. I can no more banish Molly than I could Isabel. She will have to live with that.”
“Do you think Aunt Molly and her comte will—”
“I have no idea, Sophie. Time will—”
“ Gilbert! ”
Papa sighed. “We can finish this later, if you wish to discuss it further.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Sophie sat back down and twiddled her cane thoughtfully. So this was the secret of Aunt Isabel’s bad temper, especially toward her sister. Well, if the Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux was going to be in London for any amount of time and was a bachelor, then she would do her best to see that he and Aunt Molly would have a chance to discover if they still cared for each other, Aunt Isabel or no Aunt Isabel.
* * *
She was still thinking about Aunt Molly and her comte that afternoon when the door knocker announced another caller. Lady Whiston had already been there to see how they were, which was very good of her, and Lord Palmerston had left his card. Sophie hoped that this latest caller would be the comte, and looked up from her embroidery to make sure that Aunt Molly’s cap wasn’t askew or her gown streaked with dirt from her bad habit of dusting her hands on it after making the rounds of the greenhouse downstairs.
“Lord Woodbridge,” Belton, their butler, announced at the door.
For a moment, Sophie thought, Who? Then realization swept over her as she caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired figure framed in the drawing room doorway. He wore a dark green coat this morning, with exquisitely cut pale buff-colored buckskin breeches and a simply but elegantly knotted neck cloth.
“I came to
He looked at her then—really looked at her, she thought, as he hadn’t for a long time—and let his hand drop from the door latch. “Yes … very well. But I shall have to give you the abbreviated version, or Isabel will be down here to drag me bodily up the stairs. When she was your age, your aunt Molly fell in love during her first season with a young Frenchman. He had escaped from the Terror, which had just gotten under way in France, and though he was heir to his family title and estate, there didn’t seem to be any chance that he’d ever inherit any of it, since the aristocracy of France had been abolished. So your grandfather forbade them to meet, and…” He hesitated.
“Go on.” Poor Aunt Molly!
Papa coughed. “Your grandfather arranged for the young Frenchman to be arrested and deported. It was not hard to do—there was concern that the Revolution might spread outside France, brought by secret agents, and in fact it was proven that the revolutionary government did try to encourage it here, to destabilize England and reduce any threat from us.”
“So that’s why she never married,” Sophie said softly.
“Indeed. The, er, problem was that she very nearly succeeded in running away with him. There was rather a scandal that had to be smoothed over, and your Aunt Isabel is sure that it cost her an offer of marriage from a duke.”
Ah. So that was what had Aunt Isabel so upset. Still … “But it’s all so long ago!”
“True, but I do not think she ever forgave Molly, and it turned her bitter. Never bear a grudge, Sophie. It will eat up your soul. Furthermore, she now has your cousins to find wives for—preferably wealthy wives—and doesn’t want old scandals revived. I expect she wants me to bundle Aunt Molly back to Lanselling and pretend we never met the comte last night.”
“Gilbert!” Aunt Isabel’s voice drifted down from the head of the stairs.
Papa grimaced. “That’s it in a nutshell. I had better go before she has apoplexy.”
“Wait, Papa—one more question. What will you say to them?”
He looked at her. “My sister—both my sisters—are adults. I can no more banish Molly than I could Isabel. She will have to live with that.”
“Do you think Aunt Molly and her comte will—”
“I have no idea, Sophie. Time will—”
“ Gilbert! ”
Papa sighed. “We can finish this later, if you wish to discuss it further.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Sophie sat back down and twiddled her cane thoughtfully. So this was the secret of Aunt Isabel’s bad temper, especially toward her sister. Well, if the Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux was going to be in London for any amount of time and was a bachelor, then she would do her best to see that he and Aunt Molly would have a chance to discover if they still cared for each other, Aunt Isabel or no Aunt Isabel.
* * *
She was still thinking about Aunt Molly and her comte that afternoon when the door knocker announced another caller. Lady Whiston had already been there to see how they were, which was very good of her, and Lord Palmerston had left his card. Sophie hoped that this latest caller would be the comte, and looked up from her embroidery to make sure that Aunt Molly’s cap wasn’t askew or her gown streaked with dirt from her bad habit of dusting her hands on it after making the rounds of the greenhouse downstairs.
“Lord Woodbridge,” Belton, their butler, announced at the door.
For a moment, Sophie thought, Who? Then realization swept over her as she caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired figure framed in the drawing room doorway. He wore a dark green coat this morning, with exquisitely cut pale buff-colored buckskin breeches and a simply but elegantly knotted neck cloth.
“I came to
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