When she had capably managed an entire estate for years.
But even as indignation burned in her, a lump was forming in the back of her throat. Why did everyone have to be going on about marriage today? She never thought about marriage.
On the other side of the arborvitae, Jemima Pimble gave a sigh, her little girl’s voice making it come out high and thin. “She’s such a pretty thing, and she used to be the toast of the village. I suppose she could have had any fellow she wanted. But she just sort of disappeared into that house, didn’t she?”
Unexpected tears burned at the back of Felicity’s eyes. She squeezed them shut furiously. She never cried. She hadn’t even cried when her mother died—she’d simply been numb. Nor had she wept even once since the day she’d taken that vow—her vow never to marry.
And what did she need from a man anyway, she told herself angrily, trying to force the lump in her throat to go away. She took several deep breaths, and that steadied her some. Three years ago she’d put away attraction and fun and flirting and replaced it with meaningful work, and she hadn’t looked back to see what she’d missed. Managing Tethering had been a deeply satisfying challenge. A worthy life’s goal.
But without it…
No! She couldn’t even entertain the idea that the estate might truly be lost. She couldn’t, because beyond that thought lay a wasteland of emptiness and meaninglessness. Without her work at Tethering, she wouldn’t know who she was.
She really had no choice: she couldn’t rest until she found a way to get Tethering back.
She patted the skin under her eyes, where a little moisture had escaped, then pinched her cheeks lest she’d gone pale or splotchy. Thank heaven no one had come by. She’d get up in a minute, as soon as she was sure she looked normal. If there was going to be any more gossiping about her, she clearly couldn’t afford to hear it.
On the other side of the hedge, Augusta Tulkingham said, “Ah, Lady Pincheon-Smythe, how nice to see you.”
“I have only just arrived. Mrs. Tulkingham, Miss Pimble, you remember my nephew, Mr. Godfrey, the schoolmaster.”
Both ladies muttered expressions of welcome. Mr. Godfrey’s voice could be heard greeting them and making bland comments about the garden, and Felicity was struck by its remarkably nasal, methodical quality. She could easily imagine him lecturing on hypotenuse angles. Leaning close to peer through the bushes, she saw a very pale man with an oval head that had sparse, long, dark hairs spurting from the scalp to lie lankly against his head. He must have been about fifty.
“Have you met Mr. Collington, our new neighbor, Lady Pincheon-Smythe?” Miss Pimble asked.
“Hmph,” Lady P-S replied. “Not yet. But the name rings a bell. I believe he had a brother who was an MP.” A pause. “There was something about the brother, but I can’t remember what.”
So, thought Felicity, Mr. Collington was rich and important.
“Well,” said Mrs. Tulkingham, “our Mr. Collington is not an MP, but he is all one might wish in a gentleman. And he owns a sherry vineyard in Spain.”
“Charming, I’m sure,” Lady P-S said. “Now, have you seen Miss Wilcox? I wish to introduce her to my nephew. Such a nice young lady. I am quite determined to take her up as a cause.”
Felicity jumped up and made her escape.
An hour later, she and Mr. Collington were on their way back to Tethering. She was a quiet passenger as she stared unseeingly at the countryside and tried to think of ways to get him to give up on Tethering and go away.
“Well,” he said abruptly, breaking into her thoughts. “You and Markham certainly seemed to have quite a bit to say to each other.”
“I’m surprised our conversation was of any interest to you.”
He crossed his arms. “I could hardly fail to notice the intensity of your discussion, and I can’t have been the only one. You should have a care, Miss Wilcox, how you bestow
But even as indignation burned in her, a lump was forming in the back of her throat. Why did everyone have to be going on about marriage today? She never thought about marriage.
On the other side of the arborvitae, Jemima Pimble gave a sigh, her little girl’s voice making it come out high and thin. “She’s such a pretty thing, and she used to be the toast of the village. I suppose she could have had any fellow she wanted. But she just sort of disappeared into that house, didn’t she?”
Unexpected tears burned at the back of Felicity’s eyes. She squeezed them shut furiously. She never cried. She hadn’t even cried when her mother died—she’d simply been numb. Nor had she wept even once since the day she’d taken that vow—her vow never to marry.
And what did she need from a man anyway, she told herself angrily, trying to force the lump in her throat to go away. She took several deep breaths, and that steadied her some. Three years ago she’d put away attraction and fun and flirting and replaced it with meaningful work, and she hadn’t looked back to see what she’d missed. Managing Tethering had been a deeply satisfying challenge. A worthy life’s goal.
But without it…
No! She couldn’t even entertain the idea that the estate might truly be lost. She couldn’t, because beyond that thought lay a wasteland of emptiness and meaninglessness. Without her work at Tethering, she wouldn’t know who she was.
She really had no choice: she couldn’t rest until she found a way to get Tethering back.
She patted the skin under her eyes, where a little moisture had escaped, then pinched her cheeks lest she’d gone pale or splotchy. Thank heaven no one had come by. She’d get up in a minute, as soon as she was sure she looked normal. If there was going to be any more gossiping about her, she clearly couldn’t afford to hear it.
On the other side of the hedge, Augusta Tulkingham said, “Ah, Lady Pincheon-Smythe, how nice to see you.”
“I have only just arrived. Mrs. Tulkingham, Miss Pimble, you remember my nephew, Mr. Godfrey, the schoolmaster.”
Both ladies muttered expressions of welcome. Mr. Godfrey’s voice could be heard greeting them and making bland comments about the garden, and Felicity was struck by its remarkably nasal, methodical quality. She could easily imagine him lecturing on hypotenuse angles. Leaning close to peer through the bushes, she saw a very pale man with an oval head that had sparse, long, dark hairs spurting from the scalp to lie lankly against his head. He must have been about fifty.
“Have you met Mr. Collington, our new neighbor, Lady Pincheon-Smythe?” Miss Pimble asked.
“Hmph,” Lady P-S replied. “Not yet. But the name rings a bell. I believe he had a brother who was an MP.” A pause. “There was something about the brother, but I can’t remember what.”
So, thought Felicity, Mr. Collington was rich and important.
“Well,” said Mrs. Tulkingham, “our Mr. Collington is not an MP, but he is all one might wish in a gentleman. And he owns a sherry vineyard in Spain.”
“Charming, I’m sure,” Lady P-S said. “Now, have you seen Miss Wilcox? I wish to introduce her to my nephew. Such a nice young lady. I am quite determined to take her up as a cause.”
Felicity jumped up and made her escape.
An hour later, she and Mr. Collington were on their way back to Tethering. She was a quiet passenger as she stared unseeingly at the countryside and tried to think of ways to get him to give up on Tethering and go away.
“Well,” he said abruptly, breaking into her thoughts. “You and Markham certainly seemed to have quite a bit to say to each other.”
“I’m surprised our conversation was of any interest to you.”
He crossed his arms. “I could hardly fail to notice the intensity of your discussion, and I can’t have been the only one. You should have a care, Miss Wilcox, how you bestow
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