friends.”
That seemed harmless enough. “Thank you for calling,” Cynthia said, responding to Mrs. Townsend’s infectious smile. “Won’t you sit down?”
Mrs. Townsend, whose manners continued to display a spontaneity such as Cynthia had never encountered among the middle-class denizens of Birmingham, accepted the invitation after first removing her bonnet and pelisse, revealing a simple white muslin gown of a vaguely classical design and a cluster of bright red curls, cut short and clinging to her head. She perched on the edge of her seat and regarded her hostess like an eager little bird.
“I’m afraid I don’t remember Lord Windermere mentioning the name of Townsend,” Cynthia said. “But he was called abroad so soon after our marriage that the matter may not have arisen.”
“I’m not at all surprised. Robert and Damian had a falling out years ago. But I used to know Damian quite well, and as far as I know he never had anything against me . I don’t think he would object to our becoming acquainted.”
“I don’t see why he should,” Cynthia said. “And since he is not here to give his permission or otherwise I don’t feel the need to guess at his sentiments. I will follow my own inclination and welcome you. I have been in London for several weeks and I don’t know a soul.”
“Bravo! I am delighted to see that Damian wed a lady of spirit.”
Was that what she was? She’d never felt like it before and rather liked the idea. “It is possible that he forbade the acquaintance when speaking French and I didn’t understand him.”
“Why on earth?”
“He wished me to become fluent, as is becoming to a diplomat’s wife.”
“There are certain places,” Mrs. Townsend said with a straight face, “where it is appropriate to converse in French. In France for one—and in the bedchamber. The French are extremely good at a certain kind of communication. Or so I have always been told.”
Cynthia supposed she should be shocked. Mrs. Townsend seemed not to have developed the social restraints that prevented most people from mentioning personal or intimate matters. Or anything else terribly interesting either. While not quite ready to confide that the bedchamber was the one place where Lord Windermere did not address her in French—or English either—she suspected her fascinating guest would be a source of information she had no other way of obtaining.
“Did you say that your own husband had died, Mrs. Townsend? If so, I offer my condolences.”
“Caro. Damian always called me Caro and you must too.”
“I am Cynthia,” she replied to Caro’s unspoken question.
“A year ago, and I miss him.” For a moment the lively little face settled into grief, fast replaced by a pixyish grin. “Hey ho, life goes on, and Robert wouldn’t have wished me to bury myself. Goodness, Cynthia, Damian isn’t even dead and it sounds as though you’ve been living more like a widow than I. You must come to dinner at Conduit Street and meet my friends. Some of them knew Damian too. Julian, of course.”
“I don’t know who Julian is either. I wish you will tell me about my husband when he was younger, Mrs. Townsend—Caro.”
“Robert met Julian, Damian, and Marcus at Oxford but they were expelled quite quickly.”
“Expelled!” Cynthia couldn’t begin to fathom what her excessively correct spouse could have done to merit such punishment. “I would have guessed Windermere to have been a model scholar.”
“I daresay he was,” Caro said. “They were all brilliantly clever young men and no doubt would have done very well if they’d cared to take the trouble, and hadn’t been caught breaking into the naughty art collection housed in the Bodleian Library. So they all went to France instead.”
“That explains Windermere’s fluency.”
“Damian was the best at languages, I believe. I met them after they came back because of the Revolution. Damian helped Robert and me to elope, you
That seemed harmless enough. “Thank you for calling,” Cynthia said, responding to Mrs. Townsend’s infectious smile. “Won’t you sit down?”
Mrs. Townsend, whose manners continued to display a spontaneity such as Cynthia had never encountered among the middle-class denizens of Birmingham, accepted the invitation after first removing her bonnet and pelisse, revealing a simple white muslin gown of a vaguely classical design and a cluster of bright red curls, cut short and clinging to her head. She perched on the edge of her seat and regarded her hostess like an eager little bird.
“I’m afraid I don’t remember Lord Windermere mentioning the name of Townsend,” Cynthia said. “But he was called abroad so soon after our marriage that the matter may not have arisen.”
“I’m not at all surprised. Robert and Damian had a falling out years ago. But I used to know Damian quite well, and as far as I know he never had anything against me . I don’t think he would object to our becoming acquainted.”
“I don’t see why he should,” Cynthia said. “And since he is not here to give his permission or otherwise I don’t feel the need to guess at his sentiments. I will follow my own inclination and welcome you. I have been in London for several weeks and I don’t know a soul.”
“Bravo! I am delighted to see that Damian wed a lady of spirit.”
Was that what she was? She’d never felt like it before and rather liked the idea. “It is possible that he forbade the acquaintance when speaking French and I didn’t understand him.”
“Why on earth?”
“He wished me to become fluent, as is becoming to a diplomat’s wife.”
“There are certain places,” Mrs. Townsend said with a straight face, “where it is appropriate to converse in French. In France for one—and in the bedchamber. The French are extremely good at a certain kind of communication. Or so I have always been told.”
Cynthia supposed she should be shocked. Mrs. Townsend seemed not to have developed the social restraints that prevented most people from mentioning personal or intimate matters. Or anything else terribly interesting either. While not quite ready to confide that the bedchamber was the one place where Lord Windermere did not address her in French—or English either—she suspected her fascinating guest would be a source of information she had no other way of obtaining.
“Did you say that your own husband had died, Mrs. Townsend? If so, I offer my condolences.”
“Caro. Damian always called me Caro and you must too.”
“I am Cynthia,” she replied to Caro’s unspoken question.
“A year ago, and I miss him.” For a moment the lively little face settled into grief, fast replaced by a pixyish grin. “Hey ho, life goes on, and Robert wouldn’t have wished me to bury myself. Goodness, Cynthia, Damian isn’t even dead and it sounds as though you’ve been living more like a widow than I. You must come to dinner at Conduit Street and meet my friends. Some of them knew Damian too. Julian, of course.”
“I don’t know who Julian is either. I wish you will tell me about my husband when he was younger, Mrs. Townsend—Caro.”
“Robert met Julian, Damian, and Marcus at Oxford but they were expelled quite quickly.”
“Expelled!” Cynthia couldn’t begin to fathom what her excessively correct spouse could have done to merit such punishment. “I would have guessed Windermere to have been a model scholar.”
“I daresay he was,” Caro said. “They were all brilliantly clever young men and no doubt would have done very well if they’d cared to take the trouble, and hadn’t been caught breaking into the naughty art collection housed in the Bodleian Library. So they all went to France instead.”
“That explains Windermere’s fluency.”
“Damian was the best at languages, I believe. I met them after they came back because of the Revolution. Damian helped Robert and me to elope, you
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