preferred to be left to uninterruptedly pursue his own morbid thoughts—to wit, that he was about to be leg-shackled to a female who was constitutionally incapable of sharing his point of view—she would have found it difficult to curb her garrulousness. Since Edwina did not realize, thought in fact that Neal’s glowering expression was prompted by Sandor’s disruption of his plans for the day, she attempted to offer consolation, and consequently was more than usually irritating.
Miss Choice-Pickerell, Edwina observed as Lieutenant Baskerville’s neat cabriolet bowled along Church Street, was the perfect solution to their difficulties. Cressida was, in Edwina’s opinion, a good biddable girl, and one who would be pleased to take under her newlywed wing, as well as into the residence she would share with her bridegroom, a sister and cousin-by-law who were admirably well equipped to show her how to go on in society. This point settled to her own satisfaction, if not to Neal’s, Edwina rattled on amiably about where that hypothetical residence should be.
Neal listened to her, silently. A kind young man, when it occurred to him to be, he could not disabuse his cousin of her extremely cockle-brained notion that Cressida would welcome the suggestion that she share her home with Edwina and Binnie. Nor did he imagine that Cressida would cherish hints about ladylike conduct. He could put his foot down, he supposed, and insist that she do both, but that notion did not endear itself to him. To say the truth, Neal had reached the point of wishing to dismiss all thought of matrimony. That he could not do so was brought home to him more strongly with each of Edwina’s words. She and Binnie were no happier under Sandor’s dominion than was Neal himself. That their lives should not be further blighted was dependent on him. There was no choice but marriage, even if by it he only changed jailers. Cressida’s father was a shrewd old gentleman; he was not likely to relinquish complete control of the purse strings.
All the same, as husband to the well-heeled Miss Choice-Pickerell, Neal would be a young man of considerable financial resource. If Cressida would not extend her hospitality, Neal imagined he could arrange that Edwina and Binnie set up housekeeping on their own, elsewhere. Nor did this solution recommend itself to him, and understandably: a young man of two-and-twenty could hardly be expected to anticipate with relish the responsibility of two separate households.
In this manner they progressed out of town, Edwina chattering gaily about the Regent’s Royal Pavilion, a residence she apparently thought Neal should emulate, complete with peach-blossom ceilings and walls decorated with mandarins and fluted yellow draperies meant to resemble the tents of the Chinese; while Neal in a cowardly manner contemplated taking French leave. In this manner also they progressed through the countryside; although Edwina, having exhausted the topic of interior decoration, switched to the broader subject of the Neighboring Monster, Napoleon. It was as she was discussing the Upstart’s character, especially in regard to his wife, Josephine, whom he had callously tossed aside when it became belatedly apparent that she could not produce an heir, an act of inhumanity that appeared to be inextricably entangled in Edwina’s mind with the emperor’s recent and disastrous defeat in Russia, that Neal espied the appointed inn.
It was a pleasant-looking place, if not the sort generally frequented by persons of Quality, a long, squat, whitewashed building with bright green shutters, crimson curtains in the lower windows, white hangings in the bedchambers above. A ruddy signpost perched up in a tree proclaimed the name of the establishment, its golden letters twinkling in the sun. Neal alit, led his horse to a trough filled with clear fresh water, the ground around it spread with fragrant hay. Sternly he instructed a rosy-cheeked urchin to care for
Miss Choice-Pickerell, Edwina observed as Lieutenant Baskerville’s neat cabriolet bowled along Church Street, was the perfect solution to their difficulties. Cressida was, in Edwina’s opinion, a good biddable girl, and one who would be pleased to take under her newlywed wing, as well as into the residence she would share with her bridegroom, a sister and cousin-by-law who were admirably well equipped to show her how to go on in society. This point settled to her own satisfaction, if not to Neal’s, Edwina rattled on amiably about where that hypothetical residence should be.
Neal listened to her, silently. A kind young man, when it occurred to him to be, he could not disabuse his cousin of her extremely cockle-brained notion that Cressida would welcome the suggestion that she share her home with Edwina and Binnie. Nor did he imagine that Cressida would cherish hints about ladylike conduct. He could put his foot down, he supposed, and insist that she do both, but that notion did not endear itself to him. To say the truth, Neal had reached the point of wishing to dismiss all thought of matrimony. That he could not do so was brought home to him more strongly with each of Edwina’s words. She and Binnie were no happier under Sandor’s dominion than was Neal himself. That their lives should not be further blighted was dependent on him. There was no choice but marriage, even if by it he only changed jailers. Cressida’s father was a shrewd old gentleman; he was not likely to relinquish complete control of the purse strings.
All the same, as husband to the well-heeled Miss Choice-Pickerell, Neal would be a young man of considerable financial resource. If Cressida would not extend her hospitality, Neal imagined he could arrange that Edwina and Binnie set up housekeeping on their own, elsewhere. Nor did this solution recommend itself to him, and understandably: a young man of two-and-twenty could hardly be expected to anticipate with relish the responsibility of two separate households.
In this manner they progressed out of town, Edwina chattering gaily about the Regent’s Royal Pavilion, a residence she apparently thought Neal should emulate, complete with peach-blossom ceilings and walls decorated with mandarins and fluted yellow draperies meant to resemble the tents of the Chinese; while Neal in a cowardly manner contemplated taking French leave. In this manner also they progressed through the countryside; although Edwina, having exhausted the topic of interior decoration, switched to the broader subject of the Neighboring Monster, Napoleon. It was as she was discussing the Upstart’s character, especially in regard to his wife, Josephine, whom he had callously tossed aside when it became belatedly apparent that she could not produce an heir, an act of inhumanity that appeared to be inextricably entangled in Edwina’s mind with the emperor’s recent and disastrous defeat in Russia, that Neal espied the appointed inn.
It was a pleasant-looking place, if not the sort generally frequented by persons of Quality, a long, squat, whitewashed building with bright green shutters, crimson curtains in the lower windows, white hangings in the bedchambers above. A ruddy signpost perched up in a tree proclaimed the name of the establishment, its golden letters twinkling in the sun. Neal alit, led his horse to a trough filled with clear fresh water, the ground around it spread with fragrant hay. Sternly he instructed a rosy-cheeked urchin to care for
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