lineage.”
“How interesting.” She turned her blue gaze on her son, her pulled-up eyes narrowing slightly. “We’re dining with the staff, Quentin?”
He laughed so easily Rebecca would have found some comfort in it if she could feel anything through the tenterhooks jabbing her. “No, we’re dining with Rebecca, who happens to be the daughter of one of Father’s friends.”
That was, of course, another way to put it. Hardly the way Elise would interpret the relationship if she had all of the facts. Rebecca’s gaze lingered on Quentin a moment longer. She hadn’t known he was aware of the friendship between her father and his.
“So you knew my husband, Rebecca?” Glacial —that was the only word Rebecca could use to describe the tone.
“Yes. Or, rather, no. Not well.”
“And your father is . . . ?”
“James Seabrooke.”
Lady Elise appeared to ponder the name a moment, then shook her head briefly. “No, I don’t believe I’ve met a James Seabrooke, and I assure you I knew all of my husband’s friends. Are you certain your father knew my husband?”
Quentin laughed again. Rebecca wished she could join in, wished she wanted to.
“Father introduced me to James Seabrooke years ago, Mum.”
She wondered if he was deliberately keeping hidden the fact that one member of the Seabrooke family or another had been employed by the Hollinworths for generations.
“Was her father from London?”
Lady Elise eyed Rebecca as she asked the question of her son, as though Rebecca were an exhibit being pondered instead of a dinner guest.
“Yes, James works for the Trust.”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?” Elise asked, then stepped into the garden room. Bright and airy, the room was decorated in snowy white, which seemed the perfect accompaniment to Lady Elise’s frosty blue suit. A pristine, padded wicker couch with matching wicker table and chairs gave the room an outdoor look, especially overlooking the rose garden. Upon their entry the macaw let out a screech. “I don’t know why Helen told us to come in here with that awful bird. I’ve always detested that thing.”
Quentin approached the huge gilt cage that housed the macaw, reaching inside to take a nut from its bowl to hand-feed it. “How can you say that, Mum? Father loved him, and he loved Father.” Quentin grinned. “You could even say he’s been a member of the family longer than either of us.”
“I’m well aware of how long that bird has been around. However, when I married your father, there was nothing in the vows about tending to that creature.” Lady Elise neared the table next to the windows. It was spread with spotless linen, adorned with nineteenth-century Wedgwood, eighteenth-century silverware, and fresh white orchids. “Does she expect us to eat the entire meal in here? I won’t have it, Quentin.”
“Oh, come now, Mum, it’ll be fine. You can see the roses from here, and I know you like them. Would you care for some iced tea?” Quentin walked toward the tea trolley set off to the side. “I believe Helen said it’s orange mint. How about you, Rebecca?”
She accepted the offer immediately. Elise declined.
“So tell me, Rebecca,” Elise said, “why are you working as a commercial manager out here in the country? You should be in London, where all the other young people live.”
“I like it here,” Rebecca said, hating the meek tone but unable to take it back and replace it with something more robust. She cleared her throat and made another attempt. “I’m interested in history, and I like working with others to preserve it.” Better, though still not herself.
Elise neared the table, the tip of one long finger grazing an orchid petal. “Some things are worthy to be preserved, although you must admit there is a plethora of Victorian homes available to schools and tourists. We don’t really need this hall on a public list.” She picked up a knife and inspected it, then replaced it. “Do you
“How interesting.” She turned her blue gaze on her son, her pulled-up eyes narrowing slightly. “We’re dining with the staff, Quentin?”
He laughed so easily Rebecca would have found some comfort in it if she could feel anything through the tenterhooks jabbing her. “No, we’re dining with Rebecca, who happens to be the daughter of one of Father’s friends.”
That was, of course, another way to put it. Hardly the way Elise would interpret the relationship if she had all of the facts. Rebecca’s gaze lingered on Quentin a moment longer. She hadn’t known he was aware of the friendship between her father and his.
“So you knew my husband, Rebecca?” Glacial —that was the only word Rebecca could use to describe the tone.
“Yes. Or, rather, no. Not well.”
“And your father is . . . ?”
“James Seabrooke.”
Lady Elise appeared to ponder the name a moment, then shook her head briefly. “No, I don’t believe I’ve met a James Seabrooke, and I assure you I knew all of my husband’s friends. Are you certain your father knew my husband?”
Quentin laughed again. Rebecca wished she could join in, wished she wanted to.
“Father introduced me to James Seabrooke years ago, Mum.”
She wondered if he was deliberately keeping hidden the fact that one member of the Seabrooke family or another had been employed by the Hollinworths for generations.
“Was her father from London?”
Lady Elise eyed Rebecca as she asked the question of her son, as though Rebecca were an exhibit being pondered instead of a dinner guest.
“Yes, James works for the Trust.”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?” Elise asked, then stepped into the garden room. Bright and airy, the room was decorated in snowy white, which seemed the perfect accompaniment to Lady Elise’s frosty blue suit. A pristine, padded wicker couch with matching wicker table and chairs gave the room an outdoor look, especially overlooking the rose garden. Upon their entry the macaw let out a screech. “I don’t know why Helen told us to come in here with that awful bird. I’ve always detested that thing.”
Quentin approached the huge gilt cage that housed the macaw, reaching inside to take a nut from its bowl to hand-feed it. “How can you say that, Mum? Father loved him, and he loved Father.” Quentin grinned. “You could even say he’s been a member of the family longer than either of us.”
“I’m well aware of how long that bird has been around. However, when I married your father, there was nothing in the vows about tending to that creature.” Lady Elise neared the table next to the windows. It was spread with spotless linen, adorned with nineteenth-century Wedgwood, eighteenth-century silverware, and fresh white orchids. “Does she expect us to eat the entire meal in here? I won’t have it, Quentin.”
“Oh, come now, Mum, it’ll be fine. You can see the roses from here, and I know you like them. Would you care for some iced tea?” Quentin walked toward the tea trolley set off to the side. “I believe Helen said it’s orange mint. How about you, Rebecca?”
She accepted the offer immediately. Elise declined.
“So tell me, Rebecca,” Elise said, “why are you working as a commercial manager out here in the country? You should be in London, where all the other young people live.”
“I like it here,” Rebecca said, hating the meek tone but unable to take it back and replace it with something more robust. She cleared her throat and made another attempt. “I’m interested in history, and I like working with others to preserve it.” Better, though still not herself.
Elise neared the table, the tip of one long finger grazing an orchid petal. “Some things are worthy to be preserved, although you must admit there is a plethora of Victorian homes available to schools and tourists. We don’t really need this hall on a public list.” She picked up a knife and inspected it, then replaced it. “Do you
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