like a dim memory from a different life, a different world, almost as distant as her life in her parents' home.
Myfanwy showed her down a short flight of stairs to the Long Gallery, running the width of the old house beneath the drawing room and behind the Great Hall. One long wall was panelled and hung with portraits of ancestors. Opposite, a dozen floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors looked out on a terrace and dripping gardens. The rain had stopped and in the west the sun set fire to the last fleeing streamers of cloud.
As Laura entered, a gentleman turned from consulting a mahogany-cased weather-glass hanging between two windows. He was obviously one of the Wyckham brothers, with the thick blond hair and blue eyes. In him the strong jaw tended to heaviness and he was considerably shorter than both Gareth and Rupert, his figure a trifle portly.
He came to meet her. “Am I correct, ma'am, in supposing you to be, hm, Lady Laura Chamberlain? Permit me to introduce myself: I am Cornelius Wyckham. Welcome to Llys Manor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wyckham. You are the vicar of Llys, I understand?”
“I do indeed serve that function in my, hm, humble fashion. May I offer my most sincere condolences, ma'am, on your recent, hm, unhappy loss? If religion can provide any, hm, consolation, I beg you will not hesitate to call upon me.”
His weighty pauses lent unwarranted significance to his words, making him sound pompous, though kindly. Laura responded to the kindness, with gratitude but careful not to suggest that she had any intention of turning to the Church for comfort. To do so would be sheer hypocrisy. She had been more comfortable since becoming a widow than ever during her marriage.
“I am, hm, glad of the opportunity to become acquainted,” said the vicar. “I understood from Gareth that your, hm, delicate condition precluded your joining the family for dinner.”
She suppressed a sigh but spoke through gritted teeth. “I assure you, sir, that I am perfectly well. As a clergyman, you must be aware that your female parishioners do not take to their beds only because they are breeding.”
The Reverend Cornelius was saved by Mrs. Forbes's arrival. She swept into the room, looking Laura's shabby widow's weeds up and down with undisguised smugness. Her own gown was of rose crape over a white satin slip, far too grand for the country, especially for a family dinner. Laura had no objection, since Maria's smartness seemed to have put her in a high good humour that her children were not present to dispel.
“I fear mourning becomes you ill, Cousin Laura,” she commiserated. “Such a trying colour, though when Mr. Forbes passed away people were kind enough to say that black enhanced my fairness.”
Laura returned a civil answer and Cornelius managed a ponderous compliment to both ladies. Miss Burleigh came in, followed shortly by Rupert and Gareth.
“Uncle Julius cannot be detached from his workbench this... Cousin Laura!” Before Gareth could order her to sit down, or even to retire to bed, Lloyd announced that dinner was served, narrowly averting a clash she was not ready for.
Gareth contented himself with giving her his arm into the dining room next door and plying her with delicacies. Fortunately her appetite had recovered from the buttered toast. She did full justice to the delicious meal, thanking heaven that at least he did not consider her one of those invalids requiring a diet of gruel.
Rupert entertained them with tall tales of the wild exploits of his fellow Guards officers. He captured Maria's attention—no mean feat when the subject was not herself—and even succeeded in bringing a smile to his aunt's thin lips. Laura revelled in the new experience of a family at ease.
She was unprepared for the wave of panic that swept over her when Miss Burleigh rose to lead the ladies' withdrawal. Suppose she took advantage of the gentlemen's absence to demand the accounting Laura had offered?
As the dining
Myfanwy showed her down a short flight of stairs to the Long Gallery, running the width of the old house beneath the drawing room and behind the Great Hall. One long wall was panelled and hung with portraits of ancestors. Opposite, a dozen floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors looked out on a terrace and dripping gardens. The rain had stopped and in the west the sun set fire to the last fleeing streamers of cloud.
As Laura entered, a gentleman turned from consulting a mahogany-cased weather-glass hanging between two windows. He was obviously one of the Wyckham brothers, with the thick blond hair and blue eyes. In him the strong jaw tended to heaviness and he was considerably shorter than both Gareth and Rupert, his figure a trifle portly.
He came to meet her. “Am I correct, ma'am, in supposing you to be, hm, Lady Laura Chamberlain? Permit me to introduce myself: I am Cornelius Wyckham. Welcome to Llys Manor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wyckham. You are the vicar of Llys, I understand?”
“I do indeed serve that function in my, hm, humble fashion. May I offer my most sincere condolences, ma'am, on your recent, hm, unhappy loss? If religion can provide any, hm, consolation, I beg you will not hesitate to call upon me.”
His weighty pauses lent unwarranted significance to his words, making him sound pompous, though kindly. Laura responded to the kindness, with gratitude but careful not to suggest that she had any intention of turning to the Church for comfort. To do so would be sheer hypocrisy. She had been more comfortable since becoming a widow than ever during her marriage.
“I am, hm, glad of the opportunity to become acquainted,” said the vicar. “I understood from Gareth that your, hm, delicate condition precluded your joining the family for dinner.”
She suppressed a sigh but spoke through gritted teeth. “I assure you, sir, that I am perfectly well. As a clergyman, you must be aware that your female parishioners do not take to their beds only because they are breeding.”
The Reverend Cornelius was saved by Mrs. Forbes's arrival. She swept into the room, looking Laura's shabby widow's weeds up and down with undisguised smugness. Her own gown was of rose crape over a white satin slip, far too grand for the country, especially for a family dinner. Laura had no objection, since Maria's smartness seemed to have put her in a high good humour that her children were not present to dispel.
“I fear mourning becomes you ill, Cousin Laura,” she commiserated. “Such a trying colour, though when Mr. Forbes passed away people were kind enough to say that black enhanced my fairness.”
Laura returned a civil answer and Cornelius managed a ponderous compliment to both ladies. Miss Burleigh came in, followed shortly by Rupert and Gareth.
“Uncle Julius cannot be detached from his workbench this... Cousin Laura!” Before Gareth could order her to sit down, or even to retire to bed, Lloyd announced that dinner was served, narrowly averting a clash she was not ready for.
Gareth contented himself with giving her his arm into the dining room next door and plying her with delicacies. Fortunately her appetite had recovered from the buttered toast. She did full justice to the delicious meal, thanking heaven that at least he did not consider her one of those invalids requiring a diet of gruel.
Rupert entertained them with tall tales of the wild exploits of his fellow Guards officers. He captured Maria's attention—no mean feat when the subject was not herself—and even succeeded in bringing a smile to his aunt's thin lips. Laura revelled in the new experience of a family at ease.
She was unprepared for the wave of panic that swept over her when Miss Burleigh rose to lead the ladies' withdrawal. Suppose she took advantage of the gentlemen's absence to demand the accounting Laura had offered?
As the dining
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