Have you got but the one parlor? And such a tiny dining room. Rather a change for you, my dear, after the splendor of the bishop's palace."
The Misses Prangle giggled their agreement.
"The cottage is large enough for Kate and me," Mrs. Towers said mildly. She liked the coziness of her small house, although at the moment she wished it were located at the tip of Wales, too far for Mrs. Prangle and the other gossipy ladies of Chillingsworth to call. Dear Kate had meant to be so kind, arranging it that her mother should be near her old acquaintances. Mrs. Towers had been quite unable to tell the poor child she had no desire to see most of those prying women again.
"The late bishop, rest his soul, was such a saintly man," Mrs. Prangle said, her bonnet feathers nodding as she mounted a fresh attack. "He never used his position to amass a fortune as some might have done, did he?"
This was such a bald-faced attempt to discover how Mrs. Towers and Kate had been left circumstanced, that Mrs. Towers stiffened. She had never known how to depress such impertinence. Kate would have known how to answer Mrs. Prangle. Kate had always known, far better than her retiring mother, how to deal with the never-ending stream of canons' wives, prebendaries' daughters and vicars' nieces who had trickled through the drawing rooms of the bishop's palace.
But Kate was not here, and Mrs. Towers did the best she could. She succeeded in changing the subject by inquiring after the archdeacon's son at Eton.
As Mrs. Prangle boasted how young George had become the boon companion of a duke's son, the china clock upon the mantel chimed three. Mrs. Towers noted with alarm that Mrs. Prangle might linger until tea time and that Kate still had not returned home.
Her anxious gaze traveled to the window once more. She had never been able to divine the true extent of Kate's feelings for the late Lord Lytton, but all her motherly instincts told her that her daughter was hiding a great deal of pain.
She should have put her foot down, duty be hanged, and not permitted Kate to go through the ordeal of attending that dedication. But she never had been able to take a firm line with Kate. Sometimes she stood a little in awe of her own daughter, so reserved, so self-possessed, so much like her father.
"Ooh!"
Mrs. Towers was startled from her thoughts by a squeal of delight from the youngest Miss Prangle. "Can that be Miss Towers coming home now? What an elegant coach!"
Mrs. Towers had allowed her mind to wander so far, that she had been unaware that a conveyance had pulled her up before the gate, but not the one she looked for. Before she could obtain a clearer view, the other three women joined her at the window, and she was nigh suffocated by a profusion of bouncing curls and muslin gowns.
Managing to peer past Mrs. Prangle's feathers, Mrs. Towers determined that it was not the vicar's smart barouche, but a much more impressive coach, fit to have been a state carriage for royalty.
"Look at the coat of arms on the door," Miss Prangle exclaimed. "Would that be the Arundel family crest?"
"No," Mrs. Towers said, a chill of recognition coursing through her. "It-it is . . ."
The Prangles regarded her breathlessly.
"It is my mother-in-law," Mrs. Towers said faintly.
The sight of the grande dame being handed from the coach by a bewigged footman in scarlet and gold livery caused the Prangles to shiver with excitement but Mrs. Towers's heart sank in dismay. Winifred Aldarcie Towers, the Lady Dane, had been widowed for many years now. One of her chief forms of amusement was to descend unexpectedly upon the families of her numerous offspring. With the bishop in his grave, Mrs. Towers had considered herself safe from any more such visitations. How disconcerting to discover she was wrong.
As Mrs. Prangle and her tittering daughters fussed, smoothing out their gowns and hair, Mrs. Towers rose to her feet with all the resignation of a condemned prisoner. All too soon the
The Misses Prangle giggled their agreement.
"The cottage is large enough for Kate and me," Mrs. Towers said mildly. She liked the coziness of her small house, although at the moment she wished it were located at the tip of Wales, too far for Mrs. Prangle and the other gossipy ladies of Chillingsworth to call. Dear Kate had meant to be so kind, arranging it that her mother should be near her old acquaintances. Mrs. Towers had been quite unable to tell the poor child she had no desire to see most of those prying women again.
"The late bishop, rest his soul, was such a saintly man," Mrs. Prangle said, her bonnet feathers nodding as she mounted a fresh attack. "He never used his position to amass a fortune as some might have done, did he?"
This was such a bald-faced attempt to discover how Mrs. Towers and Kate had been left circumstanced, that Mrs. Towers stiffened. She had never known how to depress such impertinence. Kate would have known how to answer Mrs. Prangle. Kate had always known, far better than her retiring mother, how to deal with the never-ending stream of canons' wives, prebendaries' daughters and vicars' nieces who had trickled through the drawing rooms of the bishop's palace.
But Kate was not here, and Mrs. Towers did the best she could. She succeeded in changing the subject by inquiring after the archdeacon's son at Eton.
As Mrs. Prangle boasted how young George had become the boon companion of a duke's son, the china clock upon the mantel chimed three. Mrs. Towers noted with alarm that Mrs. Prangle might linger until tea time and that Kate still had not returned home.
Her anxious gaze traveled to the window once more. She had never been able to divine the true extent of Kate's feelings for the late Lord Lytton, but all her motherly instincts told her that her daughter was hiding a great deal of pain.
She should have put her foot down, duty be hanged, and not permitted Kate to go through the ordeal of attending that dedication. But she never had been able to take a firm line with Kate. Sometimes she stood a little in awe of her own daughter, so reserved, so self-possessed, so much like her father.
"Ooh!"
Mrs. Towers was startled from her thoughts by a squeal of delight from the youngest Miss Prangle. "Can that be Miss Towers coming home now? What an elegant coach!"
Mrs. Towers had allowed her mind to wander so far, that she had been unaware that a conveyance had pulled her up before the gate, but not the one she looked for. Before she could obtain a clearer view, the other three women joined her at the window, and she was nigh suffocated by a profusion of bouncing curls and muslin gowns.
Managing to peer past Mrs. Prangle's feathers, Mrs. Towers determined that it was not the vicar's smart barouche, but a much more impressive coach, fit to have been a state carriage for royalty.
"Look at the coat of arms on the door," Miss Prangle exclaimed. "Would that be the Arundel family crest?"
"No," Mrs. Towers said, a chill of recognition coursing through her. "It-it is . . ."
The Prangles regarded her breathlessly.
"It is my mother-in-law," Mrs. Towers said faintly.
The sight of the grande dame being handed from the coach by a bewigged footman in scarlet and gold livery caused the Prangles to shiver with excitement but Mrs. Towers's heart sank in dismay. Winifred Aldarcie Towers, the Lady Dane, had been widowed for many years now. One of her chief forms of amusement was to descend unexpectedly upon the families of her numerous offspring. With the bishop in his grave, Mrs. Towers had considered herself safe from any more such visitations. How disconcerting to discover she was wrong.
As Mrs. Prangle and her tittering daughters fussed, smoothing out their gowns and hair, Mrs. Towers rose to her feet with all the resignation of a condemned prisoner. All too soon the
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