with her?” Galen inquired lightly.
“She’s a widow.”
“A rich widow might be the very thing. Or is she ancient?”
Myron let out a snort. “Not at all, but she’s not rich or important. Her child stands to inherit a goodly sum when she comes of age, but the mother has only a portion of the income to live on. As for the little girl, she’s a hellion!”
“Why, Myron, since when have you taken to listening to school-yard gossip?”
“I don’t! She once stampeded a herd of cows through the main street of the village.”
Galen subdued a grin. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“She said the gate to the pasture was already open, but she was laughing so hard, nobody except her mother and that termagant of a servant believed her.”
Galen wondered if he would ever get the chance to ask Jocelyn herself about that. Even if he didn’t, he already believed her version of events.
Myron cleared his throat. “And her husband’s demise was said to be rather…hasty.”
Galen regarded his host with apparently mild interest. “Was it an accident? Is foul play suspected?”
“Not by anybody who ever met the widow. Unthinkable to imagine her up to no good! Yet here he was in perfect health one week, and the next he was dead.”
“He was a young man, then?”
“Good God, no. Fifty if he was a day—but healthy for all that.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“Pneumonia.”
“Is there some cause to believe the doctor would lie?”
Myron shook his head. “Dr. Newton is very well respected in the county. But you know how women gossip! They always will when the husband is so much older than the wife and then shuffles off his mortal coil so quick. I confess I wondered myself at the time—yet only for an instant. I saw them together a few times, and there’s no doubt she loved her husband very much. Wouldn’t leave him for a day, even when he was well.” Myron sighed. “Gad, we should all be so lucky as to have a woman like that tending to us in our final days!”
“You make her sound more like a nurse than a wife.”
“I’d settle for a nurse like that, by God!” Myroncried with a throaty chuckle. “There was the child, too. Demme, that man doted on his daughter!”
“How paternal of him.”
Myron gave him a quizzical look, then grinned. “Gad, forgive me! You don’t want to hear about widows and their children!”
“I do not want to spend all my time with the fairer sex, either, not when I could be hunting with such a sportsman as yourself. I truly regret not coming sooner, Myron. I have been in Italy.”
“Demme, I know that!” Myron declared. “Justbury Minor keeps me informed of all the old boys’ doings.”
Galen realized he should have guessed this. The younger Justbury boy—hence, minor—was the worst gossip Galen had ever met, male or female. He made Eloise seem a sphinx. What Justbury knew, he told, too.
“Mind, I’ll have to have a dinner party or two,” Myron mused aloud, “or the ladies will never forgive me.”
Galen smiled with appropriate modesty and inclined his head. Then he frowned. “Not tonight, I hope.”
“No! Not tonight, or tomorrow either, for the weather promises to be fair. Tomorrow I must take you out for the pheasants. Then fishing—perhaps the ladies will have to wait a little, eh?”
“Whatever you think best, Myron.”
“Mind, it’s a wonder any young ladies live long enough to be married these days, what with those flimsy dresses and low bodices and whatnot. Asking for consumption, if you ask me!”
“I rather like the current mode in ladies’ fashions,” Galen noted absently. Even in black, Verity had looked beautiful in her simple gown that revealed the tantalizing tops of her breasts.
“You would, you dog!”
Brought back to the present, Galen raised his glass in a salute. “To your very good health, Myron, and renewed friendships.”
Myron flushed and Galen could almost believe the genial soul had a tear in his eye.
“She’s a widow.”
“A rich widow might be the very thing. Or is she ancient?”
Myron let out a snort. “Not at all, but she’s not rich or important. Her child stands to inherit a goodly sum when she comes of age, but the mother has only a portion of the income to live on. As for the little girl, she’s a hellion!”
“Why, Myron, since when have you taken to listening to school-yard gossip?”
“I don’t! She once stampeded a herd of cows through the main street of the village.”
Galen subdued a grin. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“She said the gate to the pasture was already open, but she was laughing so hard, nobody except her mother and that termagant of a servant believed her.”
Galen wondered if he would ever get the chance to ask Jocelyn herself about that. Even if he didn’t, he already believed her version of events.
Myron cleared his throat. “And her husband’s demise was said to be rather…hasty.”
Galen regarded his host with apparently mild interest. “Was it an accident? Is foul play suspected?”
“Not by anybody who ever met the widow. Unthinkable to imagine her up to no good! Yet here he was in perfect health one week, and the next he was dead.”
“He was a young man, then?”
“Good God, no. Fifty if he was a day—but healthy for all that.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“Pneumonia.”
“Is there some cause to believe the doctor would lie?”
Myron shook his head. “Dr. Newton is very well respected in the county. But you know how women gossip! They always will when the husband is so much older than the wife and then shuffles off his mortal coil so quick. I confess I wondered myself at the time—yet only for an instant. I saw them together a few times, and there’s no doubt she loved her husband very much. Wouldn’t leave him for a day, even when he was well.” Myron sighed. “Gad, we should all be so lucky as to have a woman like that tending to us in our final days!”
“You make her sound more like a nurse than a wife.”
“I’d settle for a nurse like that, by God!” Myroncried with a throaty chuckle. “There was the child, too. Demme, that man doted on his daughter!”
“How paternal of him.”
Myron gave him a quizzical look, then grinned. “Gad, forgive me! You don’t want to hear about widows and their children!”
“I do not want to spend all my time with the fairer sex, either, not when I could be hunting with such a sportsman as yourself. I truly regret not coming sooner, Myron. I have been in Italy.”
“Demme, I know that!” Myron declared. “Justbury Minor keeps me informed of all the old boys’ doings.”
Galen realized he should have guessed this. The younger Justbury boy—hence, minor—was the worst gossip Galen had ever met, male or female. He made Eloise seem a sphinx. What Justbury knew, he told, too.
“Mind, I’ll have to have a dinner party or two,” Myron mused aloud, “or the ladies will never forgive me.”
Galen smiled with appropriate modesty and inclined his head. Then he frowned. “Not tonight, I hope.”
“No! Not tonight, or tomorrow either, for the weather promises to be fair. Tomorrow I must take you out for the pheasants. Then fishing—perhaps the ladies will have to wait a little, eh?”
“Whatever you think best, Myron.”
“Mind, it’s a wonder any young ladies live long enough to be married these days, what with those flimsy dresses and low bodices and whatnot. Asking for consumption, if you ask me!”
“I rather like the current mode in ladies’ fashions,” Galen noted absently. Even in black, Verity had looked beautiful in her simple gown that revealed the tantalizing tops of her breasts.
“You would, you dog!”
Brought back to the present, Galen raised his glass in a salute. “To your very good health, Myron, and renewed friendships.”
Myron flushed and Galen could almost believe the genial soul had a tear in his eye.
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