Parkinson said. “I shall come every day to visit Lady Muir, of course.”
“I am delighted to hear it ma’am,” George said, nodding to a footman to open the library doors. “My carriage will be at your disposal.”
Flavian and Hugo exchanged glances, and the former cocked one eyebrow. Shall we sneak off while we may? the look seemed to ask.
Hugo pursed his lips. It was tempting. But he followed George and his guest into the library, and Flavian shrugged and came behind him.
“I do regret this imposition upon your hospitality, Your Grace,” Mrs. Parkinson assured George. “But it is not in my nature to abandon a friend when she is in need. And so I will accept your kind offer of a carriage each day even though I would be delighted to walk here. I will be absolutely no bother to you or your guests while I am here. It is Lady Muir I will be visiting. I shall certainly not expect tea each day.”
A maid had just come into the room and was setting down a tray on the large oak desk by the window.
It was hardly surprising, Hugo thought, that Mrs. Parkinson cultivated the friendship of Lady Muir. She was, after all, the widow of a lord and the sister of an earl, and Mrs. Parkinson was obsequious to a fault. It was less clear why Lady Muir was her friend. She had struck Hugo as being decidedly haughty and high in the instep. He had not warmed to her despite her undeniable beauty. Though she had laughed at her own predicament after she demanded to be set down and he obliged her. And then she had asked to be carried after all. But she had once lost her unborn child through the incredible recklessness of her own behavior and the carelessness of her husband’s. She was the sort of upper-class woman he most despised. She seemed totally wrapped up in self. And yet she was Mrs. Parkinson’s friend. Perhaps she enjoyed being worshipped and adored.
Poor George was being left to bear all the burden of conversation alone since he, Hugo, was standing in morose silence wishing that he had not stopped earlier to climb to that ledge on the cliff but had come straight back to the house. And Flavian was over by one of the bookshelves, leafing through a book and looking disdainful. Flavian always portrayed disdain exceedingly well. He never even needed to speak a word.
This was grossly unfair to George.
“You have known Lady Muir for a long time, Mrs. Parkinson?” Hugo asked.
“Oh, my lord,” she said, setting down her teacup and saucer in order to clasp her hands to her bosom again, “we have known each other forever . We made our come-out together in London when we were mere girls, you know. We made our curtsy to the queen on the very same day and danced at each other’s come-out ball afterward. People were good enough to call us the two most dazzlingly pretty young ladies on the marriage mart that year, though I daresay they were merely being kind to me. Though I did have more than my fair share of beaux, it is true. More than Gwen, in fact, though I suppose that was in part due to the fact that she took one look at Lord Muir and decided that his title and fortune were worth setting her cap at. I might have married a marquess or a viscount myself had I chosen, or any one of a number of barons. But I fell deeply in love with Mr. Parkinson and never regretted for a single moment relinquishing the dazzling life I might have had with a titled gentleman and ten thousand or more a year. There is nothing more important in life than romantic love, even when its object is the mere younger brother of a baronet.”
How had Muir died, Hugo wondered, having allowed his mind to wander. He did not ask.
The doctor was being shown into the room, and he confirmed Hugo’s suspicion that his patient’s ankle was severely sprained though not apparently broken or fractured. Nevertheless, it was imperative that she rest her leg and put absolutely no weight upon it for at least a week.
The Survivors’ Club was going to have to expand to
“I am delighted to hear it ma’am,” George said, nodding to a footman to open the library doors. “My carriage will be at your disposal.”
Flavian and Hugo exchanged glances, and the former cocked one eyebrow. Shall we sneak off while we may? the look seemed to ask.
Hugo pursed his lips. It was tempting. But he followed George and his guest into the library, and Flavian shrugged and came behind him.
“I do regret this imposition upon your hospitality, Your Grace,” Mrs. Parkinson assured George. “But it is not in my nature to abandon a friend when she is in need. And so I will accept your kind offer of a carriage each day even though I would be delighted to walk here. I will be absolutely no bother to you or your guests while I am here. It is Lady Muir I will be visiting. I shall certainly not expect tea each day.”
A maid had just come into the room and was setting down a tray on the large oak desk by the window.
It was hardly surprising, Hugo thought, that Mrs. Parkinson cultivated the friendship of Lady Muir. She was, after all, the widow of a lord and the sister of an earl, and Mrs. Parkinson was obsequious to a fault. It was less clear why Lady Muir was her friend. She had struck Hugo as being decidedly haughty and high in the instep. He had not warmed to her despite her undeniable beauty. Though she had laughed at her own predicament after she demanded to be set down and he obliged her. And then she had asked to be carried after all. But she had once lost her unborn child through the incredible recklessness of her own behavior and the carelessness of her husband’s. She was the sort of upper-class woman he most despised. She seemed totally wrapped up in self. And yet she was Mrs. Parkinson’s friend. Perhaps she enjoyed being worshipped and adored.
Poor George was being left to bear all the burden of conversation alone since he, Hugo, was standing in morose silence wishing that he had not stopped earlier to climb to that ledge on the cliff but had come straight back to the house. And Flavian was over by one of the bookshelves, leafing through a book and looking disdainful. Flavian always portrayed disdain exceedingly well. He never even needed to speak a word.
This was grossly unfair to George.
“You have known Lady Muir for a long time, Mrs. Parkinson?” Hugo asked.
“Oh, my lord,” she said, setting down her teacup and saucer in order to clasp her hands to her bosom again, “we have known each other forever . We made our come-out together in London when we were mere girls, you know. We made our curtsy to the queen on the very same day and danced at each other’s come-out ball afterward. People were good enough to call us the two most dazzlingly pretty young ladies on the marriage mart that year, though I daresay they were merely being kind to me. Though I did have more than my fair share of beaux, it is true. More than Gwen, in fact, though I suppose that was in part due to the fact that she took one look at Lord Muir and decided that his title and fortune were worth setting her cap at. I might have married a marquess or a viscount myself had I chosen, or any one of a number of barons. But I fell deeply in love with Mr. Parkinson and never regretted for a single moment relinquishing the dazzling life I might have had with a titled gentleman and ten thousand or more a year. There is nothing more important in life than romantic love, even when its object is the mere younger brother of a baronet.”
How had Muir died, Hugo wondered, having allowed his mind to wander. He did not ask.
The doctor was being shown into the room, and he confirmed Hugo’s suspicion that his patient’s ankle was severely sprained though not apparently broken or fractured. Nevertheless, it was imperative that she rest her leg and put absolutely no weight upon it for at least a week.
The Survivors’ Club was going to have to expand to
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