indecision over whether to pour the tea now, out of deference to the important guests she already had, or continue waiting for the most important guest and risk offending all the others. It didn’t help that her mother, whose mind wasn’t as sharp as it had been, kept asking from the inglenook, “Is it time, Jessie? Why don’t you pour out now, dear?”
At half past three, quick footsteps sounded on the cinder path, and seven heads turned as one toward the door. Pink-cheeked and windblown, carrying her hat in her hand, Lady D’Aubrey stepped over the threshold, giving the open door a humorous little rap with her knuckles. “I beg your pardon,” she said breathlessly to the group at large, “I’m most terribly sorry for being late. You’ll think me extremely foolish, but the truth is—I’ve been lost!”
Everyone stood up and exclaimed in astonishment and concern; Miss Weedie apologized, as if her ladyship’s misfortune were her fault.
“I was ready to come at half past one—much too early—and so I decided to go for a walk. I’m still not quite sure how I did it, but somehow I ended up at a sort of canal, I think, only it was abandoned, the water stagnant and weed-choked. A most melancholy place, but—beautiful, you know, with reeds and wildflowers and—” She broke off with a little grimace, as if telling herself to stop talking. Christy had never heard her say so much at one go before, and realized she was flustered. She looked very young and almost carefree, for once, with her reddish hair awry, her fringed black shawl dangling rakishly from one shoulder.
Honoria took it upon herself to explain that she must have walked south and stumbled upon the northern tributary of the Plym, used for barge traffic to and from Devonport years ago, but silted over now and abandoned. Her ladyship said she thought that was very likely it, and then Miss Weedie, with an air of fearful bravery, plunged into the formidable social task of introducing her to everyone.
She accomplished it flawlessly, and everybody sat down, Anne in Honoria’s old chair at Miss Weedie’s insistence. An awkward silence ensued. Eustace Vanstone, who had met Lady D’Aubrey at her father-in-law’s funeral, began to say grave and ponderous things about the honor her presence brought to their humble little community, the regrettably long time it had been since a lady had graced the manorial hall, particularly one as charming as she, and so on and so forth. Her ladyship murmured suitable things back.
Honoria said it was wonderful to have Geoffrey home again. “Oh—I mean Lord D’Aubrey,” she corrected herself with a self-conscious simper. “
That
will take a bit of getting used to, won’t it?”
“You and Geoffrey were friends, then, before he went away?” Anne inquired politely.
“Oh, yes, certainly. I was a little younger than he, of course, but one never forgets the friends of one’s childhood.”
This was news. Honoria had been about thirteen when Geoffrey had run away for good, and Christy knew for a fact that they’d never been anything at all to each other, much less friends. He recalled a conversation with Honoria a few weeks ago, when she’d pressed him for information on Geoffrey’s whereabouts. Naturally he hadn’t told her about his unanswered letters to the London address, but Honoria had learned a great deal about Wyckerley’s prodigal son via the uncannily accurate village grapevine. “I hear he’s cavorting in London without a care in the world,” she’d tsked, “while his father lies at death’s door. I for one think it’s absolutely shocking.” Today she seemed to have gotten over the shock, and the new viscount, notwithstanding a great
cavorter
, was clearly an acquaintance she was ready to acknowledge.
“Do tell us what Geoffrey’s been doing for the last twelve years,” she invited, leaning toward Anne confidentially. “We hear such
odd
things.”
“Well, you know, he’s been active in
At half past three, quick footsteps sounded on the cinder path, and seven heads turned as one toward the door. Pink-cheeked and windblown, carrying her hat in her hand, Lady D’Aubrey stepped over the threshold, giving the open door a humorous little rap with her knuckles. “I beg your pardon,” she said breathlessly to the group at large, “I’m most terribly sorry for being late. You’ll think me extremely foolish, but the truth is—I’ve been lost!”
Everyone stood up and exclaimed in astonishment and concern; Miss Weedie apologized, as if her ladyship’s misfortune were her fault.
“I was ready to come at half past one—much too early—and so I decided to go for a walk. I’m still not quite sure how I did it, but somehow I ended up at a sort of canal, I think, only it was abandoned, the water stagnant and weed-choked. A most melancholy place, but—beautiful, you know, with reeds and wildflowers and—” She broke off with a little grimace, as if telling herself to stop talking. Christy had never heard her say so much at one go before, and realized she was flustered. She looked very young and almost carefree, for once, with her reddish hair awry, her fringed black shawl dangling rakishly from one shoulder.
Honoria took it upon herself to explain that she must have walked south and stumbled upon the northern tributary of the Plym, used for barge traffic to and from Devonport years ago, but silted over now and abandoned. Her ladyship said she thought that was very likely it, and then Miss Weedie, with an air of fearful bravery, plunged into the formidable social task of introducing her to everyone.
She accomplished it flawlessly, and everybody sat down, Anne in Honoria’s old chair at Miss Weedie’s insistence. An awkward silence ensued. Eustace Vanstone, who had met Lady D’Aubrey at her father-in-law’s funeral, began to say grave and ponderous things about the honor her presence brought to their humble little community, the regrettably long time it had been since a lady had graced the manorial hall, particularly one as charming as she, and so on and so forth. Her ladyship murmured suitable things back.
Honoria said it was wonderful to have Geoffrey home again. “Oh—I mean Lord D’Aubrey,” she corrected herself with a self-conscious simper. “
That
will take a bit of getting used to, won’t it?”
“You and Geoffrey were friends, then, before he went away?” Anne inquired politely.
“Oh, yes, certainly. I was a little younger than he, of course, but one never forgets the friends of one’s childhood.”
This was news. Honoria had been about thirteen when Geoffrey had run away for good, and Christy knew for a fact that they’d never been anything at all to each other, much less friends. He recalled a conversation with Honoria a few weeks ago, when she’d pressed him for information on Geoffrey’s whereabouts. Naturally he hadn’t told her about his unanswered letters to the London address, but Honoria had learned a great deal about Wyckerley’s prodigal son via the uncannily accurate village grapevine. “I hear he’s cavorting in London without a care in the world,” she’d tsked, “while his father lies at death’s door. I for one think it’s absolutely shocking.” Today she seemed to have gotten over the shock, and the new viscount, notwithstanding a great
cavorter
, was clearly an acquaintance she was ready to acknowledge.
“Do tell us what Geoffrey’s been doing for the last twelve years,” she invited, leaning toward Anne confidentially. “We hear such
odd
things.”
“Well, you know, he’s been active in
Similar Books
Startup Weekend: How to Take a Company From Concept to Creation in 54 Hours
Marc Nager, Clint Nelsen, Franck Nouyrigat
