Winter Garden by Adele Ashworth Page B

help her.
    Lifting her lace napkin and pressing it gently to her lips, effectively informing them all that she was about to speak, she turned to her hostess.
    â€œMrs. Rodney,” she started thoughtfully, “I was wondering who owns the large house on the far shores of the lake? It’s a lovely piece of property, and quite unlike the other homes I’ve seen in Winter Garden.”
    Silence ensued, and Madeleine feigned ignorance to the fact that they all seemed rather taken aback by her audacious interruption and outright turn in conversation. Or maybe it wasn’t the manner of her questioning but the desire to discuss the baron?
    Mrs. Rodney cleared her throat and leaned slightly to her left. “I believe you mean the manor house owned by Richard Sharon, the Baron Rothebury,” she said rather than asked.
    â€œSuch a charming man,” Mrs. Mossley interjected quickly.
    Mrs. Bennington-Jones raised her cup to her lipswith delicate fingers and took a slow sip of her tea. “Indeed he is, Mrs. Mossley. I would have been very happy had he chosen my lovely Desdemona to wed, but alas, she had her mind set on marrying Mr. Winsett.” She gave her daughter a guarded, look, hard as steel. Desdemona, flushing scarlet, lowered her eyes to her lap, fidgeting with the peach lace on her skirt.
    â€œThe baron is Winter Garden’s most eligible bachelor, Mrs. DuMais,” Lady Isadora properly explained. “He is a year-long resident. Of course, he is titled, handsome, and not without a good family name and substantial means.”
    Madeleine smiled and nodded as expected. “A marvelous prospect for any family.” She glanced again to Desdemona now sitting rigidly in her chair. Subduing her irritation at the lady’s mother who, like so many others, including her own, used her daughter as a pawn, she added, “Any lady would be fortunate to marry a baron, I suppose. But young ladies today, and even some young gentlemen, are more often marrying for love instead of financial and social stability. At least it seems to be that way in France.”
    Desdemona’s gaze shot up to meet hers, and Madeleine couldn’t decide if the lady looked frightened or appalled. The others had no idea what to say in reply, which was exactly what she’d anticipated.
    Mrs. Bennington-Jones took the cue. “I suppose you married for love, then, Madame DuMais?”
    The Englishwoman’s use of the title “Madame” instead of “Mrs.” had every intention of reminding them all of Madeleine’s place at the table. But more significantly, she recognized the underlying suggestion that as a Frenchwoman she might somehow be whimsicalby nature, perhaps even loose. It gave her the opening she needed.
    â€œGoodness, no,” she said with some surprise, staring the woman straight in the eye. “My marriage was arranged, Mrs. Bennington-Jones, as my husband was from an excellent family—tea traders all of them—with sufficient means and respectability. I have been most fortunate since my wedding day, although from time to time I miss my dear Georges. He was lost at sea several years ago.”
    â€œHow very sad,” Mrs. Mossley remarked with feeling.
    Madeleine shrugged negligibly, dropping her gaze and reaching for her fork to slice another piece of cake. “Yes, but the sea takes many souls each year, Mrs. Mossley,” she said frankly, “and I was not unaware of the risks when I married him.”
    Ever the practical widow, well mannered and well married. One or two ladies nodded with genuine, growing approval of her.
    After swallowing a very small bite, she turned back to her hostess to revert to her original query. “And the baron’s house, Mrs. Rodney? Has it always been in the family?” If the woman noticed she was pressing for information she didn’t show it.
    â€œOh, yes, it’s been the Rothebury estate for…nine or ten