“Whoever expressed that opinion must be a sadly cynical person.” Daphne picked up a small bristle brush and bent down to drench it in the pail of water beneath the table. She straightened. “What other reason is there to marry?” she asked, moving the brush over the tiny tiles to remove the remaining grime from the grout lines.
“Children are an excellent reason.”
“Really?” Daphne paused, unable to resist giving the viscountess a look of feigned astonishment over the rims of her spectacles. “I did not realize one needed vows and a ceremony for the actual children to begin arriving.”
The other woman gave a smothered half laugh. “A wicked observation, Miss Wade. In society, such a statement would make people think you quite shocking.”
“Wicked perhaps, but also sensible. If children are the goal, then love between the partners would ensure plenty of them.”
To Daphne’s surprise, the other woman’s smile faded and her expression became almost melancholy. “Yes, I suppose it would,” she agreed, then shook her head. “But let us continue our discussion of marriage. Aside from children, there are other practical considerations, do you not agree? Family alliances. The accumulation of wealth. To gain greater position and power in society. There are many people who feel those are more important than love when choosing a marriage partner.”
“What purpose do those considerations serve if one is unhappy? I would think that to marry without love would bring a lifetime of pain.”
The countess drew in her breath so sharply that Daphne was startled. She once again looked up. “Lady Hammond, are you unwell?”
“No, no.” The other woman lifted her hand in a gesture of reassurance. “I am quite well. It is just that love itself can bring its own measure of pain, Miss Wade.”
Daphne paused, her fingers tightening around the brush in her hand as she looked into the other woman’s eyes. “Yes,” she admitted, “I suppose it can, if one is not loved in return. But surely the joy of the experience is worth the pain.”
“Is it?” Lady Hammond murmured, and her lips twisted into an ironic sort of smile. Her gaze moved past Daphne as if she were staring into a far distant landscape. “I wonder.”
Daphne felt a sudden empathy for the other woman. “So do I,” she admitted, “but it did sound quite noble and poetic when I said it.”
The two women looked at each other and both of them began to laugh.
“I knew the moment we met I was going to like you,” the viscountess exclaimed, still laughing. “We must become friends.”
Daphne smiled back, both pleased and touched by the suggestion. “I should like that, Lady Hammond. I have not had much opportunity to make friends, having moved about so much in my life.”
“You must call me Viola, and I shall call you Daphne. Flower names, you see? We already have something in common.”
“But not a love for clay pots.”
“No. In that respect, you are much more like Anthony, though what the two of you find so fascinating about shards of pottery baffles me.”
“Well, it is the pottery that truly reveals the history of a site—”
“No, no!” Viola held up one hand, stopping her. “I have heard this all before. I was running away from it a few moments ago, remember?”
“So you were. Very well, I shall not impose a discussion of Samarian ware, cream ware, and buff ware upon you.”
“Good, for I should much rather hear about you. Sir Edward told me you were born on the island of Crete?”
Daphne could not help being flattered. She was so seldom the object of anyone’s attention. “Yes. My father was excavating at Knossos. I do not remember much about the excavation. I do remember how hot and dry it was. My mother often described to me the meadows and woods of England. It sounded like paradise to me.”
“Both your parents were English?”
“Oh, yes. They met when he was in England to give a lecture on his findings at Knossos. He had been made a Knight of the Bath and was in London to receive the accolade. After a whirlwind courtship, they eloped and returned to Crete together.”
“And what of the rest of your family?”
“I...” She hesitated, then said, “My father was an orphan.”
“And your mother’s family?”
Daphne stilled, the brush in her hand pressing against the mosaic so hard that its bristles were nearly flat. The mention of her mother’s family brought back the memory of that horrible day in Tangier and the letter she had received from a London attorney two months after her father’s death.
Thank you for your inquiry to Lord Durand regarding a certain Lady Wade, whom you have declared to be the wife of Sir Henry Wade and formerly Miss Jane Durand, daughter of his lordship. Your declaration is impossible, for the Honorable Miss Durand remained unmarried until she died at her father’s estate in Durham, in 1805, when she was but twenty years of age. There is no possibility whatsoever that she could be your mother, and Lord Durand regrets that he can be of no assistance to you in this matter. Any further attempts to gain money or protection from his lordship shall be futile.
