Pansy beamed. “You’re welcome, Papa. I did it on purpose.”
“Pansy!” Sarah exclaimed. “Why would you do that?”
The little girl shrugged. “Everyone seemed upset. About Miss Smith. I thought it might prove a jolly distraction.”
Uncle Henry dropped his head into his hands. “Everyone advises to keep children away from the dinner table. Perhaps I should have listened. Off to the nursery with the lot of you.”
Gwendolyn raised a hand. “No, Lord Eaden. It’s fine. It is better this way. Do not send the children away because I have been slow in making my news known to all.”
Jackson had not pulled his gaze from Gwendolyn since she’d first spoken up, but she did not meet his eyes.
“Gwendolyn?” he said, “What does Pansy mean?Gone?”
She spoke to no one in particular, her gaze focused on a point somewhere over Jackson’s shoulder. “I am leaving Lord Eaden’s employ.”
Jackson jerked to his feet. When everyone looked at him, he sank back down. “Apologies. I was… startled by Gwendolyn’s jest. Not funny, Miss Smith.”
She jerked her chin high. “Not a joke, Mr. Cavendish. Lord Eaden is going to find me a new position.”
He almost leapt to his feet again. The better to jump across the table, haul her into his arms, and find a tower somewhere to lock her up in.
“Why are you leaving us?” Pansy asked. “Nora left. And Ada. But they got married. Are you getting married?”
“N-no,” Gwendolyn stammered, flashing a glance at Jackson. Pure panic, it was.
As it should be. She was leaving? Leaving, and she’d not told him? He could not form a coherent thought past that one fact.
“Never?” Pansy asked.
“I am not getting married,” Gwendolyn said. “I am merely in need of a change.”
Pansy nodded, then tilted her head. “I thought you would marry Jackson.”
Another silence, this one with the jagged fragility of broken glass.
Pansy looked at Jackson. “Don’t you like her? She’s very pretty.”
Jackson cleared his throat, every inch of him squirming and hot. “I very much like Miss Smith. She is a beautiful woman, of course.” The beauty of her mind, her soul, had long ago settled deep in his bones, become the life of his blood. He swallowed hard, found the right words, though likely there were none. Not truly. “But liking, Pansy, does not always mean marriage.”
The problem was she did not like him enough or did not trust him enough. Glass scratched under his skin, and he pushed his bowl away.
“Hmm.” Pansy studied the ceiling. “Do you want to get married?”
Who they hell had she addressed that to?
Gwendolyn sipped from her wineglass then said, “Women my age do not often wed.”
Sarah scowled. “I was much older than you when I married Henry.”
“See,” said Pansy, eyes lighting brighter than the candles, “you can still wed. You just have to find someone quite,quiteold. Like Papa.”
Uncle Henry’s wine reappeared in a spit stream across his plate.
Sarah patted his back. “Now, Pansy, I wouldn’t say your Papa is quite,quiteold. Just old.” She grinned, a look for her husband alone.
“I’ll show you how old I am,” Uncle Henry muttered. “Later. When we’re alone.”
“Are you too old to marry, too, Jackson?” Pansy asked.
