“The string quartet,” Lily murmured.
“That was it, and a very superior performance it was too.”
“And we can even go for a walk in the Sydney gardens—that’s quite acceptable for people in mourning,” Rose said in a bright tone that was almost savage.
“Yes, on a sunny afternoon, it’s very pleasant,” Aunt Dottie agreed placidly. “But if you have business, Cal dear, this afternoon is quite free. I usually take a nap around three while the girls read and embroider.”
And there, in a nutshell was the cause of his sisters’ restlessness: They were bored. Restricted from the livelier social events by their state of mourning, and spending most of their time in the company of an old lady and her friends. And from the sounds of things, with no friends of their own age.
He’d likely be kicking over the traces too, if he were forced into such a dull routine at that age. Anything would be better than that.
“Whereabouts is the school you girls attended?” he asked. “It’s in Bath, I know, but what’s the address?”
“Why would you want to know that?” flashed Rose. “You never wrote to us when we were there, after all, so why now?”
“Rose dear, that’s no way to talk to your brother,” Aunt Dottie said gently. “He’s head of the family now and must be treated with respect.” She gave him directions to the school, finishing with, “But I confess, I’m curious too, as to why you’d want to know.”
“Business,” he said. “Would you pass the marmalade, please, Rose?”
She passed it, watching him through slitted cat eyes.
Chapter Three
One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.
—JANE AUSTEN,EMMA
The Pump Room experience was as gruesome as Cal expected. Aunt Dottie paused outside the building, ran a critical eye over him, straightened the black armband she’d produced for him after breakfast and then stood on tiptoe to smooth back his hair, as she had when he was a small boy. Then she placed her hand on his arm, took a deep breath and moved forward.
Clearly they were to make An Entrance.
All kinds of people patronized the Pump Room and came to drink the waters or bathe in them, people from all levels of society, but the worst invalids and the poorest folk usually came—and went—first thing in the morning.
This was the fashionable time, and the place was crowded with elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, mostly elderly or middle aged, some in bath chairs or resting on sticks, most with an attendant, a servant, a poor relation or a companion.
Aunt Dottie stepped inside and paused—or perhaps the right word wasposed—her hand resting possessively on Cal’s arm. They stood framed in the doorway, while Aunt Dottie surveyed the room with all the triumph of a hunter returning to a starving village, having bagged a nice fat buck.
The buck concerned swallowed, reminded himself of all those red woolen socks and allowed himself to be displayed.
A snort from behind him indicated that one at least of his sisters found the spectacle vastly amusing. He didn’t need to turn his head to know which sister.
There was a short hush, then a buzz of speculation rose.
“See? They’re all dying to know who my tall, handsome escort is!” Aunt Dottie said gleefully from the side of her mouth.
She then led him forward in a slow triumphal circuit of the room, greeting everyone and introducing him as “My nephew, the new Earl of Ashendon. The dear boy has been away at the wars for the last ten years, defeating the Corsican Monster.”
“Single-handedly,” Rose interjected from time to time in a low voice that only she, Lily and Cal could hear.
“And the minute he arrived in England, he came straight here to see me and the girls,” Aunt Dottie would conclude proudly. Cal tried not to squirm.
What followed was invariably a brief, polite exchange, touching a little on Cal’s experience abroad before venturing delicately (or otherwise) toward the only subject most of the ladies there were interested in: whether Cal was married or betrothed.
The moment he admitted he wasn’t, the invitations came gushing forth. Unmarried and widowed daughters, nieces, granddaughters, great-nieces and a few more distant relations were produced and introduced to Cal—no, to Lord Ashendon.
Presented for his inspection, they blushed prettily (or otherwise) while their relations extolled their various virtues, skills and aristocratic connections. In one case, a very blunt grandmotherly type pointed out of an excellent pair of child-bearing hips. The poor girl turned beet red and looked as though she would happily sink into the floor, but she rallied when Cal gave her a sympathetic smile, and fluttered her eyelashes at him hopefully.
They invited him to tea, dinner, picnics, intimate familyparties and musical afternoons, all designed to further his acquaintance with the female of the moment.
