Page 50 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

Her amusement melted into an expression akin to disappointment. “I remember.” She adjusted one of her gloves. “I am going to wait for the others. It is nearly dinner time.”

Rather than let her leave him there, the air between them heavy with uncertainty, Andrew offered his arm. “May I take you in to dinner tonight?”

A brief hesitation, then she took his arm. “Of course. But you needn’t ask. Hartwell must take Grandmother in, and Simon cannot escort his sister, so it falls to you quite naturally.”

They walked to the door, and the footman opened it for them.

“I know. It usually does.” That was almost always how it fell. He would escort her in, or sit by her side, at family dinners and during more formal occasions. Then they would entertain themselves by debating the ridiculous, pretending to disagree merely to ruffle each other’s feathers. He leaned closer just before parting with her at her favored chair to murmur, “But this time, I wanted you to know that I am glad for it.”

She stared at him, her blue eyes wide, and he bowed before taking himself off to the other side of the room, leaving her to speak with her grandmother until the others arrived, one by one, for the evening meal.

* * *

Hartwell sat across the table from Josephine, and Andrew sat at her side. Grandmother had relented to Simon’s request and took one end of the table while he filled the other. Lyness sat on Josephine’s other side, while her sisters flanked Lord Hartwell. The servants had removed several of the table leaves to make it smaller and more intimate for the eight of them.

Having her parents’ chairs occupied was only marginally better than seeing them empty. Of course, the duke and duchess had left the family to travel together before. On those occasions, Josephine had missed them terribly but kept perfectly cheerful with the knowledge they were on an adventure. This was different, though.

She missed her mother. Her father. Emma. The people she confided in were gone, leaving her to sort out her own thoughts and feelings.

Simon and Hartwell were speaking of York’s citizenry, comparing the disquiet to what Simon had seen in London. The whole of it was most depressing. Especially given how little they could do to help.

“Your father has my admiration, fighting as he does for reform. I am surprised any radical would attack his carriage, given his stance on the Corn Laws as well as representation of the masses.” Lord Hartwell paused in the conversation to serve one of Josie’s sisters from the platter of fish before him, a perfect gentleman.

“Likely they do not recognize the heraldry of one nobleman over another,” said the dowager duchess with a sniff.

“That is possible, I suppose.” Simon leaned against the back of his chair and joined his hands together in front of him. “At least London isn’t seeing the level of unrest I hear of in other parts of the country. Do you know that in Manchester and Birmingham there have been meetings held in parks where those in favor of the more radical reforms speak to the masses?”

“I understand in January there were more than ten thousand souls gathered to listen to that man—Henry Hunt, is his name—while the calvary watched from the sidelines.”

“My father tells of another meeting in March, and says he expects one this month as well.” Simon’s expression darkened, and he looked down at his clasped hands. “Parliament has sent letters to the Lancashire magistrates, warning that they need to peacefully disperse such assemblies before they grow uncontrollable.”

“People have the right to gather and listen to speakers, do they not?” Josephine asked, delicately poking at her fish with her fork.

“Of course they do,” Simon answered. “At least at present. There were those laws in place, for a time, that prohibited large gatherings unless the magistrates agreed to them and attended. Father said there is talk of reinstating those laws, at least until things calm down.”

Andrew spoke quietly from beside her, not looking up from the glass of wine in his hand. “The people are hungry, poor, and many are without work. So long as the government dissatisfies them, doing nothing to help them, they will keep meeting. In large groups or small. I fear it will come to violence before long.”

“As does the duke,” Simon said, voice low and eyes dark with worry. “Especially if men such as Henry Hunt keep drawing large, angry crowds.”

Silence hung over the table, and Josephine didn’t miss the worried looks exchanged by Isabelle and Rosalind. They were too young, surely, to hear such talk. But then, there were people even younger than them in the workhouses and fields, starving while the duke’s daughters ate at a well-laden table.

Josephine’s appetite diminished, and she lowered her fork.

Grandmama huffed, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “Must we really speak of politics over dinner, my lords?” the dowager asked, weariness in her tone.

Josephine sent her grandmother a grateful smile. “I agree with Grandmama. Let us speak of pleasanter things.” When she could do nothing to aid her countrymen but pray, she needed lighter fare at dinner.

“Such as your birthday?” Simon surprised her with the question. His hands unclasped, and he took up his cup, holding it as though to offer her a toast. “Father instructed me via letter to not let the day pass unmarked.”

Lord Hartwell’s eyebrows went up. “When is your birthday, my lady?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Rosalind said, beaming up at him. “We always celebrate our birthdays.”

Warmth flooded Josephine’s cheeks. Birthdays were for children. When Lyness exchanged a grin with his brother, she hastened to say, “No one need worry over it. I haven’t given it any thought.”

“But the duke declares we must celebrate,” Simon said, sounding far too pleased with himself for having that argument ready. “You wouldn’t have me ignore our father’s orders, would you?”

The heat in her cheeks increased. “I really wish you wouldn’t trouble yourselves, or the staff.”