Page 49 of The Mad Marchams

“I think Mabel means jam.” Colin intervened.

“Yes, strawberry jam. The kind that goes with clotted cream and scones.” Mabel grinned at them both. “Apparently there is a freezer full of strawberries that needs to be used up before the whole thing breaks down.”

“That’s a lot of jam,” Colin observed.

“Not if we open a café. It will save us a fortune in the long run.” She blew Colin a kiss and left the room, leaving both men staring after her.

Freddy opened his mouth and Colin held up a finger. “Not now, okay?”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

Colin walked toward the door and started down the corridor. “Yes, I do.”

“No way, Jose,” Freddy said, following him.

“Don’t go all innocent and fake American on me.” Colin opened the door into his father’s study and allowed the dogs to precede them in. “You were about to say something about Mabel, correct?”

“And what if I was?” Freddy raised his eyebrows. “I like her.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“And she’s good for you, so maybe you should think about⁠—”

“See?” Colin pointed at him. “It’s none of your business.”

“It is if you’re stupid enough to let the best thing that’s ever happened to you walk out the door.” Freddy suddenly looked serious, which was disconcerting. “Women need to be told stuff.”

“Says the dude with no girlfriend. Your first mistake is to ever assume a woman will take well to being told anything.” Colin sat down gingerly in his father’s chair. “Thanks for standing up for me, by the way.”

Freddy shrugged. “They bloody deserved to be told off. Ungrateful sods.”

Colin hid a smile as he opened the folder on his desk. “Can we talk about your plans? I’m really impressed.”

Mabel decided to seek out Lady Marcham before heading to the kitchen and Mrs. Reynolds. She found her alone in the sitting room where she liked to do needlework on sunny afternoons. Mabel was grateful Felicity wasn’t present, as Felicity tended to side with her grandmother regardless of a conversation’s topic.

“Mabel.” The dowager, who was rummaging in her vast sewing box looked up over her spectacles. “What can I do for you, dear?”

Mabel took a chair across from her and considered how to frame her request. The old lady was formidable, and Mabel was aware the dowager wouldn’t appreciate Mabel’s interference in family matters.

“It’s about Colin,” Mabel finally said.

“What about him?” Lady Marcham spread her embroidery over her knees and tightened the hoop on a new section. The piece was an altar cloth she was making for the church.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, because I know I don’t have the right, but⁠—”

“Spit it out girl,” the dowager interrupted, meeting her eyes. “I’m not going to bite your head off.”

Mabel immediately felt like a parlour maid who’d broken a precious figurine while dusting. “Okay, I understand that you have your concerns about what Colin is doing, but would it be possible for you to ask him about them privately rather than in a room full of people who might not have his best interests at heart?”

Mabel held her breath as Lady Marcham carefully threaded her needle with light green silk.

“Are you suggesting I’m undermining him?”

“It might appear that way,” Mabel said carefully. “Although I’m sure Colin knows he has your complete support.”

“He knows he doesn’t have that, nor can I give it to him.”

“Why not?” Mabel blurted.