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Margery was thrilled for them. She adored them all, and knowing they were all so happily matched gave her the greatest joy. Yet for a haunting moment, as she glanced about the room and took in these couples who were so very much in love, Margery felt her loneliness like a suffocating cloak about her. Not that she was alone, of course. Not with so many of her loved ones surrounding her. Yet she was lonely just the same. She missed her dear Aaron every single day. At times like these, however, his loss was felt all the more, their stolen future almost too painful to bear. And now with the added grief of someone trying to soil his name? She clenched her teeth tight, her fingers finding the thin gold band that cradled her fourth finger. She would do anything to prevent that from happening, to keep these people who had supported her in her marriage in open defiance of her father from thinking even one unkind thought about Aaron.
“I do hope you’re not planning on leaving again right after that baby of yours is born,” her grandmother said, shooting Quincy and Clara a disgruntled look. “I vow, a year is too long to be off running wild while we’re stuck here on Synne.”
“Stuck?” Peter queried with a raised golden brow, looking up from his daughter’s peaceful features. “I thought you loved it here, Aunt.”
“I do, I do,” she grumbled, waving a heavily beringed hand in dismissal. “But that does not mean I don’t like to travel now and again. Not that any of you care a bit what I like.” She sniffed, her offense palpable.
Peter, as expected, rolled his eyes. The two were ever at one another’s throats—a pastime that seemed dear to them if the wicked joy they each took in taunting one another was any indication. He kept his voice low and pleasing when he spoke, however, the better to keep his daughter slumbering. A far cry from the gruff grumbling he usually adopted with the dowager. “We have only just returned from London.”
Gran rolled her eyes right back at him. “That was well over a year ago, and you know it. And at my advanced years, goodness knows how much time I might have left…”
Phoebe exchanged amused glances with her sister before turning to the older woman. “Oswin and I will be heading to London for the return to Parliament in November, Aunt Olivia. We would be happy to take you with us.”
“As if I would want to return to that dirty, smelly place,” she scoffed. “And in winter, of all times.”
That sharp pronouncement was met with faint amusement by most of them. The only one seemingly affected at all by it was Miss Denby, who bit her lip in worry while simultaneously shooing her beast of a dog away from Freya. Mouse had been enamored of the smaller pup from the moment he’d stepped foot—er, paw—in Seacliff, and that adoration had not ceased, but instead it only grew stronger. It was a comical thing, indeed, as Freya was approximately the size of Mouse’s head, and seemed to view him as nothing more than an annoying gnat buzzing about her.
But while most in society thought of Miss Denby as a stunning if flighty thing with nothing of any substance between her ears, she had shown over the past weeks since taking her position that she was not stupid. Having learned to take her cues from the rest of the family regarding her irascible employer, she took stock of the room and settled back in her seat with a relieved sigh, her hand firmly on Mouse’s collar, once it became apparent that there was no danger.
“Besides,” the older woman continued, her expression turning suddenly sly, “I’m expecting a guest and won’t have time for traveling willy-nilly all over England.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. And then Peter’s voice, overloud in the sudden quiet of the room: “Who would be visiting you?” Wee Charlotte opened pale blue eyes the same hue as her father’s and scrunched up her face in preparation of a squall, seemingly more than happy to jump in at the dowager’s defense.
“Peter,” Lenora scolded gently, taking up her daughter with a smile. “Don’t tease your aunt so.”
“Now, now, Lenora,” Quincy said, leaving off whispering with his blushing wife to jump into the fray, “the man has every right to be surprised. I know I am.” He grunted, grinning, as Clara elbowed him in the side. “That is,” he amended, trying and failing spectacularly at looking contrite, “Lady Tesh doesn’t seem like the type to entertain.” Doing a poor job of holding in his laughter as his wife attempted to place a silencing hand over his mouth, he continued louder, “Besides housing Peter and me that fateful summer two years ago, I’ve not known her to have any guests for a lengthy stay.”
Gran glared at him. “I shall not miss your impertinence one bit when you go sailing off again, young man.”
“Yes you will,” he quipped, giving the older woman another broad wink.
Clara spoke up then. “Quincy, darling, do stop antagonizing her. Of course Aunt Olivia has entertained guests besides you.”
“Oh, really? Name one.” He looked down at his wife with smug expectance.
“Well, there’s…” She paused, blinking in befuddlement. “That is, there was that one time…” Clara frowned, looking to her sister. “Goodness, I can’t recall a one, can you?”
Gran let loose a low growl that had her pup raising her head in confusion. “Oh, you all vex me so. Well, you may as well go right ahead and continue to make me the brunt of your jokes, but I know you’ll all miss me when I’m gone.”
It had been a common enough refrain in the past that it roused only the weakest responses from those around her. In an effort to redirect the quickly spiraling conversation, Margery spoke up. “But you were telling us of your guest, Gran? I vow, I’m waiting on tenterhooks to learn who might be visiting.”
The others took the hint, thank goodness, and added their rousing curiosity. Mollified by what she must deem as appropriate interest, Gran’s outrage melted away. That did not mean, however, that she had forgotten the effrontery of the past minutes. “Well, now,” she said, raising her nose high in the air, “I’m not sure I want to tell you all after that display.”
Margery knew her grandmother well enough to recognize that her ire had passed, and she now only held on to the remnants of it because of an excess of pride. “Of course, it’s your right not to say a thing,” she said in a seemingly offhand manner.
Gran glared at her. “Oh no you don’t. You won’t get out of it that easy.” She took stock of the room, no doubt verifying she had everyone’s undivided attention. “You all, of course, know of my very great friendship with the Duchess of Carlisle.”
Margery, of course, did not. She recalled vaguely that the viscountess and the duchess had exchanged letters sporadically over the years. The relationship between the two, however, never seemed particularly close. But she nodded and smiled all the same, as did everyone else.
Gran ran her fingers through the white mop of fur that topped Freya’s head. “She wrote not long ago telling me of her poor health and a need for sea air. I, being the caring woman I am, insisted she visit for a time.”
How Margery did not snort at that, she would never know. Peter and Quincy, of course, were not so circumspect. Blessedly their wives knew them well, and soon the two men were coughing to cover up their less-than-complimentary reactions.
“How wonderful to have your friend for a stay,” Clara said.
“Yes,” the older woman mused, eyeing the two men with a stern glare but blessedly refraining from commenting on their rudeness. “It will be a refreshing change. I do grow lonely at times.”
Margery kept her expression serene, though she wanted nothing more than to sigh in exasperation. “You’re hardly alone, Gran,” she said. “I’m staying here with you, after all. And now you have dear Miss Denby and Mouse to keep you company. And with Phoebe and Clara and their spouses on the Isle, and dear little Charlotte beginning to visit as well, I’d say you’re kept quite busy with company.”
