At eighteen she had been wed to Selina’s older brother, who had died after only two years of marriage. His heir, Selina’s younger brother, had promptly booted the widowed Margaret out of the house, and so she had come back home to Hastings where she and Selina had—beneath a brittle veneer of civility—lived under the same roof as might two queens jockey for the same throne, an uneasy state of affairs which lasted until Selina’s death, five long years later.
Now here they were.
He a widower at thirty-one, she a widow at thirty-three. She still wore black for the late Viscount Peete, which was a mystery to Anthony, as Skiffy Featherington had not only been exceedingly stupid, he had also been vain, arrogant, and among the most extreme of the so-called Dandy set—notorious throughout half of England for the immense shoulder-padding in his coats, the soaring height of his shirt-points, the half-dozen fobs jangling from his waist, and the jeweled quizzing-glass he carried with him everywhere including (it was rumored) bed, bathtub, and privy.
Well, life was full of mysteries, wasn’t it?
By way of further example, why had blight returned this past autumn to the northeastern apple orchards after a full decade of untroubled health and productivity?
And was it true that the long white blurry swath in the night sky wasn’t a celestial sort of exhalation, as he’d been taught in his youth, but was instead, thanks to the revelations of modern telescopes, an immense grouping of distant stars?
Too, recently he had found himself wondering why the self-styled village oracle, Mrs. Roger, had come up to him the last time he was in Riverton and said, nodding her head in a highly significant manner, You’re next, Yer Grace.
Also, would Margaret ever stop presenting him with marital candidates, or would this dispiriting parade of hopeful females go on forever?
Anthony turned away from the marble steps and began walking toward the stables, and as he passed a large and perfectly rounded shrub, a small form leaped out from behind it and onto the graveled path, shouting in a high-pitched childish treble:
“Boo!”
Anthony paused and calmly regarded his son, who in turn looked very disappointed.
“Oh, Father, you never jump.”
“Nerves of iron,” explained Anthony. “Only way a chap could survive in this family. How long have you been hiding behind that shrub?”
“Ages. I heard everything you and Aunt Margaret said. I say, Father, are you going to marry Miss Thingummy?”
“Who?”
“You know, the lady from Yorkshire.”
“Doubtful.”
“Well, that’s good. I saw her in the drawing-room, Father, and she asked who I was, and when I told her, she said I ought to be away at school, and then I told her I didn’t want to go, and she said I was a foolish little boy and that you’re a nonglickful father.”
“Do you mean neglectful?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. And then she said that the first thing she’ll do after she marries you will be to pack me off to Eton.”
“Fat chance of that. You’d run away and join the Navy.”
“Yes, that’s what I told her! And guess what she said then, Father?”
“She complimented you on your patriotic spirit.”
“No, she said I was not only a foolish little boy, but a horrid one too.”
“Hardly an endearing strategy to get me to marry her,” remarked Anthony. “I wonder why she didn’t think you’d repeat what she said to you.”
Wakefield smiled a distinctly gleeful smile. “I told her I would, Father, and then she gave me a half-crown to keep my mouth shut.”
“And yet here you are, telling me.”
“Aren’t you glad I did?”
“Well, yes,” Anthony admitted. “You’ve given me all the insight I need into Miss Thingummy’s character.”
“I think you ought to give me a half-crown for that.”
“Don’t push your luck. You’re already deep into morally ambiguous territory. By the way, what were you doing in the drawing-room?”
“Hiding from Nurse.”
“Why?”
“She keeps trying to give me castor oil, and it’s foul.”
Anthony nodded, and resumed walking again. “She dosed me with that when I was a lad. Said it would fatten me up.”
Briskly taking two or three strides to one of his own, Wakefield kept pace alongside him. “It didn’t work, Father.”
“No, it only made me bilious. Does she think you’re too thin also?”
“Yes. She says I’ll grow up to be a scarecrow like you if I don’t watch out.”
“A scarecrow? How unkind of Nurse to say that.”
“I stuck up for you, Father.”
“Did you, Wake? That was ripping of you.”
“Yes, I told her you don’t look like a scarecrow—you’re more like a crane. Because your legs are awfully long, you know.”
“They may be long, my boy, but at least they reach the ground.”
Wakefield thought this over, and grinned. “I say, Father, you’re the most complete hand.”
“One does try.”
“So will you talk to Nurse, then?”
“Yes. Henceforth no drop of castor oil is to pass betwixt your unwilling lips. This is my ducal decree. Let no man—or nurse—flout it with impunity.”
Wakefield gave a joyful skip. “That’s capital, Father, thanks ever so much.”
“You’re welcome. Speaking of hiding in the drawing-room, why didn’t you go to the vicarage today for your lessons?”
“I wanted to, of course,” said Wakefield, looking up at him with brown eyes that had somehow gotten all big and glistening, like those of a sweet, vulnerable fawn. “But there were so many more important things I had to do, Father.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one, yesterday I told Johns I’d stand guard over the Duchess for a while, so he could go get his breakfast. He’d told me about Cremwell’s evil plan, you see, and he stayed by the Duchess’ pig-cote all night. And when he got back, I was hungry, so I went to Mrs. Gregg’s cottage. Because she makes the most dilickable muffins, Father.”
“Do you mean delectable?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. You ought to try them. So I had nuncheon with Mrs. Gregg, and then I was going to the vicarage, but I passed Mr. Moore’s field and saw that bull of his, Old Snorter, and thought I’d give it a go. So after I fell off, I had to run away from Old Snorter and Mr. Moore, who was shouting like anything. Then I tripped over a tree-root and scraped away half the skin on my arm—”
“Did you really?”
“Well, no, but I was bleeding a bit, and luckily Miss Trevelyan came by on one of her walks, and she took me back to her house and put a sticking-plaster on it, and then I was hungry again, so Miss Humphrey made some sandwiches for me, and then we all went into the library so Miss Trevelyan could read aloud to us from the book she’s writing, which was jolly good fun, and Miss Humphrey also brought in some biscuits. I saved one for you, Father.”
Wakefield pulled from the pocket of his coat a vaguely circular object. “See? It’s only a tiny bit crumbled.”