Page 41 of My Own True Duchess
Diana was too smart, which resulted in all manner of problems. She took keen notice of everything and everyone around her and worried about all of it.
Losing a papa did that, as Seraphina well knew. “She holds hands with you, Di. We should come away from the window.”
“I am not a gentleman, Fina. You go memorize some poem if you want to. I’m not letting Mama out of my sight.”
“She and Mr. Tresham like each other. I think they are friends.” Or were they something else? Cook had gone to market three days in a row and come back each time with an enormous haul. Last night, they’d had a joint of beef for supper, when a beef roast had become a rare treat even on Sundays.
At breakfast, before Mr. Tresham had arrived, Theo had mentioned buying fabric for new dresses. Diana’s hems had been let down, let down again, and lengthened with sewn-on borders, though she didn’t seem to care. Seraphina cared very much that, since they’d put off mourning, she’d had not a single new item of clothing other than a shawl she’d knitted herself.
“Mama does not look very friendly. She looks like she’s had another letter from Cousin Viscount.”
They referred to Diana’s only male relation by indirection. Never Cousin Fabianus, never Lord Penweather. He frightened Theo, and because Seraphina had read her sister’s private correspondence, he frightened Seraphina as well.
Nasty man. “Your mama and Mr. Tresham are merely having a discussion, Diana. Let’s come away from the window.”
Diana remained right where she was. “How will they cut irises without any scissors?”
“I’m sure Mr. Tresham carries a penknife.”
“We should bring them the scissors.”
Diana’s suggestion was the result of knowing that Mr. Tresham brought with him the possibility of change. Seraphina hadn’t decided whether it was a good change or a bad change, or simply a difference in routine. A stocked larder was good, a guest at breakfast was certainly interesting, but another letter had arrived from Cousin Viscount, and Seraphina hadn’t found an opportunity to read it.
“The scissors,” Seraphina said, “are in the locked parlor. If we retrieve them, then your mother will know we go where we ought not.”
“Will Mr. Tresham go where he ought not?”
“You are too young to even ask that.”
“Papa did. He went all manner of places he ought not, and he made Mama cry.”
Diana ought not to have recalled that—she’d been a mere toddler when her papa had gone to his reward—and Seraphina wished she’d forget it. “She doesn’t cry now, Diana.”
Down in the garden, an earnest discussion was in progress, one Seraphina felt guilty for even watching. “We could bring your mother a basket to hold the flowers.” Though first they’d have to find such a basket, which would take at least twenty minutes.
“A basket,” Diana said, bolting for the door. “Mr. Tresham can hold the basket while Mama cuts the flowers, and that way, he can’t hold her hand.”
She was out the door, leaving Seraphina to take one last glance at the garden. The bench was empty, which was for the best. Seraphina had liked her late brother-in-law, until she’d realized that he wasn’t a very nice man to be married to. Jolly and handsome, but fundamentally selfish and wed to a woman who had no capacity for selfishness at all.
If Mr. Tresham could teach Theo to be a little selfish, that would be a fine thing indeed.
* * *
Sometime while changing from evening attire into his riding clothes, Jonathan had taken to thinking of Mrs. Haviland as Theodosia. Morning light showed fatigue in her eyes, suggesting she had also passed a sleepless night.
Why?
“Show me your garden,” he said, rising from the bench and holding out a hand. The little yard was a horticultural curiosity cabinet, with pots positioned on top of the walls, hanging from the branches of the lone maple, and lining the gravel walk.
The daffodils were fading along the east-facing wall, while the tulips were enjoying their finest moment and irises were only starting to bloom. Like Theodosia, the flowers weren’t fancy, but they were lovely nonetheless.
“I’d rather show you to your horse,” she said.
“I sent Roulette home with my groom.” Thank goodness. “Are you anxious to be rid of me because I asked to kiss you, or because of my blasted money?”
She paused to twist off a potted hyacinth gone brown and droopy. “Let’s start with the money. I’ve never had any of my own.”
Few women did. “You mean funds, not merely pin money.”
