Page 25 of Miss Dignified
“As far as I know,” he said, “my sisters are thriving. I have not seen them since I mustered out, save on their previous visits to Town, though they are faithful correspondents. They might well be dancing naked under the full moon and holding orgies in the ballroom.”
Orgies. He had mentioned orgies to his lady cousin. Jeanette merely smiled and sipped her tea. “Sycamore shares your gift for a colorful turn of phrase. If the Powell ladies were hosting orgies, I would have heard of it, and Wales would have gained considerable cachet as a holiday destination.”
Dylan reviewed what he knew of each sister’s current occupations. Bronwen was drafting a novel. Marged was collecting old ballads to arrange for the harp. Dylan honestly did not know what occupied Tegan, but as the oldest, she was doubtless responsible for the decision to storm London.
The conversation reached a lull, and still, Dylan had not broached the topic of avoiding a match for himself. Jeanette doubtless had a thousand things to see to, and yet, she remained in her wing chair, as contented as a cat.
Dylan rose, prepared to take his leave.
“Was that the purpose of your call?” Jeanette asked, getting to her feet and slipping her arm through his. “You simply wanted to let me know the cousins are planning to visit Town?”
Dorning could have told her that much, and probably had.
“I have neglected you. I wanted to remedy that oversight.”Ask her about the bachelors and wallflowers. Get the dispatches from the ballrooms, enlist her aid.The words refused to come, but a different question did. “How did you know, Jeanette, that Dorning was worth marrying? You had a miserable time of it with the marquess, and yet, you put your foot in parson’s mousetrap a second time.”
“Sycamore isn’t everybody’s cup of tea,” Jeanette said. “I like that about him. He demands notice and refuses to be brushed aside. That fascinated me, when I’d devoted myself to living behind veils and shadows. Having so many older siblings—and especially older brothers—he refused to be ignored. That takes courage and tenacity.”
Or it took a penchant for histrionics. “But he didn’t simply catch your eye, he caught your heart. How did he do that?” And why had Dylan wandered onto this odd topic? He was not contemplating marriage, and his sisters were hardly the kind to need advice about their own preferences.
“Are you considering courting somebody, Dylan? Before you answer, please recall that I have no secrets from my husband, though he will take my confidences with him to the grave.”
“I am not in contemplation of any courtships. I’m simply curious. Dorning is a good enough fellow, but what did hedothat a dozen other bachelors haven’t done as well or better? Is he the best dancer? The greatest wit? Does he have a store ofbon motssecond to none?”
Jeanette’s gaze turned puzzled. “None of that matters in the least, Dylan.”
It certainly didn’t matter to him. “Then what does matter? Goddard told us you’d never remarry. That the marquess had been very uphill work, and one marriage was enough for you. Then you become Mrs. Sycamore Dorning. Dorning is not titled, he owns a questionable if elegant establishment, and he likes to play with knives. Something convinced you to take him on as a spouse.”
Jeanette eased away and peered at the corkboard target hanging between two renderings of flowering plants. “Sycamore sees me.”
This version of Jeanette would have been impossible to overlook. Dylan waited in hopes of further explanation.
“Sycamore,” she said, wandering over to one of the ferns enthroned before the windows, “has been watching his family fall apart since he was a small boy. The older brothers went off to school, the old earl died, a sister disappeared into service and then married a virtual stranger. As the youngest boy, Sycamore could do nothing about any of it, and nobody took the time to explain to him that these developments were normal. His brothers would come back from school, his sister was only married, not gone to darkest Peru. He became vigilant where the welfare of his loved ones is concerned. Hepays attention.”
Picturing Dorning as a lonely, anxious boy took imagination, but the narrative made sense. “Now he pays attention to you?”
“And I pay attention to him. I told myself I was concerned about my step-son’s behavior, but Sycamore saw that I was worried sick. I pretended that widowhood was peaceful, when Sycamore could see that I was lonely in my soul and bored to wretchedness. I cannot deceive myself when he is on hand to listen to me and observe my behaviors.
“He knows when I’m tired,” she went on. “When I’m out of patience. He listens to what I do say and to what I don’t say. He knowsme, and he loves the woman I truly am, not the woman polite society expects me to be. I have never been so free, Dylan, as I am now because of one man who accepts me as I am.”
That explanation raised more questions. “You describe your spouse as if he were an ever-welcoming refuge.”
“He is, and I aspire to be that for him, though we have regular and vigorous differences of opinion. We are also partners in mischief. I suspect Orion and Alasdhair would say the same about their wives.”
“After a few drinks, they say exactly that, though not as eloquently as you do.” And still, the whole business made little sense to Dylan.
Jeanette walked with him to the door and was soon handing him his hat. “You will know, Dylan. When the right person comes along, she might not be the easy person, the convenient person, or the available person, but if she’s the love your heart has longed for, you will know.”
Jeanette kissed his cheek when he would have offered her a bow, and then Dylan was back out in the chilly afternoon, having made no headway in any direction. He considered turning his steps for home, but then recalled Hughie Porter’s odd remarks.
The men had struck a bargain with Dylan more than a year ago, when more of them had yet bided on London’s streets. They would tolerate his attempts to help them, from a coin tossed into a fiddle case to a position offered and accepted, but he was not to venture into the worst slums after dark without them.
He could lead a charge, but he could not volunteer for a forlorn hope. Will Brook was the last man left in London whom Dylan had personally promised to help, and Will was missing in action. The afternoon was not well advanced, and the days were getting longer.
Dylan turned his steps for the stews.
Lydia hadn’t cried since Papa’s death. All of her tears hadn’t brought him back and hadn’t made her miss him any less. They hadn’t inspired Marcus to bury himself any less in his studies, and they hadn’t stopped Uncle Reginald from sermonizing at everybody about looking to the future and accepting God’s blasted will.
Lydia’s tears had made Mama only more sad, which should not have been possible. Hard work pushed grief aside. Weeping, by contrast, was stupid and pointless and…
