Page 17 of A Tryst By the Sea
He was probably lying. The Scots were known for their mendacity. Worse than a lot of eight-year-old boys. At least they were good at fighting. Wellington had found their bellicose tendencies well worth the bother when Napoleon was being so odious.
Mama-in-Law sailed into the breakfast parlor looking enviably refreshed. “Bella, good morning. You will never regain your figure if you indulge your appetites to such an extent.”
Bella would never regain her figure,ever, because when it came to indulging his marital appetites, Tommie Summers knew no restraint. Somewhere between babies four and five, Bella had realized that the price of motherhood—another price of motherhood—was a wrecked figure. Would that Tommie could afford a few mistresses, but no. Tommie lacked the head for budgeting his means and lacked the heart to stray, more’s the pity.
“Travel taxes me,” Bella said, “and ham and eggs are hardly a royal repast, Mama-in-Law. MacMillan tells me the household is at half-staff, and Summerton and his lady are from home.”
MacMillan seated her ladyship, who had—predictably—taken her old place at the foot of the table.
“From home? MacMillan, whatever do you mean?”
MacMillan resumed his place by the sideboard. “Both his lordship and her ladyship gave instructions that they would be traveling. Plover and Silforth are among those on holiday.”
Mama-in-Law waved a slender, beringed hand. “The oranges, MacMillan. Did either Summerton or his lady indicate where they’d traveled to?”
“They left no direction, my lady.”
Bella had the oddest sense MacMillan was telling the truth. “Perhaps they’ve gone down to the Hall,” she said. “The outside renovations are starting up again now that we have better weather.”
“They aren’t at the Hall,” her ladyship said, choosing two orange slices. “I have reliable sources there, and nobody has indicated that preparations were made for Summerton to be in residence.”
“Perhaps the trip was spontaneous?”
Her ladyship tucked into her eggs. “Not as hot as they should be,” she murmured. “When the cat’s away… Summerton would not abandon his committees and speeches simply to discuss gutters and downspouts with his architect. I cannot fathom that he’d leave Town just as the social calendars are filling up either. They must have had a blazing row.”
Bella hoped so, which was bad of her, but for a married couple to be polite to each other for ten years was unnatural. Mama-in-Law did not look particularly distressed to think the head of the family and his wife were at odds.
“A mystery, as you say,” Bella murmured, slicing into perfectly cooked ham. “But meanwhile, there is shopping to be done.” She deliberately patronized the same shops Penelope used, and from time to time, she even got away with charging an order to Penelope’s account.
If Penelope noticed, she never mentioned it—another addition to the long list of reasons to resent her.
“Is the traveling coach in the mews, MacMillan?” the viscountess asked.
“I would not know, my lady.”
He knew, and he wasn’t saying, and that confirmed Mama-in-Law’s conjecture that Summerton and his lady were spatting.
What a pity, but in a long and unhappy marriage, these things happened.
Here at the Siren’s Retreat, where Gill had passed some of the happiest hours of his entire life, he was apparently to know profound sorrow as well.
“We cannot change the past,” he said, “and we might have considerable difficulty changing the immediate future too, Penelope.”
She sipped her tea, which had to be cooling. “In what sense?”
“Some young sprig played too deeply at the inn last night and decamped by moonlight without paying his bill. I have booked his room for the next week. If I turn around and leave hours after making that reservation, Amaryllis Piper and her ilk will want to know why.”
And yet, simply bowing to his wife and departing—from the Siren’s Retreat, from Penelope’s presence, from the marriage—seemed the only sensible course. Gill could not order Penelope to keep trying, could not order her to love him.
“Amaryllis and all of London will know soon enough that I’ve left you,” Penelope said. “I’m sorry. I don’t see how biding together here for a fortnight, or a week, or another day will change that. We’ve had ten years, Vergilius, and I could not find a way back to you.”
“Did you want to?” he asked, because a suffering man must double the agonies inflicted upon him.
“Yes,” Penelope said. “I was told men grieve differently and that the responsibilities of the peerage must have your first loyalty. I was to be patient, bide my time, and allow you privacy with your sorrow.”
The same advice Gill had been given. Why had he listened—to Mama, to Tommie, to his late father’s lonely old friends at the clubs—when year after year, that strategy had yielded nothing but stilted breakfasts and stilted smiles down the length of a lavish supper table?
A young family emerged onto the beach from a path to the west—two loud children, a lady in a wide-brimmed hat carrying a blanket, and a young father hauling two hampers and bellowing uselessly at his children.
