Page 3 of A Tryst By the Sea
The Summers family motto wasaudax et fortis. Bold and brave. For too long, Gill had been patient and bewildered. A week or so of contemplation and rest by the ocean, and he could return to Town with renewed purpose.
And maybe with a few husbandly bright ideas, because nine years was too long to pine for his own wife.
Penelope managed to leave the breakfast parlor at a dignified pace, but the consternation in Summerton’s eyes when she’d told him she was leaving Town had nearly inspired her to sprint for the door.
She had thought herself well past the point when telling her husband a falsehood would bother her—their whole marriage was a falsehood—but no. Every day, she hid behind her newspaper, both dreading and longing for the moment when Vergilius strode into the room, his boots drumming confidently on the carpets, his sheer presence compelling notice.
He’d been a beautiful youth, and he was a magnificent man—to appearances. The dark Adonis, they’d called him. The Swoon-Worthy Swain. He was tall, devilish, and handsome, with exquisite manners, a substantial fortune, and excellent antecedents.
All quite true, though as a husband, Summerton had proved himself to be a spectacular mistake. Why, if a man had to be such a disappointing spouse, couldn’t he extinguish the last of his wife’s tender regard with some obvious failing? Something even his viscountess could see from across a crowded ballroom?
No such luck. Vergilius’s shortcomings were private, gentlemanly, and of long standing. Penelope cared for him, was the problem. Mostly out of habit and not with the passionate devotion she’d fallen into as a new wife, but she did care for him.
Maybe that was why, as she made her way to her apartment, she felt not like a woman on the verge of attaining her freedom, but rather, like a schoolgirl sneaking off to read in the hermit’s grotto when dear old Godmama was tooling up the drive.
“Almost done packing, ma’am.” Silforth, Penelope’s lady’s maid, folded a plain nightgown into an open trunk. “I am looking forward to seeing my mum. You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you to the Hall?”
Penelope was very sure, and she wasn’t traveling to the Hall. “You are kind to offer, but the staff will look after me adequately in your absence. You are due for a holiday.”
Silforth, a plump, cheerful soul only a few years Penelope’s senior, closed the trunk. “I saw the family at Yuletide, my lady. Mum asked if I’d been turned off when I told her I could visit again so soon.”
“Mothers can be a tribulation, can’t they?” Mothers-in-law could be, too, to say nothing of sisters-by-marriage.
Penelope resented her husband, but she understood why he behaved as he did. Summerton was that paragon of spouses, the wealthy, titled, handsome, robust man. Of course he would be unfaithful. Of course he’d lack patience with a woman’s untidy emotions. Of course he would fall short of Penelope’s idealized dreams of a husband. Considering his limitations—wealth, good looks, standing, pride—Summerton wasn’t half as bothersome as he might have been.
That vexed Penelope too, of course. Had Vergilius been less considerate, less polite, less outwardly attentive, she could have ripped up at him. After a few porcelain-shattering rows, nobody would question why husband and wife operated in separate spheres.
And had that separation happened five years ago, what she had planned now would have raised a lot fewer eyebrows.
“My mum’s a good sort,” Silforth said. “Raised us to know our Bible and work hard. She doesn’t see so well lately, but I swear that woman can hear halfway to France when one of her grandchildren is being naughty.”
“How many is she up to?” Seventeen, with number eighteen due in two months. All healthy, every one of them, from birth onward.
“Seventeen, my lady. My youngest sister’s confinement should end as summer arrives.”
Silforth’s sister already had four rambunctious boys. “Is she hoping for a girl?”
“Hoping and praying, my lady.”
The true culprit in the whole melodrama of Penelope’s marriage was Penelope’s late mother. She’d built up marriage in Penelope’s mind and sung the praises of the dashing Summerton heir, until no reality could possibly match the expectations created by the advertisements.
The one time Penelope had raised the topic of a marital separation with her mother, Mama had had a tantrum the size of Gibraltar, then lapsed into an injured silence that had been worse than all of her ranting lectures combined.
In the years since Mama’s passing, Summerton had grown more distant—and inexplicably more attractive—while Mama-in-Law had become a hovering, intrusive presence in the London town house. And where Mama-in-Law went, Bella was sure to follow.
That thought put Penelope in a tearing hurry to climb into Lady Stanthorpe’s traveling coach.
“Would you like to attend your sister’s confinement, Silforth?”
“I couldn’t leave you again so soon, my lady. People will think I’m not good at my job.”
People will think… Three of the most useless words ever strung together in English.
“You are quite good at your job, but your sister is dear to you. The offer will remain open, Silforth. You earn your wages without complaining, and family is important.” In fact, Penelope had already written out a character for Silforth and a bearer bank draft that would serve as lavish severance. Silforth could kick her heels at home for the next five years and still have funds on hand.
Looking after Silforth, who had tried hard to look after Penelope, was important.
A husband ought to be important to his wife, too, and conversely. Summerton had taken the news of Penelope’s decision to travel—and at this time of year—with nary a word of protest. He’d been surprised, though—a petty and backhanded consolation when a wife was abandoning her marriage.
