Page 67 of The MacGregor's Lady
Perhaps, just this once, a devoted retainer might be persuaded to board a locomotive in Newcastle for part of a journey that had become a trifling bit urgent. Perhaps.
Draper took a nip of his flask and kicked his mount up to the canter.
***
The day was bright, an occasion Enid would have taken umbrage at only weeks before.
“Perhaps we should go for a turn in the park,” Enid observed between sips of delicate Darjeeling.
Across the table, Hannah pushed eggs and toast around on a blue porcelain plate. “We went for a turn in the park yesterday, Aunt.”
A few seats down from Hannah, Gilgallon MacGregor hid behind his newspaper, his hand occasionally emerging from the financial pages to lift a teacup or bite of scone. Enid was convinced the real reason newspapers existed was so men could ignore their families at breakfast and eavesdrop while about it.
“It’s a lovely day, and the park is where one sees and is seen,” Enid said. “Why did we have such fetching dresses made for you, Hannah, if you never show them off?”
“You and Balfour had such fetching dresses made for me in order that Polite Society might know I have coin to spend and lots of it, the better to foist me off on some impoverished knight.”
Gilgallon coughed from behind his newsprint shrubbery, while Enid considered her niece.
Hannah had weathered a winter crossing of the North Atlantic without so much as a queasy moment, but the longer she enjoyed the London social Season, the more peaked and wan the girl looked. The overtures and interest other girls would have basked in left Hannah brittle and nervous.
The situation was quite vexing. Perhaps Hannah needed a nerve tonic.
“I’m finding much to enjoy about our outings,” Enid observed, “and you are well received socially. A number of young men have approached me to ask about your situation, you know.”
The comment was a test, which Hannah failed spectacularly. Rather than dimple with false modesty—the appropriate reaction—Hannah winced and gulped down half her tea. “What do you tell them?”
“I refer them to the earl, of course. He’s in correspondence with your father and the best resource for such discussions.”
Hannah set her teacup down with a definiteplink.
“Stepfather, though what you ought to tell them, Aunt, is that I am in no wise looking for a spouse, much less one who would anchor me to Albion’s reeking shores for the rest of my days.”
“The city itself…” Enid let it go. Twenty-eight days out of thirty, London was a wretchedly odoriferous place. “All the more reason to seek the healthier air of the park.”
“Where the Honorable Thaddeus Trundle might be out taking the air as well?”
Well, drat the girl. Enid studied her tea rather than meet the teasing in Hannah’s gaze.
“Thad—Mr. Trundle is an old friend, nothing more.”
“I don’t think he’s a day over fifty, myself,” Hannah said, all innocence.
“If you ladies will excuse me.” Gilgallon rose and bowed to each of them. “I will see how my wife fares. If you need an escort this afternoon, you have only to ask.”
He left them to the company of their breakfast fare, and Enid noticed Hannah spared the man no more than a passing glance. Gilgallon was the best-looking of the brothers, being fair complected and graced with a sunny smile to go with his green eyes and dashing height.
“Now that we’ve lost our referee, Aunt, I have to ask if Mr. Trundle’s intentionsarehonorable. You danced with him twice, both times the waltz.”
Hannah’s concern would be dear if it weren’t so irritating. “I am of sufficient age to assess the gentleman’s intentions, Hannah Cooper. Look to your own interests before you start meddling in mine.”
Rather than put the girl off, this lit a battle light in Hannah’s eyes. “You can still marry, Enid Strathorn. You’re pretty, and older gentlemen need not be concerned with settlements and heirs and all that whatnot. You don’t have to return to Boston, don’t have to live the rest of your life pretending your brother treats you decently.”
She hadn’t said you’restillpretty, and for that Enid had to love the girl just a bit. “Hannah, this is not a fit topic.”
A younger aunt, an aunt who wasn’t staring hard at fifty herself, might have been able to carry off that rebuke in convincing tones.
“Mr. Trundle isn’t the only man to leave flowers for you, Aunt, nor the only man to stand up with you more than once. You broke hearts here thirty years ago, and it’s your own heart you ought to look after now.”
