Page 54 of Private Arrangements
“But don't you see, my dear lord Tremaine,” said Mrs. Rowland sweetly, “I could never call on a man who would not speak to my daughter.”
Gigi almost turned around in her astonishment. Somehow she'd never thought of her mother as an ally in this matter. She'd always believed, perhaps because of her substantial culpability, that Mrs. Rowland blamed her for the silent disaster that was her marriage. That her mother's letters had given Camden the wherewithal to blackmail her had further contributed to her conviction that Mrs. Rowland would enter into a sexual union with the devil himself if Camden would only bestow his blessed forgiveness on Gigi.
“Of course, I really shouldn't have corresponded with you either,” said Mrs. Rowland. “But I always fall so maddeningly short of perfection.”
This time Gigi did turn around. Was that an apology? From the woman who'd never done anything wrong in her life?
Hollis entered with the tea service, and the conversation took a sharp turn to Mrs. Rowland's latest charity gala. Camden, it turned out, was intimately acquainted with Mrs. Rowland's charitable efforts.
“Isn't that quite a bit more than what you usually raise at these events?” he asked, once Mrs. Rowland had named a sum.
“It is, I suppose.” Mrs. Rowland hesitated. “His Grace honored us with a large contribution.”
“The same duke who's coming to dinner tonight?” said Gigi.
Good Lord, was that a blush on her mother's face? To be certain, they'd had some cross words over the Duke of Perrin the last time Mrs. Rowland was in London. But the colors staining Mrs. Rowland's cheeks did not seem to have originated either in consternation or embarrassment.
“The very same.” Mrs. Rowland was once again the closest approximation of the Madonna this side of the Italian Renaissance. “An admirable figure of a man. A classical scholar. I'm quite pleased that you will be making his acquaintance.”
Camden raised his cup. “I, for one, am looking forward to dinner with trembling anticipation.”
Camden left within minutes for the scenic ride down to Torquay that Mrs. Rowland had apparently promised him. Gigi had felt uncomfortable with him in the room, with her mother's sharp eyes assessing their every interaction, as if all their recent dealings could be deduced from a “Would you please pass the creamer?” But without his presence as a buffer, the awkwardness between the two women immediately came to the fore, as strong and unmistakable as the scent of vinegar.
“I visited Papa's grave last Friday,” said Mrs. Rowland, after nearly three minutes of unrelieved silence.
Gigi was surprised. They didn't speak of John Rowland very often. Grief was a private matter. “I saw your flowers when I went on Sunday.” John Rowland would have turned sixty-eight on Sunday had he survived the typhoid fever that took him at age forty-nine. “He always did like camellias.”
“Because you gave him a handful from the garden when you were three. He adored you,” said Mrs. Rowland.
“He adored you too.”
Her father had taken her along whenever he shopped for a present for his wife. Nothing was ever too good for his beautiful missus. He loved big, showy things—perhaps the reason behind her own flamboyant taste in jewelry, though she rarely wore any—but in the end he bought only cameos and modest pearls, because he didn't want his wife to have to wear anything she'd consider garish.
“We were married ten years and five months when he passed away.” Mrs. Rowland took a small cream cake, set it before her, and cut it into perfect quarters. “You'll be married ten years and five months in a fortnight. Life is uncertain, Gigi. Don't throw away your second chance with Tremaine.”
“I would rather we not speak of him.”
“I would rather we do,” said Mrs. Rowland firmly. “If you believe that I have schemed only because Tremaine is in line for a dukedom, then you are greatly mistaken. Do you think I never came upon the two of you together in the sitting parlor at Briarmeadow, holding hands and whispering? I'd never seen you so alive and happy, before or after. And I'd never seenhimthat way, completely without his reserve, for once acting his age, when he'd always carried the burden of the world on his shoulders.”
“That was a long time ago, Mother.”
“Not long enough for me to have forgotten. Or you. Or him.”
Gigi took a deep breath and finished her tea. It was already cold, and too sweet—because Camden's un-gloved hand had brushed hers when he passed the sucretière, and she didn't know two from four in the minute afterward. “What good does it do any of us to remember? I loved him then, I would not deny it. And perhaps he loved me too. But that is all in the past. He no longer loves me and I no longer love him. And if there are second chances going around, no one has offered me any, least of all Camden.”
“Don't you see?” cried Mrs. Rowland, exasperated, setting down her teacup with an uncharacteristicthud.A glob of milky brown liquid sloshed over the rim of the cup and spread into an astonishingly perfect circular stain on the embroidered tablecloth that Gigi had purchased during her ill-fated visit to Copenhagen. “That he is here in England, living in your house, being civil to you, persuading you to come with him to see me—all this, does it not mean anything to you? Does it have to be stated in so many words or carved on a stone tablet, for heaven's sake?”
Was it not enough that she had to struggle with it by herself? She did not need to hear it spelled out item by item by her mother, as if she were a dimwit chit from some Oscar Wilde play.
“Mother, you forget why he is here in the first place,” she said coolly. “We are divorcing. I have pledged my hand to Lord Frederick.”
Mrs. Rowland rose abruptly. “I will rest for a short while. It would not do for me to appear haggard before His Grace. But if you think that you love Lord Frederick a fraction as much as you love—not loved, but love—Tremaine, then you are a greater fool than any Shakespeare ever wrote.”
Gigi remained in the parlor long after Mrs. Rowland had swept out, trailing a faint wake of rose attar behind her. Slowly, absently, she finished the cream cake Mrs. Rowland had left behind, as well as the two small jam tarts that still remained on the three-tiered platter.
If only she could be certain that her mother was dead wrong.
Chapter Twenty-two
