Page 39 of The Damsel
“I could not agree more, William,” said his mother as she bustled through the open door.
She carried a tray holding the baron’s lunch, as well as a pot of tea and a few cups resting on saucers. Pausing to kiss Robert’s brow, she then turned to deposit it on the bed beside his father.
“I cannot stress how happy I am that you have not seen fit to return to London,” she declared as she went about pouring tea. “The road is no place for decent people during times like these. I shudder to think the danger you were in coming back from London all those months ago.”
Robert wanted to point out that the highway robberies hadn’t begun until after he’d returned from London, but held his tongue. She’d only maintain that he had been in danger somehow. There could be no arguing with her when it came to the matter of his health or safety.
“Here you are, dear.”
He glanced up to find her holding a cup and saucer under his nose, the earthy scent of tea wafting up his nostrils. His stomach turned and he cringed when she forced it into his hands—even though she knew he detested tea.
“Drink up,” she insisted, turning back to lace the baron’s cup with lots of milk the way he liked. “It’s been cold today and you need to keep warm. Besides, tea is good for the constitution.”
He stared into his cup with a sigh, knowing this was a battle he’d rather not wage with her. “Yes, Mother. Thank you.”
Taking a careful sip, he grimaced at the taste of it. He’d been told it was tantamount to blasphemy for an Englishman to dislike tea, but had never been able to pretend he liked the stuff. He could never understand the fascination of the British with tea when coffee tasted so much better.
“Here you are, William. Mind you don’t make a mess of your nightdress.”
“Of course, Rosie,” his father replied, accepting the tray into his lap.
His mother took up her own cup and saucer, remaining perched on the edge of the bed while his father began tucking a linen napkin under his chin
“I’ve just met with Cook to discuss the menu for your birthday dinner, William. She’s going to prepare all your favorites, as well as some new French recipes she’s been working on. Our guests are sure to be quite pleased with the fare.”
While at first, she had insisted that her husband was too weak to leave his bed for such an affair, the baron had argued that what might be his last birthday would be worth the effort.
“It does not require much strength to sit and converse while enjoying a meal, Rosie,” he’d argued. “I may not see another year, and I want for this one to be special.”
So, the baroness had thrown herself into planning the affair as she did this year, ensuring that her husband’s seventy-seventh birthday would be the best yet. Invitations had already gone out to several of their neighbors, though Robert could guess that at least one person had been left off the guest list.
“Who have you invited?” he asked.
“Oh, absolutely everyone,” his mother declared. “The Fletchers, of course. I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity for you to spend more time with Miss Fletcher again. I think she is quite enamored with you.”
Meanwhile, he could not be more disinterested in her if he tried.
But, as usual, he kept his thoughts to himself.
“Of course. Who else?”
“Oh, the Rodinghams—their son was always a great friend of your brother, you know. Viscount and Lady Loring, the Fareweathers, Lady Walter … the poor dove hasn’t gotten many invitations since coming out of mourning. Let’s see … I invited the vicar, Mr. Clarke. Such a dear man, coming to visit with your father so often and inquire about his wellbeing.”
“Anyone else?”
His mother frowned, setting her cup in its saucer and furrowing her brow. “Who else is there?”
Sitting up straight, he let his leg fall off the footstool and leaned forward, ignoring the cup resting in his hands. “Oh, I don’t know … perhaps our new neighbor? You know, the one everyone in the county has shunned and ignored since her arrival? Lady Cassandra?”
The baroness sniffed and raised her chin. “With good reason. She is a fallen woman.”
“She has done nothing wrong, and does not deserve such treatment.”
“Hear, hear,” his father mumbled around bites of bread and cheese. “The way thetonhas carried on so, you’d thinkshewas the one who debauched half of London’s debutantes.”
His mother issued a dramatic gasp, one hand coming up over her bosom. “Honestly, William! To say such a thing.”
“He is right,” Robert said, taking another sip from his cup.
