Page 10 of Map of a Lady's Heart
Wes paused in indecision. Retreat in silence and return later, when he could examine any atlases in the room at leisure? Or stay to see what had put that charming little frown on Mrs. Cavendish’s face?
“It makes no sense, Bridget,” Mrs. Cavendish said. “You’ve written lines for aswan.”
“Does art need to follow every dictate of logic?No,I say,” declared Lady Bridget. “It is supposed to transport one’s soul.”
“Obviously,” murmured the other woman. “But you must have some sense of story—”
“It’s a farce, Viola. They don’t need to make sense.”
The expression on Mrs. Cavendish’s face—perplexed, thwarted, and amused all at once—made Wes want to laugh. He did laugh, in fact, a bare catching of breath in his throat, but it made the lady look at him, her green eyes wide with surprise. He tried to cover it with a cough, then thumped himself on the chest. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Good morning, my lord.” Mrs. Cavendish got to her feet and handed Lady Bridget the pages with a speaking look. The young lady took them to the desk and began writing, scribbling out one long line. Perhaps the swan had lost his part. “Were you looking for someone?”
You. The unexpected thought caught him off guard, and Wes coughed again, a little too hard. “No,” he rasped. “I was looking for the library.”
She smiled. “You’ve discovered it! As have most of the other guests. Lady Bridget is working on her play.”
“Farce,” said the girl, sotto voce.
Mrs. Cavendish closed her eyes for a second. “Were you seeking something in particular?”
“Er... A book,” he said, unable to think of anything more intelligent to say.
She gave him a patient look. Anyone looking for the library would naturally be seeking a book. “Of course. Have you anything in particular—?”
“No, no, I’ll just have a look around. Don’t mind me,” he said hastily. He strode to the nearest shelf and frowned thoughtfully at it.
“I don’t say that the play must be a model of logic and wit, but even a farce has some sense to it.” Mrs. Cavendish returned to her conversation with Lady Bridget, her voice lower but still audible to Wes’s alert ears.
“This scene has sense! See, the pirate arrives to find the swan sick with love for the lonely spinster, which stokes his own affections for her.”
“But on the next page you’ve got a ghost arriving to deliver a prophecy.”
“That also makes sense. He’s a ghost because he drowned in a flood. As there’s a pirate and a swan, a flood would affect both of them.”
Wes choked on another laugh, trying again to make it into a cough. He could just picture the struggle Mrs. Cavendish was undergoing. The ladies behind him fell silent. He realized he was staring at a selection of books about sheep farming, about which he knew nothing and cared even less, and walked to the next bookcase.
Their conversation resumed, even more quietly. “But Bridget, the prophecy is about who shall marry the prince. Where is the prince?”
A gusty sigh, presumably from Lady Bridget. “Viola, there must be a prince.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t written that part yet!”
This time he coughed so hard to cover his amusement, he felt light-headed. It would serve him right if he fainted right here in front of everyone because he’d been eavesdropping. Justin was glaring at him in incredulous outrage, and by the time Wes fished out his handkerchief to mop his stinging eyes, Mrs. Cavendish was beside him.
“I will ring for the maids to dust,” she said. “I do apologize, my lord, I’d no idea it was so unpleasant in here.”
“Not at all,” he croaked through dry lips. Hoist by his own damn petard.
“Then let me send for a cup of tea,” she suggested. “I could have it sent to your room, if you wish.”
“Yes, Uncle, I do think that would be a good idea,” Justin put in from across the room. “You must mind your health, after our long journey here.”
Wes glared at him as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.Mind his health,indeed, as if he were a feeble old man. He might look deranged after this, but he was not feeble. “Entirely unnecessary, Mrs. Cavendish. Some fresh air is all I need. Perhaps I’ll take a turn in the garden.”
“It’s snowing out, you know,” put in Lady Bridget. “Absolutely pelting down. The doors are probably frozen shut. Tea in the morning room would be far more comfortable.”
