Page 24 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
Thalia looked up sharply. “Lady Thornfield?” she repeated, her voice deceptively calm.
Jasper’s jaw tightened. “Yes. She received word of our arrangement—along with some less-than-flattering reports about the visibility of Seacliff’s operations and its… effect on local society. And now she means to conduct what she calls an ‘independent appraisal of the situation.’”
From her armchair, Lady Gossamer gave a slow, satisfied blink
“How... intriguing,” she murmured. “It seems even within your circle, Lady Greaves, there is some debate about the propriety of the path you’ve chosen.”
Jasper turned toward her, his voice icily courteous. “Lady Gossamer, I am surprised to find you so eager to speak of private family affairs. I should have thought such discussions lay beyond the scope of a guest not personally involved.”
“My concern, my lord,” she replied, her smile sharpening, “is for the impressionable young women of Brighton—many of whom have begun to view Seacliff as a model, despite its irregularities. Their families have trusted society to offer examples of moral conduct and feminine virtue. But recent events suggest a degree of... manipulation that casts doubt on the assurances being offered regarding propriety and respectability.”
The accusation hung in the room like smoke—thin but suffocating—threatening to ignite into open conflict. The previous evening’s harmony, achieved through art, charm, and painstaking performance, felt suddenly fragile.
Before either Thalia or Jasper could respond, the steady sound of wheels on gravel drew their attention to the windows. A grand coach was approaching, its polished surface gleaming in the morning light, its pace unhurried but authoritative. It bore the unmistakable air of ceremony.
Thalia didn’t need Jasper’s confirmation. Only one woman in England, perhaps the world, would dare arrive to a family intervention in a coach festooned with tropical birds.
“Aunt Iris,” Jasper muttered, as if bracing for weather.
Lady Gossamer rose slowly, satisfaction all but radiating from her posture. “How fortunate that I should be present for such a… reunion,” she said, with a parody of civility. “I admit, I am eager to hear what explanations will be offered for an arrangement that so many—myself included—have found difficult to reconcile with accepted principles of courtship and matrimonial propriety.”
Thalia felt a chill pass through her despite the brightness of the day. The reckoning they had hoped to delay was upon them—not cloaked in severity or tradition, but adorned in silk, feathers, and unapologetic candour.
It came, parrot and all, in the formidable person of Lady Thornfield: eccentric matriarch, scourge of hypocrisy, and woman who made society tremble not through scandal but through her refusal to flinch from the truth.
The coach halted with theatrical finality. A liveried footman dismounted, opened the door, and retrieved a gloved hand wrapped in rings. The slow, deliberate tap of an ornate cane followed, echoing like a prelude to judgment.
Lady Gossamer sank back into her chair, clearly prepared to enjoy what she imagined would be a performance.
But Thalia, watching the silhouette approaching the threshold, had no such illusion. This would not be theatre. It would be trial—conducted if not with disapproval, then at least with sharp questions, inconvenient insights, and an utter indifference to the comfort of the room.
In the face of such coordinated opposition, Thalia steeled herself. Their only hope now lay in presenting a united front—one capable of withstanding scrutiny, protecting the stability of their residents, and defending the broader principles that had shaped Seacliff into a haven against the narrow prescriptions society imposed on women’s choices and ambitions. Yet even as she gathered her resolve, a quiet doubt pressed at the edges of her thoughts: could a fiction—however carefully constructed—survive the examination of a woman whose lifelong fluency in family politics was reputed to be both unflinching and exact?
The morning that had begun in the glow of triumph was swiftly becoming a crucible—a test not only of their resolve, but of the strength and truth of the very foundation they had built. What had seemed, only hours earlier, to be a victory had merely driven their adversaries into more strategic formations. Now, those forces returned—not defeated, but refined—ready to challenge everything Seacliff claimed to offer: independence, dignity, and a radical reimagining of what a woman’s life might be.
***
The front door had scarcely opened before the household was overtaken by a tempest of feathers, silk, and scent—jasmine, Thalia registered faintly, laced with something sharper beneath, like citrus and gunpowder.
“Lady Thornfield, of course,” Lady Gossamer murmured to no one in particular, adjusting her gloves with exaggerated care.
There could be no doubt. The woman who entered swept into the entrance hall with theatrical command: a towering plum-coloured turban, secured by an iridescent brooch that winked with every movement; a walking stick of carved teakthat struck the tiled floor with a rhythm more declarative than practical; and most striking of all, the emerald parrot perched with imperious dignity upon her shoulder.
“Good morning, children,” Iris declared, her voice ringing clear as a bell and laced with mischief. “Is this the infamous Seacliff Retreat I’ve heard whispered about in drawing rooms, sermons, and the more interesting letters from my cousin Eustace?”
Jasper, having stepped forward with the wary affection of a man who loved a tempest but preferred it at arm’s length, bowed.
“Aunt Iris,” he said, already braced for impact, “may I present Lady Thalia Greaves—mistress of Seacliff.”
Iris’s gaze—sharp as garnets beneath lashes far too extravagant for a woman of eight-and-sixty—fixed on Thalia. A beat passed. Then another.
Thalia, composed despite the spectacle, dipped a poised curtsy.
“Lady Thornfield. A pleasure.”
“Hm.” Iris cocked her head slightly—whether to better regard Thalia or to accommodate the shifting weight of the parrot on her shoulder, one couldn’t say. “This is Cassandra,” she added. “She despises insincerity, adores Italian opera, and bites only when spoken to in platitudes.”
“I shall do my best,” Thalia replied evenly, “to avoid both.”
