Page 28 of Mischief at Marsden Manor
The teacup had been gone, at any rate.
“I haven’t seen her,” Christopher said, with a look around the mostly empty room, “but we haven’t been here long.”
“Are the others getting ready to ride out?”
“Pheasants,” Christopher said with a grimace. “What harm did they ever do to anyone?”
Francis snorted, but all he said was, “I’m staying here. The last thing I need is shots going off in my ears.”
Yes, I couldn’t imagine that being healthy for anyone suffering from shellshock. But Francis might be the only one here with that problem, unless Crispin was correct and Bilge Fortescue had served on the Front during the War. I shot a look in their direction. Bilge was making eyes at his wife across the breakfast table, and making no moves towards getting up, so perhaps they were staying put, as well.
“I suppose everyone else is riding out?” I asked.
“We’re not,” Christopher said, and Constance nodded. “Stay with us, Pippa. We’ll watch from the terrasse.”
“They’ll be in the woods,” I said, “won’t they? Will there be anything to see?”
“I can’t imagine there’ll be much. But it’s a nice day. We could set up a game of croquet on the lawn. I imagine there must be a croquet set somewhere.”
Christopher glanced around, as if mallets and balls were likely to materialize in the breakfast room.
“We used to play when I was younger,” Constance told him. “I’m sure there’s something in the carriage house.”
No doubt. “Just the four of us, then?”
“Ordinarily, Crispin might want to join,” Christopher said, “although I don’t think Laetitia will let him.”
No, probably not. “But surely, if everyone else is riding out, it doesn’t matter if he’s here with us?”
“You’ll be here,” Francis said. “And I’m sure Cecily Fletcher won’t be riding out, either.”
Probably not, now that he mentioned it. What if she fell off her horse?
Unless she was trying pretend that everything was fine and she was not with child, of course. Then riding to hounds might be something she’d risk. But otherwise…
“Perhaps she’d like to play croquet with us,” I said.
“It couldn’t hurt to ask,” Francis agreed. “You know, Pipsqueak, I could have sworn you didn’t like Cecily Fletcher.”
“I didn’t know Cecily Fletcher,” I said. “I still don’t. A few minutes of helping her vomit and then dragging her back to her bed doesn’t mean I know her. I suppose we must have met at some point—I recognized her in the drawing room yesterday evening, so I must have seen her before—but I don’t think we’ve ever exchanged more than a few words.”
Most of them had probably taken place at some point when I had had to remove her, forcibly, from Christopher. He’s not good about fending off matrimonial young ladies, and the women of the Bright Young Set don’t seem to have caught on to the fact that Christopher prefers their brothers to them, in a romantic sense.
Discovering that she was an old flame of Crispin’s hadn’t endeared her to me, either, of course, although that was beside the point.
“Croquet seems a nice, pleasant pastime for someone who’s expecting,” Christopher opined, just as Bilge and his wife got up from their table and headed for the door to the hallway. Bilge was dressed in full hunting kit: Tattersall shirt and checkered tweed suit, with breeks tucked into his Wellies and ducks in flight on his tie. And it appeared as if Lady Serena hunted, as well, because she was dressed similarly.
“Breeches,” Constance murmured as they approached. I nodded.
“Must be nice.”
“You can wear trousers if you’d like, Pippa,” Christopher told me. “You wear pyjamas instead of a nightgown. Why not?”
I’m certain he meant it rhetorically, but I answered anyway. “I don’t think society is quite ready for women in trousers, Christopher. We’re allowed them to play sports, or to sleep, but not in polite company. Perhaps one of these days. They’re much more comfortable than skirts for many things.”
“Glad I’m not Scottish,” Francis commented and gave a nod to Bilge as the latter reached the table. “Fortescue.”
“Astley.” Bilge nodded back. He gave the rest of us—well, Christopher and me—a sneer, but he was polite to Francis. “Not riding out, old chap?”
