Catching Captain Nash (Dashing Widows #6)(44)

“Yes, she’s a darling. I wish Robert had known he had a child. She’s so like him.”

“And becoming more so,” Amy said. The whole family found a measure of consolation in Robert’s bright, pretty daughter.

“I would dearly have loved children,” Sally said in a muffled voice, her mobile features uncharacteristically somber. She placed her teacup on the tray, and Amy was distressed to see that her hand trembled. “But God didn’t see fit to bless me.”

“I’m sorry,” Morwenna said gently.

Sally shook her head. “Ten years of marriage, and no sign of a baby. Lord Norwood bore his disappointment bravely.”

But nevertheless made that disappointment felt, Amy guessed.

“You could marry again, Sally,” Morwenna said.

Amy saw Sally hide a shudder, confirming her vague impression that the Norwood marriage had been unhappy. She was curious, but even she, renowned for her tactlessness, couldn’t ask a woman she hardly knew for intimate details. More was the pity. She had an inkling she and Sally might end up friends.

“No, thank you. I’m too old to take a man’s orders, or change my ways to fit another person.”

Morwenna struggled for a real smile. Amy almost wished she wouldn’t. Even just watching it, the effort involved made her feel tired. “But if you want children…”

Sally’s shrug didn’t mask her regret. “I have nieces and nephews. In fact, I’m going to bring my niece Meg out in London next season. I intend to dive into the social whirl and enjoy myself as much as a woman of my advanced years may.”

To Amy’s surprise, Morwenna gave a derisive snort that sounded like the vital girl Robert had married, rather than the wraith of recent years. “Only if your arthritis permits, you poor decrepit thing.”

Reluctant humor tugged at Sally’s lips. “Well, I’m no longer a giddy girl. Not that I had much chance to kick up my heels. My parents married me off at seventeen.”

“And now you’re only thirty,” Morwenna said, showing more spirit than Amy had seen in ages. “Why not have some fun?”

“You’re a great one to talk,” Amy said, before she remembered that Morwenna needed delicate handling.

Morwenna paled, and her animation faded. “It’s different for me.”

“No, it’s not,” Amy said, justifying her reputation for blundering in where angels feared to tread, but unable to stay quiet. “I loved my brother, but you’ve mourned him for three years. He wouldn’t want you moping around for the rest of your life. Why don’t you go to London with Sally?”

As Morwenna frowned over what she clearly considered an outlandish suggestion, Sally clapped her hands together with enthusiasm. “Why don’t you? I’d love a friend to go about with. Meg is a capable, sensible girl and won’t need me hovering.”

Morwenna glared at Amy. “And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You spend so much time stomping through your muddy fields that turnips are practically growing out of your hair—which, by the way, could do with some attention. As could your wardrobe.”

Amy backed away until her hips bumped into the windowsill. “We’re not talking about me.”

“Yes, we are.” Morwenna turned to Sally. “Amy could be really pretty if she made an effort and wore something apart from rags a beggar woman would disdain to put on her back.”

“That’s unfair,” Amy protested, even as she reluctantly admitted that her dress today might deserve the criticism.

“Is it?” Morwenna’s glance was scornful. “Did you find today’s monstrosity in the back of a cupboard? Or did you steal it from the housemaids before they could use it as a duster?”

Amy flushed and shot Morwenna an annoyed look. “I think I prefer you cowed and miserable.”

“You could come to London, too, Amy,” Sally said calmly. “I’d love to introduce you to my modiste and show you off at some parties. Morwenna’s right. You’re a pretty girl.”

Amy was already shaking her head. “I won’t fit into society.”

“How do you know?” Morwenna said.

“I had a season, and I didn’t take.” Amy decided to go on the attack. “Anyway, why should I break out of my comfortable little rut when you won’t?”

Morwenna’s chin set in unexpected stubbornness. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

Sally looked startled, then pleased. “So you’ll come?”

“Only if Amy does.”

Sally’s expression turned thoughtful. “I was talking to Fenella and Helena last night. They told me that once they came out of mourning for their first husbands, they formed a club called the Dashing Widows and set out to turn London on its ear.”

Amy had long been familiar with the story. Eight years ago, her sister Helena, her sister-in-law Caroline, and their dear friend Fenella had cast aside old sorrows and danced and flirted their way into happy marriages. “It wasn’t a club. It was more a…a pact.”

“Can’t we make such a pact?” Sally spread her hands. “I’m sure we three can be Dashing Widows, too, if we put our minds to it.”

“I’m not particularly dashing, and I’ve got nothing to wear,” Amy said, amazed at her spurt of disappointment. Perhaps her mood this morning hinted at a malaise deeper than temporary restlessness.