His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(7)
Belinda had been the pretty, younger sister. Her death was unfortunate, of course, but then, Belinda would never have to grow old—another injustice.
“The timing of your bereavement is lamentable, ma’am,” Penelope Smythe said.
Dealing with Penelope’s soft voice, bland opinions, and mousy ways took an endless toll on Roberta’s patience, and yet, a widow who lived alone risked talk. Penelope was the companion hired to prevent talk and boredom, though she fulfilled the first office more effectively than the second.
“You have been working on that nightgown since Yuletide, Penelope. What does it matter how many flowers you wear to bed?”
Penelope blushed, which on such a pale creature was sadly unbecoming. “The needlework soothes my nerves, Mrs. Braithwaite. If you’d rather I start on a pillowcase, I’ll happily—”
Roberta swiped her finger over the center of the mantel and revealed a thin layer of gray dust. Time to threaten doom to the housekeeper again.
“Spare me your pillowcases. I’ll not become one of those pathetic creatures whose parlor is overrun with framed cutwork, lace table runners, and scriptural samplers. The weather is lovely. Isn’t it time for your constitutional?”
Time for Roberta to enjoy a solitary tea tray. If Penelope noticed that her walk coincided with the afternoon tea tray, she never mentioned it. Perhaps she met a beau in the park and created her flowery nightgowns with him in mind.
Doubtless, he’d have spots and only one set of decent clothes. His name would be Herman, and at best, he’d clerk for a tea warehouse in the City.
“I’ve already taken my walk today, ma’am. I happened to see Lord Grampion, and he had a small child up before him.”
“Grampion rode out with a child?” The Earl of Grampion was a widower whom polite society claimed had spent too many years rusticating in Cumberland. “I had no idea he’d remarried.”
On one of Roberta’s duty visits to Belinda, she’d met Grampion. He’d been a complete waste of good looks on a fellow with about as much warmth as a Cumbrian winter night. He’d put Roberta in mind of the proverbial bishop in a bordello.
And he was guardian of all three of Belinda’s children now. Such a pity.
Penelope bent closer to her hoop. “The child bore a resemblance to you, ma’am, though her hair was fair. She was very quiet, from what I could see.”
“She bore a resemblance to me? Do you think he hauled my poor Amy Marguerite the length of the realm? Tore an orphaned child from her home with her parents barely cold in the ground?”
“I couldn’t say, ma’am.”
Then Roberta would consult with somebody who could say, for Grampion turning up in the company of a child was a very great coincidence.
“I have neglected dear Lady Humplewit for too long,” Roberta said, moving a candlestick and revealing more dust. “Mourning for my sister has made a complete wreck of my social life, but Dorie Humplewit is an old acquaintance. She’ll understand that one needs the occasional breath of fresh air and a cup of tea shared with a good friend.”
“You’re very fortunate in your friends, ma’am.”
Dorie was a hopeless gossip. If Grampion was in Town—how did Penelope know an earl by sight, anyway?—and if his lordship had brought the children south, Dorie would know. She also wasn’t stingy with the teacakes or the cordial, and as constrained as Roberta’s finances were, both were appreciated.
“You needn’t wait dinner for me,” Roberta said. “A cold tray in your room will do. I might be going out tonight, and I wouldn’t want you to have to dine alone in that drafty dining room.”
“Very thoughtful of you, ma’am.”
Roberta considered for a moment that Penelope was being sarcastic, but decided that the girl was simply trying to hide her pleasure at being given an evening to herself.
To embroider more flowers on a nightgown nobody would ever see. “Do you know anything about raising children, Penelope?”
The needle paused over the fabric. “I’m the oldest of eight, ma’am, six of them boys.”
“You poor thing. One can hardly imagine a worse fate. No wonder your nerves need soothing. Write a letter to your mama and tell her you recall her nightly in your prayers.”
“Yes, ma’am, and my papa and my brothers and sister too.”
Roberta swept from the parlor, lest Penelope regale her with a list of their very names.
“Come along,” Roberta snapped at the maid of all work, who was as usual lingering in the vicinity of the footmen’s stairs. “I must change into suitable attire for a discreet call on a friend. Lady Humplewit has sent a note that her spirits are very low, else she would never impose on me so soon after the loss of a dear family member. We must bear up at such times as best we can and think of our friends rather than our own needs.”
The maid followed Roberta up the steps a respectful three paces behind, and she did a creditable job of assisting Roberta into a subdued, gray outfit.
“You’re excused,” Roberta said, choosing a bonnet with a gray silk veil. “Mind you, don’t let me catch you ogling the footmen. I will be forced to turn you off without character. A widow can’t be too careful, and neither can her staff.”
The girl looked suitably horrified, bobbed a deferential curtsey, and fled the room.