It had not taken long for Delia to discover the rivalry existing between her aunt and the maiden battle-axe who clearly fancied herself a social leader in Weymouth. Miss Watkinson was apt to instigate pleasurable outings and harry those attending.
“As if she seeks to supersede Mr Rodber,” scoffed Lady Matterson.
“But why, Aunt, does it trouble you? It’s not as if you attend such excursions.”
“I’d rather sit on a cactus! But I’ve no doubt she will inveigle you into going, dratted woman.” She pointed her fork at Delia across the table. “If you fail to find a husband, Delia, I hope you will not emulate Miss Watkinson.”
“In what way, Aunt? Not that I’ve any intention of so doing.” The reflection that since meeting Giff she’d not thought of matrimony passed through her mind, but she banished it.
“Oh, she makes a fetish of her spinsterhood. Extolling her freedom, if you please. As if we had not all seen how she tried for years to ingratiate herself with every bachelor who came near the place.”
Delia could have blushed for her former self. Until the vicar’s niece, Edith, had advised her to do otherwise when she was staying with her friend Jocasta last year, she’d done exactly that. Inwardly cringing, she could not help a flash of relief she’d been cured of such conduct before she ran into her adventuresome prince. Not that she was foolish enough to hope for anything in that direction. But at least she’d not disgraced herself.
“I can safely promise you that I won’t emulate Miss Watkinson in any way at all, Aunt.”
“No, and she wouldn’t dare to try and draw you into her circle, thank the Lord. Though I would be loath to stop you from enjoying any excursions she may arrange. Galling she might be, but she is indefatigable in that line and I most certainly won’t allow my prejudice to curtail your pleasures.”
Disclaiming any desire to go on excursions proved fruitless.
“Nonsense, child. You must at least cross to the Isle of Portland. And you will like to visit the castle, I dare say. You young females are always enchanted by ancient ruins. Though why a pile of broken stones and half fallen walls should be romantic I have never understood.”
Nor Delia, if it came to that. Nothing could be romantic to her now, if the truth be told. All pretensions to romance had been superseded by a single day of breathless excitement in her humdrum life.
Sunday dawned overcast and chilly, threatening rain. Lady Matterson took one look out of the window and declared her intention of remaining in bed for the morning.
“Her ladyship can’t abide a dull day at the seaside,” said Miss Pegler upon giving Delia the news.
“I expect she feels cheated by nature.” Amused, Delia asked if she might pop in to see her great-aunt when she’d finished breakfasting. “I must ask her permission to go to church without her. Are you taking her in a tray, Peggy?”
“I’ve already done so, miss. In truth, I suspect my lady is a little worn down. She won’t admit it, but she finds the daily round here a trifle tiring these days.”
“I’m not surprised, Peggy. I’m half exhausted myself already.”
It was evident, when Delia presently went into her aunt’s bedchamber, that the elderly maid had gauged the matter correctly. Lady Matterson, who was partaking of rolls and tea, looked worn, her face a trifle grey. The weather clearly provided a convenient excuse for a rest.
Concerned, Delia could not refrain from enquiry. “You look peaky, Aunt Gertrude. Are you sure you are not still suffering from that knock on the head?”
A languid hand dismissed the question, but her aunt’s voice lacked its usual bite. “Nothing of the sort, child. I am well enough.” A small sigh was accompanied by a rueful look. “Well, perhaps a little under the weather, but nothing to signify.”
“I’m minded to call in Doctor Hayter to check on you.”
“Don’t you dare! I won’t have him fussing about me and prescribing one of his foul tasting cordials. It’s nothing a day of rest won’t cure, Delia, don’t fret so.”
Perching on the edge of the bed, Delia reached to touch the back of her hand to her aunt’s forehead. “Well, you’ve no fever at least.”
“Of course I’ve no fever. Would I be eating if I had a fever?”
“A couple of rolls? That’s not going to help much, Aunt. There was no fish, but Mrs Tuckett made scrambled eggs. Or could you fancy a slice of ham?”
Lady Matterson rolled her eyes. “Will you stop fretting and fuming, girl? Pegler will make me a sustaining soup a little later. I shall do very well. For heaven’s sake, go off and enjoy yourself!”
“What, at St Mary’s? I must go, of course, but I sincerely hope the sermon is shorter than last week.”
“Dreadful child! Make my excuses, if you please, and don’t you dare tell anyone it is anything but the grey day that keeps me from venturing forth.”
Thus adjured, Delia left her and, donning a warm pelisse, went out with Sally to accompany her as far as the church door. Once the company exited the church, she would have escorts enough. She was a trifle late due to dallying with Lady Matterson, and a few stragglers were just going in by the time she got there.
She dismissed her maid, who went off with alacrity, and was just about to enter the church when a rough-looking fellow loitering nearby caught her attention. Something about the set of his stance looked familiar, although he was slouching against the wall at the corner, a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes so that she could not see his face. It might be either one of those ruffians, for all she knew.