Lady Matterson’s brows shot up. “Hoity-toity! Take that tone with me and I shall know what to do about it, young madam!”
Delia knew she ought to apologise, but her bosom was too full of conflicting emotion to be able to utter the necessary words. In silence, she made to knock on the door, but was forestalled by its opening before she could do so. Miss Pegler waved them in.
“I saw your ladyship from the window. Dinner will be served within the hour, I hear from Mrs Tuckett, my lady, so you may take a rest upon your bed first.”
“I have no intention of taking a rest. Bring wine to the parlour, Pegler. Delia, you will accompany me.”
Having delivered her orders, Lady Matterson climbed the stairs and swept into the small parlour provided for their use, taking possession of the chaise longue. Once settled, she pointed to the nearest chair. “Sit!”
Sighing, Delia complied. Her rebellious mood was fading. How was she to evade the inevitable questions? If she’d been accused of distraction at breakfast, she was now ten times as assailed by horrid thoughts. Giff’s danger lurked in her bosom like a malignant parasite, but how to get word to him was paramount. She could think of little else.
“We will settle this once and for all,” Lady Matterson began.
Delia gathered herself. “I apologise, Aunt Gertrude. I should not have spoken so rudely.”
Her hope of diverting the old lady was thwarted at once. “Never mind that. You would not have done so had I not hit a nerve. Come, Delia. It is plain to me you are labouring under considerable stress. If you are constrained by secrecy, tell me so. But don’t pretend there is nothing on your mind. I was not born yesterday.”
A crack of somewhat hysterical laughter escaped Delia. “Far from it, Aunt!”
“Well then?”
She was cornered. Drawing a breath for courage, she looked her aunt in the eye. “I am indeed pledged to secrecy, ma’am.”
Lady Matterson at once looked perturbed. She hesitated, fidgeted restless fingers and then blew out a concentrated breath. “Fiddle-de-dee! Hoist on my own petard!”
Delia had to laugh. “I didn’t mean it so, ma’am.”
Her aunt’s lips twitched and there was a gleam in her eye, but she held her countenance. “Well, at least you admit there is something.”
Miss Pegler came in with a tray at this point, rather to Delia’s relief. Lady Matterson was far too correct to continue the discussion within her maid’s hearing. She sipped at the glass of claret while Peggy turned to Delia.
“And for you, miss?”
“I’ll take half a glass, if you please. My head is not nearly as hard as my aunt’s.”
That did draw a crack of laughter from the old lady. “Namby-pamby creatures, you young gels today. We learned how to take our wine in my day.”
“Yes, and a good deal more besides, I don’t doubt,” Delia retorted, glad of the excuse to change the subject.
“I grew up in a robust age, child. A trifle rough and ready perhaps, but we knew how to live.”
Though she’d heard ad nauseam of the courtly world, the flirtatious and rollicking pastimes and the alleged derring-do of her great-aunt’s early life in the previous century, Delia was only too eager to encourage her in reminiscence of the past if it would keep her off the present.
“Yes, you have said I don’t know how many times, Aunt, that we are all tame by comparison and I fear you are right. If I am to judge by my dull life at least.”
At once she realised she’d erred. Peggy had left the room and Lady Matterson pounced.
“Not so dull on our journey here, was it?”
“True.”
“And you’ve been peculiar ever since, Delia.”
Her cheeks warmed, but she rallied. “In what way peculiar?”
“Behaving like a cat on a hot bakestone half the time and dreaming away the other half.”
Delia took a fortifying sip of wine and did not answer, avoiding her aunt’s too knowing eye.