“And you? Are you beside yourself?”
“I am... appropriately grateful.” Hyacinth stirred her tea with unnecessary vigour. “He’s everything I said I wanted. Wealthy, handsome, excellent connections. Mother has already begun planning the wedding breakfast.”
“Has he proposed?”
“Not yet. But it is only a matter of time, I believe.” She set down her cup with a decisive click. “Which is wonderful. Exactly what I hoped for when I determined to find a husband this Season.”
Penelope studied her friend’s face—the careful brightness, the slight tension around her mouth. “You don’t sound entirely convinced.”
“Don’t be absurd. I’m perfectly convinced.” Hyacinth reached for a biscuit, then seemed to forget why she’d picked it up. “It’s just... do you ever wonder if wanting the right things means you’ll actually want them once you have them?”
Before Penelope could formulate a response to that decidedly philosophical question, the drawing room door opened. Alastair entering, followed by his estate steward.
“Forgive the interruption,” Alastair said, his tone warm. “I heard we had a visitor.”
“Miss Fairleigh is here,” Penelope managed, grateful her voice remained steady. “My friend from London.”
“How delightful. I trust you’ve brought sufficient scandal to justify the journey?”
“Trunkloads, Your Grace.” Hyacinth’s eyes sparkled with amusement, but Penelope watched her gaze slide past Alastair to the man standing slightly behind him.
Mr. James Crawford was perhaps thirty, with the sort of steady, capable bearing that came from honest work rather than inherited title. His coat was well-made but practical, his hands showed signs of labour, and when he met Hyacinth’s starewith quiet confidence, something shifted in the drawing room’s atmosphere.
“Mr. Crawford assists with estate matters,” Alastair explained, though his attention remained fixed on Penelope in a way that made her skin warm. “I believe we were discussing the drainage issue near the south pasture?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Crawford’s voice was pleasant, educated despite his station. “Though I can return later if you’re entertaining.”
“Nonsense,” Hyacinth said, her tone perhaps a shade too bright. “Don’t let us interrupt important... drainage discussions.”
Crawford’s lips twitched. “Drainage is rarely important until one’s fields flood, Miss...?”
“Fairleigh. Miss Hyacinth Fairleigh.” She lifted her chin slightly, and Penelope recognized the gesture—her friend’s way of reminding the world of her superior position. “Of the Hampshire Fairleighs.”
“A pleasure.” If Crawford was impressed by her lineage, he showed no sign of it. “I won’t keep His Grace long. The matter is relatively straightforward.”
“Stay for tea at least,” Penelope heard herself say, though she couldn’t quite explain why the notion seemed suddenlyimportant. “Hyacinth was just telling me about London. I’m certain she’d appreciate a larger audience for her gossip.”
“I wasn’t gossiping,” Hyacinth protested, but her gaze had returned to Crawford with a note of interest. “I was merely... providing updates on mutual acquaintances.”
“My mistake.” Alastair’s smile turned knowing as he claimed the chair nearest Penelope—closer than strictly necessary, his knee almost brushing her skirts. “Do carry on with your entirely factual updates.”
To Penelope’s pleasant surprise, the afternoon acquired an unexpected quality, as though four people had stumbled into a play without quite learning their lines. Hyacinth spoke of London with determined brightness, her attention skittering away from Crawford only to return with increasing frequency. The steward responded with dry wit that seemed to surprise both himself and its target. And through it all, remained acutely aware of her husband’s presence, though she attempted to ignore it.
“The Weatherby ball was absolutely disastrous,” Hyacinth was saying, though Penelope had lost track of the conversation somewhere between her third cup of tea and the moment Alastair’s fingers had brushed her shoulder in what might have been accident or intention. “Lady Weatherby wore feathers. Actual feathers. She looked like she’d lost a fight with a particularly aggressive hen.”
Crawford made a sound that might have been a poorly suppressed laugh. “I must admit, I fail to see the reason for high fashion. Should we not dress for simple practicality?”
“Oh heavens, you cannot mean that!” Hyacinth’s eyes widened in surprise. “We dress for others, good sir. It is vital, you see. Looking one’s best to secure the best match.”
“If that were true, we’d all dress in account ledgers and property deeds.”
This time Hyacinth’s laugh escaped before she could catch it—a genuine, surprised sound that made her cheeks flush. “That’s rather presumptuous, Mr. Crawford. Not all ladies are mercenary.”
“Of course not.” His expression remained perfectly neutral. “Some merely appreciate fine drainage systems.”
The silence that followed was almost delighted, and Penelope watched her friend’s composure crack into genuine amusement.
Then Hyacinth seemed to remember herself. Her spine straightened, her smile cooling into politeness. “Yes, well. I’m certain your drainage systems are very impressive. But I should let you return to your work. I’m sure His Grace has many important... estate matters... requiring attention.”