Chapter 2

"Dalton," Lady Adelaide Blake, the Viscountess Blakemore and chronic invalid, rose from her seat at the table and rushed over to kiss her son on the cheek. She cupped his cheek in her thin hand, her blue eyes curving into a smile. He managed a feeble smile back. Wilson should really tell cook to abandon embroiling cabbage. "You seem tired, my dear." She tilted her head, and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of melancholy lurking just beneath the surface.

He reached up and took her hand in his, trying to liven himself up. "A little," he said lightly. "Nothing that won't lift as the day continues."

"My stalwart son," she beamed, and kissed him on the cheek again.

"Look what the dog dragged in," Uncle Ernest joked from his seat at the table, lifting his toddy glass in the air. He hardly looked pleased to see Dalton, and Dalton sometimes wondered if Uncle Ernest hoped he would asphyxiate in his sleep one day.

One less complication for him to worry about.

"Uncle Ernest," Dalton shot him a tight smile and joined Mother at the table. His uncle waved a letter in the air.

"I was just telling your mother news I've received of Celeste. She has completed a year at Worthington, and she will be attending the upcoming season here in London. I daresay I will scarcely recognize her. Worthington is very good—they are adept at polishing the unpolished."

"Celeste?" Dalton squinted, waiting as one of the footmen heaped some pie onto his plate.

"Celeste, my cousin's daughter," Uncle Ernest snapped.

"Ah, right. Your cousin's daughter?"

"And your distant cousin," Uncle Ernest added pointedly, his scowl deepening.

"Of course. My distant cousin."

"I feel as if it has been so long that I've taken breakfast in here," Mother spoke up just then. "I forgot how this room overlooks the gardens so well."

"And here's to many more breakfasts such as this one," Uncle Ernest held up his toddy in a toast.

Mother laughed, and it was such a girlish sound, her eyes sparkling with a light that Dalton had missed.

"You saw your physician?"

"Yes—"

"It is miraculous, this new tonic her physician devised. Magnificent. She's an entirely new person. You've not been in such good spirits since—"

"Mother, how often must you take this tonic?"

"Only a little bit in the morning, and my spirits are wonderfully lifted for the rest of the day. This is my first morning taking it, and already, the difference is remarkable."

Dalton forced another smile, for his mother's sake. "Perhaps it's time we take a trip to the sea. You always feel better after such occasions."

"Ah, but the season will be in full swing. I must be here to support Celeste," Mother raised her own glass to her lips. "She needs as much fortitude as possible, and with my melancholia gone, I can offer her encouragement."

"Perhaps in late summer," Uncle Ernest smirked.

Dalton shot him a hard look and returned to picking at the food on his plate. He didn't get down more than three bites and excused quickly himself to get a breath of fresh air. Perhaps he should venture over to the fencing court on Old Bond Street.

He thought that it would lift his spirits to see his old friend, Lord Theodore Longworth. A glance at his pocket watch told him that he had just enough time to make it before Theodore's routine fencing practice ended. Theodore followed a strict daily regimen that did not include a night of carousing and drinking until the wee hours of the morning.

Afterward, he would improve with reading, and would then go shooting for a time. Once upon a time, he had joined Dalton in the throes of London sousing, but as of late, he'd taken a more serious turn of mind, and eschewed such wild behavior from his life completely.

Sure enough, Dalton found Theodore engaged in a fencing match with Lord Neville, an elderly gentleman who insisted on frequenting the fencing courts, despite his pitiable lack of agility.

Lord Neville sagged against the wall, wheezing, as Theodore turned at the sound of Dalton's greeting, pulling off his fencing cover. "Blakemore! Have you come to contest me?"

Dalton nearly grimaced, but as wretched as fencing sounded, he would not let a night of carousing get the best of him. "I certainly have."

Several footmen helped him get ready, and once he was ready, he headed out to face Theodore waiting for him. The match began, but it was over sooner than usual. Dalton gave his head a shake, willing the ache in his head to go away. It didn't.

"Again," he told Theodore. The match started again, but it ended when Dalton's head began to spin, and Theodore managed to strike the winning move.

"Good Lord, Blakemore. I'm afraid your excessive pursuits have made you a poor fencing partner."

"Forgive me," Dalton panted, as Wilson supplied him with a towel. "Just, give me a moment."

"You're as white as a sheet."

Dalton shot him a look. "It will pass. I'm just a touch under the weather."

Theodore rolled his eyes. "Enough. Walk with me," he jerked his chin towards the nearby doors. "You're on the verge of passing out. Some fresh air will do you good."

Once outside, walking the gravel path towards the nearby hedge-maze, Theodore adopted a stern tone. "I fret about you, Blakemore."

"Fret about me?"

"Now, I beg you to not take offense. But as your oldest—and only—friend, I feel it is my duty to address a concerning matter. The drinking, the gambling. The reveling at that gentleman's club. It's going to be your death."

Dalton set his features into a smooth, unreadable expression, swinging his cane in the air. He clenched his jaw, turning to watch a butterfly dance along in the breeze.

"I know it is all a result of your father, and your dear mother, God bless her. But you are ruining yourself. Abominably. And I shall be accursed if I remain silent and allow such a thing to transpire without voicing my discontent."

"Longworth, I shall be fine."

"Verily, you shall find yourself beneath the earth. Or so drowned in debt that you might as well be."

"I'm not going into debt. I know when to sit out a game."

"And what of the drinking? You will be apoplectic."

Trust Theodore to bring brutal honesty to any conversation. Dalton preferred that sort of honesty, but just now he wished his friend would hold off. "Longworth. I shall be fine," he spoke in a low, measured voice, but to his credit, Theodore dropped the matter. Albeit with a sigh.

***

"Now who do you suppose that is?" Gemma wondered aloud to no one in particular. She watched a strangely grand carriage pull to a halt on the road in front of the cottage, and a tall, imposing woman emerged from it draped in shimmering silk. She set down her broom with a clatter and hurried out back into the garden, where Iris was pruning some of the rose bushes. "Mama! We have a guest!"

Iris nearly dropped the shears in her haste. She all but ran to the window just as the guest knocked on the door. "Did you see who it was?" she demanded of Gemma in a whisper.

"She was tall, well-dressed. There's her carriage," Gemma pointed at the vehicle. It reminded her of London carriages, which she didn't even know she missed.

Iris flung the door open and then let out a gasp as she stared, wide-eyed, at the woman standing on their doorstep.

"Iris," the woman said coolly. She knew Mother?

"Philippa," Iris stuttered. "We weren't expecting you." She let out a shrill laugh, the one she used when she became nervous.

"Well," the woman plucked at her gloves, straightening them. "That's hardly a surprise since you likely never read any of my letters. I expect that they've all been burnt." She nodded to the fire blazing in the nearby hearth.

"No—not at all. But I'm afraid you're—"

"I'm not mistaken. I've been writing letters this entire time, and not a word from my own brother's wife."

"Brother's wife," Gemma echoed, something clicking in her head. " You are Aunt Philippa? Father used to speak of you often."

Philippa hurried over to her, beaming. "You have his eyes. Almost an exact likeness." And his mouth. That is a Hayesworth mouth if I ever saw one."

"What are you doing here, Philippa?" Iris spoke up behind them.

"Why, I've come for tea, of course."

"Let me go have our cook—"

"Iris, please. We all know there is no cook."

"But—" Iris sputtered. "But of course there is. I don't know what you mean."

"Once you've asked your mythical cook to prepare us tea and biscuits, I would like to speak to the two of you about a particular matter."

"Of course. Yes. I'll be right back." Iris's face was bright red as she scurried off.

Now, it was just Gemma and Philippa.

"I don't think I've met you since I was a small child," Gemma smiled.

"It is a pity, isn't it? Now, with your mother out of the room, I must know. Have you received any letters from me? Even once?"

"No, we haven't."

"I might have known," Philippa murmured.

When Iris at last returned, the three women sat around the parlor, sipping their tea and nibbling on biscuits. At last, Philippa cleared her throat. "So, it is my understanding that none of my letters reached you, Gemma. And it is no one's fault but Iris's. Be that as it may, the sins of the mother are not shared by the daughter. And I have a proposal that I think you would find most interesting. I would like to sponsor you this season in London. You will stay with me, and I will feed and clothe you, and everything else necessary to make you an eye-catching flower on the marriage mart."

"You want to sponsor me?"

Philippa looked around. "Didn't I just tell you that?"

"For a spring season in London?"

"Yes. I will spare no expense. It is about time I mend the ties between our families since my brother's passing. And what better way than to sponsor my niece."

Gemma's vision blurred and she toyed with her sleeves. "You want me to come out into London Society?"

"You are a beautiful young woman—comely, in certain ways. No doubt you would get your share of suitors. Perhaps some exceedingly wealthy ones. Send your letter of acceptance to my address," and Philippa handed them a piece of paper with her address scrawled upon it in elegant penmanship.

Iris and Gemma exchanged a look.

After a sip of tea, Philippa rose from her table to take leave. "Won't you stay longer?" Iris asked timidly.

"I'm afraid not. And I don't rest," Philippa called. And then she was gone, the carriage rolling out of sight.

But the night dragged on. Gemma and Iris taking their usual spots in front of the fire. Gemma wondered if she would crawl out of her skin. She sprang to her feet, the chair nearly toppling behind her. "What letters? What letters has Aunt Philippa been sending to me? And why are you hiding them from me?"

Iris's eyes flooded with tears. "I was simply attempting to do the right thing for you." She lowered her head, as if ashamed. Gemma closed her eyes, trying to keep her temper tamped down. "What has she been writing you about?"

"I don't know," Iris wept.

"Where are they?"

"Burnt."

"So you did burn them," Gemma cried. She sprang to her feet and rushed out of the room, up the stairs, and finally into her bedroom, where she sank onto her favorite window seat to once again search for the Lyra constellation in the tangle of stars above her. Regardless of her mother's intentions, Gemma couldn't believe she'd been lied to all this time. She had once told Gemma that Aunt Philippa had never wanted to see them again, that she wanted nothing to do with them. And yet, was that all just a fib?

She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, waiting for a cool breeze to brush through the window and relieve her warm skin. It was early spring, but today was unseasonably warm.

And then Gemma sat up, wild-eyed. A slow smile spread across her face and she drank in the sweet, jasmine infused air. I could at last be a London debut. And if I find a wealthy husband, there will be no place for the vicar.