Chapter 5

Two days later, Gemma had just stepped inside after taking another brisk walk out in the garden. Aunt Philippa swept in, two of her maids on her heels.

"How should you like to attend a Venetian breakfast? They are quite popular here, and your mother wrote me that you have never attended one. But of course, your last season was so brief." Aunt Philippa's tone turned softer, a bit jarring from her usual brusque demeanor.

Gemma managed a smile, smoothing her skirts as she rose. "I should like that very much." Taking walks in the garden helped to stave off the little bursts of homesickness that would descend, usually at night, although having Udolpho here helped considerably. He slept with her every night and when she shed bitter tears at the thought that she wouldn't see her mother for a good while yet, Udolpho crept into her arms, nuzzling his face against hers.

Even if Mother persisted in thinking she would make a good match with Vicar Jennings, Gemma longed to run into her arms, tell her about the stinging words in those scandal sheets…sit in the garden on these crisp spring evenings, with the kittens tumbling and playing at her feet, gazing at the stars, which seemed harder to see in London.

One of Aunt Philippa's footmen opened the drawing room doors, announcing the arrival of Lord Neville.

Aunt Philippa and Gemma exchanged glances just before Lord Neville himself appeared. He first bowed to Aunt Philippa, greeting her warmly, and then he turned to Gemma. She extended her hand for him to press his lips briefly. When he looked up, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright as he studied her with little attempt to veil admiration.

Gemma's own face heated as she turned to glance at her aunt whose smile was undoubtedly…delighted. As if something of her own design was unfolding before her very eyes.

"I pray you are well this morning?" Lord Neville inquired in an anxious tone, remembering rather late to release Gemma's hand.

"Indeed I am, Lord Neville," she offered him a kind smile, for Aunt Philippa's sake. It wasn't that Lord Neville was particularly odious, or as lackluster as the vicar back in Willow Grove. It was merely that something lacked in her interactions with him, and she could not very well put her finger on it. Though, she knew that Aunt Philippa would hardly find this amusing. "And how do you fare, sir?"

"Very well indeed. I cannot complain, as the weather has been fair this spring thus far, nary a rainy day to be had as of the past fortnight."

Aunt Philippa nodded to the settees before the fireplace and Gemma nearly sighed, realizing that her aunt wished for her to entertain Lord Neville. But then, Gemma knew that she ought to. Aunt Philippa's generosity had been considerable, and the least she could do was make polite conversation with the older man. Perhaps it was his nasal voice, or the way he studied her so fixedly, as if she already belonged to him. As if Aunt Philippa had promised Gemma to him…

She managed, regardless, and they kept up a lively discussion about the weather, the rain, and he plied her for information about the planting season back in Willow Grove. As much as Gemma loved gardening and missed the garden surrounding the cottage, she struggled to fully enjoy any of the conversation with her visitor.

"I'm afraid I am…uninformed about the farming habits in Willow Grove," she admitted, when he waited for her to answer a question about the current popular amongst farmers.

Lord Neville chuckled, giving his head a small shake. "Forgive me. I am not certain how, but as of late I've been intrigued about purchasing a home in the country, and there find leisure in the art of farming. And yes, I indeed consider farming to be an art."

"Well, that is quite…admirable, Lord Neville."

"We take so much from the terra firma that I am inclined to believe that we ought to recompense it to the best of our power. Now, enough about farming. I must ask, Miss Gemma. Would you care to see an opera? The Marriage of Figaro perchance?"

"Well, I—I should like that very much." Gemma's mind failed her and did not provide any sort of adequate excuses, anything to say to extricate herself from such an invitation. And moreover, she did not wish to vex Aunt Philippa. An opera would be enjoyable, regardless of who I accompany, she told herself sternly.

"Capital," Lord Neville grinned.

He departed soon after that, promising he would send a carriage for her and her aunt, and when he had gone, Philippa turned to her, eyes glowing. "Your mother can put to bed her arrangements between that country vicar and you," she beamed. "Lord Neville is from a very old, very prestigious family, and to connect yourself to them by marriage, why it would be a boon , Gemma."

Gemma forced a bright smile and stood, excusing herself. "I should like to get some rest for a little while."

Aunt Philippa nodded. "Of course, of course. Very wise of you. Tomorrow the Venetian breakfast will last much of the day, so there won't be time for much rest."

As soon as she reached her bedroom, Gemma exhaled a sigh of relief and sank down into the chair at her vanity, where she began to scribble out a letter to Mother. She told her all about the first fortnight of her time in London, from the parties and whist games to the new friend she'd found in Prudence. She did not include anything about the scandal rags and their flagrant gossip. Should Mother learn what was being printed about her, she might attempt to call her back home. Despite the current state of the family estate, Mother always declared that she could not abide censure, that she would not let the name of Hayesworth go to utter ruin.

Gemma paused in her writing to gaze out the window, her mind wandering back to the formidable man she'd encountered in the garden, with his low, deep voice and piercing eyes.

***

Dalton pushed open the door of the ill-used study in a quiet corner of the Blakemore estate.

It was large, spacious, but crammed full of his father's things. He strode directly to one chest he knew by heart, and with a glance over his shoulder, he pressed the key from his pocket into the lock. He lifted the top of the trunk to find within a motley remainder of his father's passion for Astronomy. He ran his fingers over the mahogany length of the telescope, books and books on everything about the stars, the skies, and mythology. With a sigh, Dalton picked one up and carried it over to a dusty chair by the curtained window. Drawing it open, he was able to clearly read the book in his hands, a detailed codex on the constellation namesakes.

Cepheus, Cassiopeia…

He reached up to push back a strand of black hair from his forehead, taking in a deep breath. The young woman in the garden had seemed to use the constellation names as a means of calming herself, as overwhelmed perhaps as he had felt that night. Too many people, all artifice and pretense, and he'd needed somewhere to flee.

But his throat closed as he flipped through the pages of the book in his lap. He was hardly the same person he had been back when Father taught him the stars, taught him the stories behind each of the constellations. Cassiopeia and her boasting…Cepheus, the Aethiopian king…Orion, the hunter…

If Father were to see who he'd become…Dalton wondered if Father would even recognize that individual. If he would be bewildered by the man he'd turned into. A weak, drunken wastrel, a sot. A layabout who sought escape, who watched his mother sink deeper and deeper into a mire of ambivalence and solitude. Who stood by passively as Uncle Ernest took control of the estate.

But it wasn't that he didn't care. He did. And yet, nothing could ever be simple and straightforward.

Once, Father had declared hedonism to be the root of all evil. Would he turn over in his grave to know that his very own son had adopted such a lifestyle?

Dalton closed his eyes. He itched for a drink, to find respite from these sobering thoughts.

But one drink would lead to another, and he needed…well, Dalton could not be certain what it was that he needed, precisely. He just knew that he yearned to feel himself once again, to not linger adrift as if on an open sea, unaware of which direction the winds and waves would send him. Only the stars to guide him…

And the stars had tied him in a single moment to that young woman, Gemma Hayesworth, in the quiet bowers. Her soft voice repeating the constellation names haunted him in his dreams.

He was lonely, that was the short of it. It was the only explanation for his fleeting kinship with Miss Hayesworth, for the wild draw to her that made it difficult to breathe.

Perhaps his days of hedonism had run their course. Perhaps…his mind and soul and body pled with him for a change. For something more.

When he returned to the sitting room later that afternoon, he found Mother sitting in there already. Another surprise. He had been shaken by the sight of her at breakfast the other day. Perhaps her doctor's tonic really did have the magic touch.

She sprang to her feet upon his entrance, darting over to him and grasping his arm. "My boy, may I ask something of you?"

His chest tightened apprehensively. "But of course, my dear Mother." He pecked a kiss to her cheek, and she frowned.

"I miss when you called me Mama," she sighed, and Dalton couldn't help but exhale a small laugh.

"Mama," he corrected himself, and she beamed approvingly.

"You might be otherwise engaged. But if you are not, I should be delighted if you were to accompany me to the Venetian breakfast tomorrow."

Dalton stared. He couldn't recall the last time his mother had expressed any desire to attend a social event, much less a Venetian breakfast, which could be tiresome events that lasted the majority of the day.

"But Mother, are you certain? I would not wish for you to tax yourself."

Mother waved her hand. "I beg you to not fret over my constitution, my dear. It is high time I endeavour to leave the walls of this home, see old friends and acquaintances. Now, you have yet to answer my inquiry." She cupped his cheek in her small, cold hand.

"But—but of course, Mother. I would love to accompany you."

"Wonderful," Mother's eyes danced. She held up a finger. "And no forgetting. I know you hardly have a chance for repose as of late, but perhaps this would afford you some leisure. You look weary, my dear."

Dalton tried to laugh. "It is somewhat trying to attempt to manage Father's estates while at the same time keeping up with this season's madness." "Well, I must say that you manage splendidly."

Dalton kissed his mother's cheek again, just as Uncle Ernest and his distant cousin Celeste sashayed through the drawing room doors.

"Has your mother, by chance, mentioned a Venetian breakfast?" Ernest wondered aloud, stroking his chin. Dalton nearly rolled his eyes.

"As a matter of fact, she did. It would seem that Mother would like to attend one tomorrow."

"I must say, my dear Adelaide. It is a pleasure to see you in such improved spirits," declared Uncle Ernest.

Celeste nodded, her blue eyes bright and sincere. Dalton ignored the prick of guilt for abandoning her the other night.

"And we have just returned with four tickets to the opera. A performance of the ‘Marriage of Figaro.' That will make a delightful family outing."

"One of my favourites," Mother sighed, clasping her hands together in girlish excitement. "Come Celeste, let us find something for you to wear that night."

Celeste ducked her head, smiling shyly, and the two women left Uncle Ernest and Dalton to themselves.

"Well I daresay we ought to rejoice for this brief, but cherished, renewal of your mother's spirits."

"I ought to depart. Meeting my friend, Lord Longworth."

"I pray we shall eventually become friends. After all, we are family," Uncle Ernest's words stopped Dalton in his tracks.

He flashed his uncle a cold smile. "Indeed we are. A pity," he muttered, before continuing out into the hall, and then out the front door.