Perhaps the rain would hold off.
“How can boys spend such a vast deal of money when they are supposedly at school becoming the scholars of the future?” Beatrice asked, her eyes back on her letter. “And why do they apply for extra funds to their mothers rather than their fathers, who would demand an accounting of what had already been spent?”
“Precisely for that reason,” he said. “I daresay the price of sweetmeats has risen since I was at school.”
“Hmm,” she said. “But having rotten teeth pulled is just as painful.”
It started to rain in the late morning, a light drizzle at first, which might or might not turn into something more serious. By the time he had finished his luncheon, however, Ben was forced to admit that the rain had taken the first option. It was going to be too wet to ride.
He was disappointed. He went upstairs to do his daily exercises. He would not neglect those, even though he had accepted the reality that he would never recover more than very minimal use of his legs. He would not risk losing what little he had accomplished, however. At least he could get about on his own legs. Besides, there were other parts of his body that needed to be kept in good working condition.
The vigorous activity did not rid him of his restlessness. He was in a crisis period of his life, he realized.
He found his sister at the escritoire in the drawing room, writing to both of her sons and her husband.
“I feel bad about not sending word over to Bramble Hall,” he told her.
“But Mrs. McKay will hardly expect us in this weather,” she said without looking up.
“No,” he agreed. “But I thought I would go over there anyway and make our excuses in person. Would you care to come with me?”
She brushed the feather of her quill pen over her chin and looked toward the window. “You must know how you tempt me, Ben,” she said. “Letter writing was never one of my favorite activities. I daresay that proves I am not a proper lady. I must finish these now that I have started them, however, or I will put off doing so indefinitely. You do not need my company, do you? The McKay ladies will be each other’s chaperon.”
“You make me sound like a big bad wolf,” he said.
“I daresay you appear that way to at least one of the ladies,” she said. “Oh, dear, I do not usually take virtual strangers in such dislike. Convey my respects to them, if you please, Ben.”
“I shall.” He bent over her to kiss her cheek. “Give my love to my nephews and tell them not to get up to any more mischief than I did in my day.”
She snorted rather inelegantly. “I shall tell them from their Uncle Benedict,” she said, “to be good. And frugal.”
He laughed and made his slow way out of the room.
Samantha had lain awake half the night. She rose early in order to have breakfast with Matilda and try to send her on her way with some civility. But her sister-in-law neither came down to eat nor had a tray sent up to her room. And when she did come downstairs, she was dressed for travel and the carriage was awaiting her outside the front doors, already laden with her baggage.
“It is going to rain,” Samantha said. “I wish you would reconsider, Matilda, and postpone your departure at least for a few days.”
Matilda was looking pale and unwell.
“I would not remain here another hour even if snow threatened,” she said, smoothing her already-smooth leather gloves over the backs of her hands. “Father will be displeased with you, Samantha, and Mother will be disappointed. But neither of them will be surprised, I am sad to say. Father warned Matthew how it would be if he insisted upon condescending so low as to marry a Gypsy.”
Fortunately, perhaps, she swept out through the doors and down the steps before Samantha could frame an answer. A footman handed her into the carriage. She did not look back or turn her head once she was seated. It was fortunate because Samantha’s temper had snapped, or would have done if she had been left with any audience. As it was, she stood in the doorway and watched the carriage set off on its long journey, positively quivering with suppressed fury.
“I am one quarter Gypsy,” she muttered to the empty air. “Better than one hundred percent McKay.”
Her grandfather, a Welshman about whom she knew nothing except his nationality, had married a Gypsy, who had given birth to Samantha’s mother before returning to her own people, never to be heard of again. And that sad and obscure little incident of history had had its effect upon the granddaughter of that ill-fated union. So had the fact that their daughter, Samantha’s mother, had run away at the age of seventeen from Wales and the aunt who had raised her and had ended up in London, where she had been eking out a living as an actress when Samantha’s father discovered her and married her.
“I am one quarter Gypsy and one quarter Welsh and half obscure English gentility. I am the spawn of a Welsh actress, who, like all members of her profession and nationality, was only one short rung up the ladder of wickedness from the devil himself. Or so my father-in-law once described her.”
Heavy clouds loomed overhead. It would be a miracle if it did not rain by noon. Irony of ironies, she would probably not be going riding this afternoon after all. It was a horribly depressing thought that she might after all be compelled to spend the rest of the day respectably alone and indoors.
But the first thing she did when she went back inside was to stride into the sitting room and fling the heavy curtains back as far as they would go. She was going to change them. She was going to choose something lighter in both texture and color. She looked about the room with a frown. Everything needed changing. In five years she had not really noticed how gloomy a house this was.