Page 66 of Miss Dashing
The prospect did not engender much sorrow. “I wish he’d stayed in Canada.”
“As do I. Will you share a plate with me?”
She wanted to share the rest of her life with him. She set aside Edna’s field glasses. “Best not.”
Phillip nodded. “DeWitt suggested the riders repair to the swimming hole after they’ve eaten and enjoyed neighborly congratulations. DeWitt and I have been using it to spare the staff the bother of heating bathwater for the summer cottage.”
Precisely the sort of innate consideration and common sense Hecate could not expect from Johnny.
“Don’t drown him,” she said, “and don’t let him accidently drown you.”
“Sound advice.” Phillip should have offered her a slight bow and strolled off, a man who’d given a good account of himself in the saddle and offered suitable courtesies to the family antidote. Instead, he studied the sky.
“I miss you, Hecate. That the Canadian Conniver has laid his dastardly mischief at your feet makes me want to haul him bodily onto the nearest merchantman and see him kept below deck until the ship docks in Halifax.”
“Or in hell. If nothing else, Johnny’s scheme has made me realize that I am angry, Phillip.”
“With me?”
How could he think that, and where did he get the courage to ask such a question? “Never with you. With what I have allowed myself to become. I threatened to cut off Isaac’s allowance if he continues to collude with Johnny. He sneered at that sally and informed me he’s been saving in anticipation of Johnny’s arrival, or of my eventual comeuppance. Hecansave, and yet, I’ve been yielding to his importuning for years, thinking economies are beyond him. How typical of the Bromptons to manipulate me so easily into doing for them what they could do for themselves. How typical of me to capitulate.”
Phillip’s gaze shifted from the clouds to Hecate. “Isaac bamboozled you. I suspect Charlie might also be capable of pulling a greater share of an adult load, but between his mama’s boldness, his wife’s adoration, and Nunn’s inherent reticence, Charlie remains successfully immured in his randy youth.”
“You don’t think my anger is misplaced?”
Phillip touched her arm. “I think your anger might well be your salvation. Any other woman would have tossed the lot of them into the Channel long since.”
The old refrain—but they are all I have—came to mind. Hecate had been wrong about that. True, she had her Brompton connections, but she also had a fortune. She could well lose the fortune precisely because she’d been so tenacious about holding on to her Brompton connections.
“I have never regarded wealth as anything other than an obligation,” Hecate said. “I like my comforts within reason, but all that money… Have you ever longed for more acres to farm?”
Phillip offered his arm, an acceptable display of manners, and Hecate took it. “Not more acres, though I am considering adding a conservatory. Lark’s Nest is good land and more than enough for my needs. My challenge becomes to do the best possible job I can by the acres I have. That’s sufficient to occupy any man’s ambitions, or it should be.”
“Not for Johnny.” Hecate allowed Phillip to escort her to the buffet. “If he’s so successful, why is he going to such lengths to get his hands on my money?”
“Some people are never satisfied. They lack for nothing except contentment, and I do not envy them. Shall I fill you a plate?”
“Please.” Not because she was hungry, though she was, but because every moment spent with Phillip was a moment stolen against a fate she seemed doomed to meet at Johnny’s handsome hands.
Phillip watched Hecate quietly directing yet another social event while the Earl of Nunn allowed himself to be harangued by the vicar’s wife, the occasional neighboring squire, and Mr. Jonas, a solicitor who’d retired to the neighborhood to be near his daughter. Nunn wasn’t a jovial lord of the manor, but he was gracious within the limits of his character.
“Come along,” DeWitt said, tugging Phillip’s arm. “We’ve recovered from our exertions, digested our sustenance, and drained half a barrel of ale. Time for the dashing competitors to swim off the stink of our labors.”
Hecate listened to some old grandpa maundering on about the misadventures of his youth. She’d doubtless heard the tale before, and yet, her smile was genuine, her expression serene.
“I’m losing her,” Phillip muttered. With each passing hour, she was shoving her own wants and needs into some mental warehouse where she stored a lifetime of longings and dreams, even as she kept an eye on the punchbowl, the tipsy bachelors, the buffet, and the weather.
For the sake of the greater good—or the Brompton version of the greater good—she’d surrender to Johnny’s scheme.
“Beg pardon?” DeWitt said as a shout of laughter went up from Henry Wortham’s vicinity. “You came in second.”
The greatest loss would not be her money. She’d been parting with that for the sake of various Bromptons since girlhood. Married to Johnny, she’d lose her freedom.
“Is scandal really such a force in polite society that it must be avoided at all costs?” Phillip asked as he accompanied DeWitt in the direction of the summer cottage. “I understand the devastation of foot rot. A whole herd can be destroyed in a season. Potato blights are just as destructive, and they tend to hit the poorest of small holders the hardest. A failed harvest puts hardship on a whole nation. But a tide of whispers and slander? How does one measure that damage?”
DeWitt was quiet until they reached the steps of the summer cottage terrace. “The damage looks like this: No offers for the family’s unattached young ladies. No posts for the young men. No mortgages on the family’s properties as the investment opportunities magically disappear. No credit, when many a respectable family lives on credit. No invitations, when who is invited where by whom is the currency of social standing. The servants begin to drift away, and the agencies no longer send the best candidates, if they send any.”
“Like a neglected estate,” Phillip said, “a slow spiral into an ever-deepening pit.”
