Page 17 of Death at the Dower House
“Not Francis,” Aunt Roz said firmly, which put paid to that idea. “No offense, Francis, but for purposes of this discussion, you’re a child, too.”
Francis didn’t look like he minded. And I have to say I understood where Aunt Roz was coming from. Between the drug habit and his newfound interest in Constance, he was hardly chaperone material.
“Why don’t you come with us, Harold?” Lady Peckham suggested next. “Charlotte used to love to visit me at the Dower House. And it would do you good to get away from the Hall. All that sadness.”
Uncle Harold looked like he didn’t quite know what to say, and Crispin had the appearance of someone who had accidentally bitten into a lemon. With his father around, I guess all his plans for Johanna, or Laetitia, or both of them, would go up in smoke.
“There’s not enough room at the Dower House for anyone else,” Gilbert piped up. I guess the prospect of having to watch Crispin make eyes at Johanna, and Francis do the same with Constance, all weekend long, was already enough for him. He didn’t want to watch his mother, or perhaps Johanna, playing up to Uncle Harold, too. “We’re going to have to double up as it is. And I’m sure His Grace wouldn’t want to share.”
No, indeed. The idea of the Duke of Sutherland going to a country house and having to share a room with anyone was laughable. Uncle Harold paled at the thought.
“We’re all adults, Aunt Roz,” I told her. “I know we still look like your children to you—”
Or at least Christopher and Francis did, and perhaps I did, and by a stretch perhaps Crispin did, now that he was motherless.
“But we’re all of age, and more than. Francis is almost thirty. Christopher and I are twenty-three. St George is still infantile, admittedly—”
“Speak for yourself, Darling.”
“—but we’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything too irresponsible.”
Aunt Roz looked at me. I did my best to look responsible.
Then she looked at Christopher, who would certainly be responsible in this situation, since a house party at a noble country estate, full of ladies looking for husbands, isn’t the sort of place where he lets down his hair.
Then she looked at Francis, who had in fact behaved quite responsibly for the past two days. I hadn’t seen any evidence of illicit drug use at all since he’d come to Sutherland Hall.
Finally she looked at Crispin, who made no attempt to look responsible, but I guess she decided he simply wasn’t her burden to bear. Nor were the Peckhams and their hangers-on.
She sighed. “On your own heads be it, then.”
A subdued cheer went up, or at least Gilbert tried to get one going. The rest of us stared at him, and he stopped.
“Back to the motorcars, then,” Crispin said. “I can take four aside from myself.”
“And I have an idea,” Francis added. “Why don’t we leave the Peckhams’ Crossley here, with the chauffeur, that way Lady Peckham will have a way to get home at the end of the weekend.”
He gave Constance’s mother a modified bow. She looked at him with approval, which had probably been the point of the exercise. “I’ll drive our car to the Dower House—”
He glanced at his father, and got Uncle Herbert’s nod, “—and Mother and Father can either get a ride home with Lady Peckham, or have Wilkins take them home in Uncle Harold’s Crossley when it’s convenient. Or they can stay here until we come back.”
“That will leave us with two motorcars to bring back to Sutherland Hall at the end of the weekend,” I pointed out. “Or one for Sutherland and one for Beckwith Place, at any rate.”
“But some of us may choose to stay longer,” Crispin said, and smirked wickedly.
I assumed he was insinuating that he might choose to spend more time with Johanna, or perhaps with Lady Laetitia Marsden, and if he did, it was certainly no business of mine.
“It’s a good thing the rest of us can fit in Francis’s motorcar, then, if you’re planning to stay behind. Constance—” I snagged her arm, “why don’t you ride with us.”
It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t make it sound like one, just towed her toward Francis, who gave her a polite bow.
“You can sit up front with Francis,” I told her, “while Christopher and I huddle in the back. Meanwhile, Crispin can take Miss de Vos and Mr. Peckham.”
Johanna looked delighted, Gilbert Peckham did not. Crispin looked like he wasn’t sure what to think, which was surprising. I’d have thought he’d be pleased to have Johanna. Gilbert’s presence would derail anything too untoward from taking place, of course, but then Crispin’s need to actually drive the motorcar ought to have taken care of that in the first place.
I added, “Unless you’d rather have me and Christopher, St George? We’re used to your particular style of driving, and I’d hate for Miss de Vos to ruin those lovely shoes.”
Johanna looked a bit less delighted at that, perhaps because they really were lovely, and probably expensive. Black leather—part suede, part patent—with a T-strap and a dainty silver buckle. If there was one thing I might find fault with, it was that they weren’t small. Johanna did not have dainty feet. But she was a tall girl, so perhaps that was to be expected.
