A Spinster's Luck Read Free Page A

trilling laugh that usually elicited an answering smile from those who heard it.
    Celia looked at the duchess, her expression changing to chagrin. “My goodness, Henry sounded like a barrister! Can you imagine what the duke would say if Henry had dragged me to tea?”
    Celia envisioned the duke sneering down his perfect, aristocratic nose and ordering her from the room for being so presumptuous. Not that she had any desire tobe included. In fact, for the last ten years she had been successful at avoiding any contact with the duke on his visits to Harbrooke. She had paid close attention to his habits, when he rose and retired, which parts of the house he rarely visited, all so that she could avoid the imposing man. Granted, Napoleon had aided her, for the duke had been much away because of the war, but it was still disquieting when he did arrive. The whole house became unsettled. The maids and footmen bustled about nervously. Even the cantankerous cook strove for unusual perfection in the normally delicious meals she served.
    â€œI cannot imagine that Drake would say anything,” the duchess replied. “This is my home, and Drake is too well mannered to censure me for who sits at my table. Besides, Celia, you are my dear friend and it would be natural for you to dine with me.”
    Imogene had never understood Celia’s marked aversion to her brother. She always suspected that Celia knew that years ago Drake had been critical of so young a girl caring for the boys. Even so, she never pressed Celia on the subject, out of respect for the sensitive girl’s feelings.
    â€œWhat a dear you are!” Celia exclaimed, crossing the room to sit next to the duchess. “It is just that we are all so familiar and used to one another here at Harbrooke that we forget that the duke is used to town manners. I am sure it would offend his grace’s sensibilities to be forced to dine with the governess,” she reasoned.
    â€œOh, twaddle! You aren’t really the governess anymore; you are more of a companion to me. As for Drake’s sensibilities, I believe he gave those up long ago,” Imogene opined dryly.
    Celia made no response, and the duchess could see that she was not going to budge. She never had. And it was unlikely that she would now.
    Changing the subject, she told Celia, “Jarvis rode over today. Edna has taken a bad turn and he is hoping that you will go over to Harford Abbey and sit with her. Evidently she is giving Jarvis and the servants fits again.”
    Celia’s eyes flashed to the duchess in surprised concern. Harford Abbey was a musty old manor house built on the ruin of an ancient abbey some three miles away. Edna Forbisher was the local eccentric, a recluse who had not left her house for over thirty years. Local gossips liked to claim that old Miss Forbisher had been crossed in love in her youth and had never recovered from her broken heart.
    There was some truth to that supposition, but Celia felt she knew the full reason: Edna Forbisher could not stand the company of most people. She was headstrong, intolerant, and in bad health. It had just been easier for the woman to grow old staying at home alone than to deal with the local populace.
    Celia’s mother had taken her to visit Edna many years ago. At first, the odd old woman had rejected the kindness of the good vicar’s wife. Slowly, though, Celia’s mother had won her over, and Edna became grudgingly grateful for the company.
    Celia made her first visit alone to the frightening old woman’s home a few months after her parents’ deaths. Somehow it made her feel closer to her mother to continue to do something they had shared. After a while, she came to enjoy her visits with the peculiar woman and the dark, faded beauty of Harford Abbey.
    â€œI had planned to visit her the day after tomorrow, but of course I will go in the morning if Jarvis thinks she’s that poorly,” Celia said, a concerned