âSheâs very young yet, barely twenty-one. Iâm grateful she hasnât wanted to rush into an engagement but is taking her time to look about her.â
Tunbury felt able to breathe again.
âTaking her time is one way to put it,â Rycote said. âThey come swarming around her, but as soon as one of them starts to show serious intentions, she sends him off. This oneâs too boring, that one is a fool, another one is only interested in her fortune. And they keep pestering me, asking how to win her favor. As if I would know.â
âIs she wrong in her judgments?â asked Tunbury.
Rycote gave an irritated sigh. âNo, to be fair sheâs been perfectly right. Hamilton is boring, and Wandsworth is rather a fool. As for Carruthers, probably the less said, the better.â
âCarruthers?â Tunbury sat up in alarm. âBut I warned you about him before I left.â
âYes, well, I donât know exactly what happened, but a week or two after that, he fell into a fishpond in the Coopersâ garden. Norrie said he slipped.â
The three gentlemen looked at each other and laughed.
* * *
Later that evening Tunbury sat by the fire in his room, his slippered feet stretched out to the warmth of the blaze. A wood fire, not coal, because Lady Penworth preferred the smell of wood in the bedrooms. The room was as familiar as the smell, the room he always had when he stayed with the Tremaines in London. It had the same big carved mahogany bed with the posts he used to measure himself against. He remembered how proud he had been the year he grew so much that he had topped two whole knobs. There was the same mahogany wardrobe, the same marble-topped dressing table with the brown and white pitcher and basin. It was as if everything had just been waiting for him to return.
There were even some of his old books still on the shelves by the windowâ The Three Musketeers, Waverly, The Deerslayer . That last was the one that had made him determined to go to America on his travels, but he hadnât found any Indians in the woods of New England. On the western plains, but that wasnât quite the same. Well, that war had been a long time ago. He didnât suppose there were many Jacobites lurking in the Scottish heather anymore, either.
His clothes had been unpacked and put away, his shaving gear was set out, and the bed was turned down. It was as if he had never been away.
He was back with the Tremaines, in the one place where he had determined never to intrude again. Apparently, he was the only one who realized it was an intrusion, that he did not belong here.
They had allâLord and Lady Penworth, Pip, and Norrieâwelcomed him as if he had just been away at school for a term. The younger children actually were away at school.
It was not that the Tremaines had failed to notice his absence. They were all eager to hear about his travels. But there was no coolness, no resentment at his abrupt departure with no real explanation, no complaints about his failure to write. They had expected him to return, and they were glad he had.
Now he was trying to make sense of the day, trying to make sense of himself. This was precisely why he had fled England four years ago. He hadnât wanted to bring the ugliness of the sordid de Vaux mélange into this house, into this family. He had run away. Cowardly, perhaps, but he never wanted them to know his family secrets. What was common knowledge was bad enough.
He had tried to convince himself that he wanted to be forgotten. He had behaved in ways that were probably best forgotten. But the moment he heard Lady Penworthâs familiar voice call his name, the years fell away, and he felt like a schoolboy again, reveling in the warmth of her welcome. When he walked into the drawing room of Penworth House, he felt as if he had come home. How could he cut himself off from all that had been best in his life?
And then there was
Tunbury felt able to breathe again.
âTaking her time is one way to put it,â Rycote said. âThey come swarming around her, but as soon as one of them starts to show serious intentions, she sends him off. This oneâs too boring, that one is a fool, another one is only interested in her fortune. And they keep pestering me, asking how to win her favor. As if I would know.â
âIs she wrong in her judgments?â asked Tunbury.
Rycote gave an irritated sigh. âNo, to be fair sheâs been perfectly right. Hamilton is boring, and Wandsworth is rather a fool. As for Carruthers, probably the less said, the better.â
âCarruthers?â Tunbury sat up in alarm. âBut I warned you about him before I left.â
âYes, well, I donât know exactly what happened, but a week or two after that, he fell into a fishpond in the Coopersâ garden. Norrie said he slipped.â
The three gentlemen looked at each other and laughed.
* * *
Later that evening Tunbury sat by the fire in his room, his slippered feet stretched out to the warmth of the blaze. A wood fire, not coal, because Lady Penworth preferred the smell of wood in the bedrooms. The room was as familiar as the smell, the room he always had when he stayed with the Tremaines in London. It had the same big carved mahogany bed with the posts he used to measure himself against. He remembered how proud he had been the year he grew so much that he had topped two whole knobs. There was the same mahogany wardrobe, the same marble-topped dressing table with the brown and white pitcher and basin. It was as if everything had just been waiting for him to return.
There were even some of his old books still on the shelves by the windowâ The Three Musketeers, Waverly, The Deerslayer . That last was the one that had made him determined to go to America on his travels, but he hadnât found any Indians in the woods of New England. On the western plains, but that wasnât quite the same. Well, that war had been a long time ago. He didnât suppose there were many Jacobites lurking in the Scottish heather anymore, either.
His clothes had been unpacked and put away, his shaving gear was set out, and the bed was turned down. It was as if he had never been away.
He was back with the Tremaines, in the one place where he had determined never to intrude again. Apparently, he was the only one who realized it was an intrusion, that he did not belong here.
They had allâLord and Lady Penworth, Pip, and Norrieâwelcomed him as if he had just been away at school for a term. The younger children actually were away at school.
It was not that the Tremaines had failed to notice his absence. They were all eager to hear about his travels. But there was no coolness, no resentment at his abrupt departure with no real explanation, no complaints about his failure to write. They had expected him to return, and they were glad he had.
Now he was trying to make sense of the day, trying to make sense of himself. This was precisely why he had fled England four years ago. He hadnât wanted to bring the ugliness of the sordid de Vaux mélange into this house, into this family. He had run away. Cowardly, perhaps, but he never wanted them to know his family secrets. What was common knowledge was bad enough.
He had tried to convince himself that he wanted to be forgotten. He had behaved in ways that were probably best forgotten. But the moment he heard Lady Penworthâs familiar voice call his name, the years fell away, and he felt like a schoolboy again, reveling in the warmth of her welcome. When he walked into the drawing room of Penworth House, he felt as if he had come home. How could he cut himself off from all that had been best in his life?
And then there was