The Sparks Fly Upward Read Free Page B

her hand on his sleeve. ‘With your permission, Mama.’
    â€˜Time you had that young woman married, Makepeace,’ yelled Lady Gladmain as the couple walked away.
    â€˜Ain’t found anybody worthy enough yet,’ Makepeace told her. One in the eye for you, you harpy. Gladmain’s son had offered for Philippa and been refused.
    â€˜Preserve us from worthy old maids is what I say,’ Gladmain slung back.
    Makepeace disengaged from the skirmish. No use saying that she did not, thank God, belong to the circle that married its daughters off, willing or unwillling; Lady Gladmain knew she didn’t. The haut monde had come to accept Makepeace because she was rich and favored by Lord Ffoulkes and now old enough to be considered as an eccentric but she did not belong to it. No use saying, either, that one had as much chance of persuading Philippa into something she didn’t want to do as shifting the Rock of Gibraltar.
    None of this bothered Makepeace much, but it struck her now that Philippa, at twenty-six, was undoubtedly the oldest unmarried female at the ball. Immersed in her own grief, she had not, until this moment, considered the matter.
    She watched her daughter leave the room with Heilbron. As ever, Philippa was dressed to avoid attention rather than attract it but the new simplicity suited her; her gown’s low-cut white gauze over silk showed to advantage the fine, almost olive-tinged skin she’d inherited from her father. Nothing could persuade her mousy hair to curl but it had been piled neatly into a smooth and shining top-knot decorated with pearls.
    Whether she could be regarded as pretty depended on how well you knew her; first acquaintances tended to think her plain—and, indeed, as a child her face had resembled that of a small and studious camel—but, given time, they could be astonished by a smile, a turn of the head, that took the breath.
    When Jenny was returned to her chair, panting and exuberant, Makepeace kept her voice low and asked a question she should have asked before. ‘Philippa’s happy enough, ain’t she?’
    Jenny thought about it. ‘There’s no saying with Pippy, Ma, but I reckon she took a tumble over Lord Ffoulkes’s marriage. When we got his note telling us about it, she looked poorly all day.’
    â€˜She loves Andrew ?’
    Jenny was wriggling on her seat. ‘Don’t quiz me, Ma, I don’t know, I just wondered. If you remember, it was immediately after Andrew’s wedding to poor Miss Tate that Pippy went abroad.’
    â€˜So she did.’ Makepeace began connecting events. Receiving the news of this most recent marriage, Philippa had shown her usual equanimity but had soon after gone to her room with a headache. And nearly four years ago, when Ffoulkes had married a wispy little twig of the nobility, Philippa had set out on the Grand Tour with friends less than a week after the wedding.
    Poor little Lady Ffoulkes had died in childbirth, with the baby, nine months later.
    She should’ve nabbed him then , Makepeace thought irritably, aghast at her own lack of perspicacity. But Philippa wasn’t a nabber. She’d stayed on with some people in France, only returning to comfort her mother when Andra was killed.
    Pippy, my poor girl. I didn’t know. What comfort have I been to you?
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    IT was bitterly cold outside but Heilbron had fetched her wrap. Together they stood by one of the burning braziers with which Ffoulkes had lined the terraces that tiered his steep garden.
    â€˜Did you receive my letter?’ Heilbron asked. His voice was usually melodious; she’d heard it move a meeting to tears but at the moment, bless him, it cracked with tension.
    â€˜Yes.’ Philippa indicated the tiny pocket attached by velvet strings to her left wrist. In fact, it contained three letters, among them the one from Andrew Ffoulkes telling her of his marriage. The other two had arrived