As she gained the path, she heard Kitty reply in hard, harsh tones, “More fool I, I believed you. Now I’m living the reality—do you know he wants us to live here for most of the year? And he wants me to give him children?”
The last was said as if Henry had asked her to contract the plague; stunned, Portia hesitated.
“Children,” Kitty went on, scorn dripping. “I’d lose my figure. I’d bloat and swell and no one would look at me! Or if they did, they’d shudder and look the other way. I’d rather be dead!”
Something close to hysteria screamed in the words.
Portia shivered. Refocusing, she saw the gardener; their gazes met. Then she lifted her head, drew breath. The gardener returned to his bedding plants. She walked on.
Frowning.
Reemerging onto the main lawn, she saw Winifred, like her, idly ambling. Thinking it wise to ensure Winifred did not amble to the temple, she changed course and joined her.
Winifred smiled with easy welcome. Portia smiled back. Here, at least, was someone she might learn from.
After exchanging greetings, by mutual accord they turned toward the lawn walks leading to the lake.
“I hope you don’t think me unforgiveably forward,” she began, “but I couldn’t help noticing . . .” She glanced at Winifred’s face. “Am I right in assuming there’s some degree of understanding between you and Mr. Winfield?”
Winifred smiled, then looked ahead. After a moment, she said, “It would perhaps be more realistic to say we’re considering some degree of understanding.” Her lips curved; she glanced at Portia. “I know that sounds very timid, but, indeed, I suppose I am that, at least when it comes to marriage.”
Portia saw the chance and seized it with both hands. “I know just what you mean—indeed, I feel the same.” She caught Winifred’s gaze. “I’m at present considering marriage—in general at this point—and have to confess there’s much I don’t understand. I’ve left it late for entirely selfish reasons, because of my absorption with other things in life, so now I find myself somewhat at a loss, and not as informed as I ought to be. However, I imagine you’ve had much more experience . . . ?”
Winifred grimaced, but her eyes were still easy, her expression gentle. “As to that, indeed, I have had more experience, in a way, but I fear it is not the sort to assist any other lady in understanding.” She gestured. “I’m thirty, and still unwed.”
Portia frowned. “Forgive me, but you’re wellborn, well dowered by my guess, and not unattractive. I imagine you’ve had many offers.”
Winifred inclined her head. “Some, I grant you, but not many. I have not encouraged any gentleman to date.”
Portia was at a loss.
Winifred saw it and smiled wrily. “You’ve favored me with your confidence—in return I will give you mine. You do not, I take it, have a very lovely younger sister? In particular, a highly acquisitive younger sister?”
Portia blinked; an image of Penelope, spectacled and severe, rose in her mind. She shook her head. “But . . . why . . . ? Kitty has been married for some years, has she not?”
“Oh, indeed. But, unfortunately, marriage has not dampened her desire to seize whatever might come to me.”
“She”—Portia searched for the word—“poached your suitors?”
“Always. Even from the schoolroom.”
Despite the revelation, Winifred’s expression remained calm, serene—resigned, Portia realized.
“I’m not sure,” Winifred continued, meeting Portia’s eyes, “that in truth I shouldn’t be grateful. I would not wish to marry a gentleman so easily led astray.”
Portia nodded. “Indeed not.” She hesitated, then ventured, “I mentioned Mr. Winfield—he appears to have remained constant in his regard for you despite Kitty’s best efforts.”
The glance Winifred threw her was uncertain; for the first time, Portia glimpsed the lady behind the quiet mask who’d suffered consistent disappointment at her sister’s hands. “Do you think so?” Then Winifred smiled, wry again; her mask slipped back into place. “I should tell you our history. Desmond met the family in London some years ago. At first, he was greatly taken with Kitty, as most gentlemen are. Then he discovered she was married, and transferred his attentions to me.”
“Oh.” They’d reached the end of the walk. After standing for a moment, looking down toward the lake, they turned and headed back toward the house. “But,” Portia continued, “doesn’t that mean Desmond’s been pursuing you for some years?”
Winifred inclined her head. “About two.” After a moment, she somewhat diffidently added, “He told me he retreated from Kitty as soon as he’d drawn close enough to see her for what she is. Only later did he learn she was married.”
Fresh in Portia’s mind was the scene she’d witnessed below the terrace the night before. “He does seem . . . quite stiff with Kitty. I’ve seen no indication that he would welcome the opportunity to further any interest with her—quite the opposite.”
Winifred looked at her, studied her face, her eyes. “Do you think so?”
Portia met her gaze. “Yes. I do.”