Simon humphed. After a moment, he asked, “What’s the matter?”
She glanced up, realized he’d been watching her face. She’d been watching Kitty, studying her sulky expression, her disaffected state. Trying to reconcile that with how she herself would feel if she’d learned she was carrying a child. She smiled briefly, shook her head, turned away from Kitty. “Nothing. Just woolgathering.”
His eyes remained on her face; before he could press, she gripped his arm. “Come on—let’s go up to that rise.”
He acquiesced and they did, discovering an abbreviated view into a deeper, less accessible dell, where a family of deer grazed undisturbed.
A call summoned them back to the others and thence back to the inn. A slight altercation ensued over who would sit where for the return journey; everyone ignored Kitty’s demands to go in James’s curricle. Lucy and Annabelle squeezed onto the seat beside James and they left, following Desmond, who had Winifred beside him; Simon, with Portia alongside and Charlie hanging on behind, followed, leaving the rest to the heavier coaches.
The curricles reached the Hall well in advance of the rest of the party. They drove straight to the stables. The gentlemen handed the ladies down; Winifred, rather pale, excused herself and walked quickly toward the house. The gentlemen became engrossed in a discussion of horseflesh. Portia would have joined them, but Lucy and Annabelle were clearly looking to her for a lead.
Inwardly sighing, resigning herself to a quiet hour indoors, she led them back to the house.
They were waiting in the morning room when the coaches finally lumbered up. Lucy and Annabelle, both dutifully embroidering, raised their heads and looked toward the front hall.
Portia could hear the raised voices even before people entered the hall. Suppressing a grimace, she rose.
The two girls glanced at her. Kitty’s voice reached them, shrill and sharp; their eyes widened.
“Stay here,” Portia told them. “There’s no need for you to go out. I’ll tell your mamas you’re here.”
They both bent grateful looks on her; with a reassuring smile, she headed for the door. In the hall, she paid no attention to anyone else, but mentioned their daughters’ whereabouts to Mrs. Buckstead and Lady Hammond, then went straight to Lady O’s side.
Lady O nodded in curt thanks and gripped her arm; the strength of her clawlike grip was a good indication of her temper, of how aggravated that was. Lord Netherfield, until then holding by Lady O’s side, nodded his approval, cast one censorious look at his granddaughter-in-law and headed for the library.
Portia helped Lady O up the stairs and to her room. Once the door was closed, she braced herself for a diatribe; Lady O was nothing if not outspoken.
But this time, Lady O seemed too tired; Portia, concerned, helped her quickly onto her bed.
As she straightened, Lady O caught her eye. Answered the question in her mind. “Yes, it was bad. Worse than I’d anticipated.”
Portia looked into her old eyes. “What did she say?”
Lady O humphed. “That’s just it—it wasn’t so much what she did say, as what she didn’t.”
After a long moment of staring across the room, Lady O closed her eyes and sighed. “Leave me, child, I’m tired.”
Portia turned to the door.
Lady O continued, “And there’s something very wrong going on.”
Portia headed downstairs via the less-frequented stairs in the west wing. She didn’t want to meet any of the others; she needed some time on her own.
A cloud had descended on Glossup Hall, both literally and figuratively. A storm was blowing up; the sun had disappeared behind leaden clouds, and the air had grown oppressive.
The atmosphere in the house was even heavier. Brooding, tending toward dark. She was hardly a sensitive soul, yet she felt it. The effect on the Hammond girls, even on Lady Hammond, even on Mrs. Buckstead, was apparent.
Two more days—people would remain until then, as originally planned; leaving earlier would smack of an insult to Lady Glossup, one she had done nothing to deserve. Yet none of the guests would linger. She and Lady O had planned to return to London.
She wondered where Simon intended to go.
Reaching the ground floor, she heard the clink of billiard balls. She glanced down the west wing corridor; through the open door of the billiard room she could hear the low murmur of masculine voices, Simon’s among them.
She went on, through the garden hall and out onto the lawns.
Looking up, she considered the clouds. Despite the closeness, there was no sign of any storm activity yet—no lightning, no thunder, no scent of rain. Just the heavy stillness.
Grimacing, she headed for the shrubbery. Surely the safest place in which to avoid overhearing any further revelations. Lightning, after all, did not strike twice in the same place.