Michael felt something perilously close to fellow feeling when, together with Ferdinand, he tumbled the packages onto a settle in the inn parlor. They exchanged glances, then looked at Edward, who had escaped relatively lightly. Reading their expressions, Edward nodded. “I’ll arrange to leave these here.”
“Good.” Michael made it clear by his tone that any other outcome would precipitate mutiny.
Ferdinand just glowered.
The luncheon started well enough. Michael sat on one bench beside Elizabeth, with Caro on his other side and Ferdinand beyond her. The other four sat on the bench opposite. He wanted to question Elizabeth as to her aspirations, angling to learn what she looked for from marriage, but the two leading comments he introduced both somehow ended back with the balls, parties, and entertainments of London.
On top of that, the countess and the duchess, speaking across the table, distracted him. Their comments and queries were too needle-sharp, too acute to be lightly turned aside. They may not be their husbands, yet they were assuredly sounding him out; he had to pay them due attention.
Edward came to his aid once or twice; Michael met his gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly in appreciation. Elizabeth, however, seemed sunk in her own thoughts and contributed nothing.
Then the desserts arrived and the older ladies shifted their attention to the crème anglaise and poached pears. Seizing the moment, he turned to Elizabeth, only to feel a sudden warmth against his other side.
Turning that way, he realized Caro had shifted along the bench, realized with an eruption of hot anger that she’d shifted because Ferdinand had shifted into her.
He had to fight down a surprisingly powerful urge to reach behind Caro and clip Ferdinand over the ear. It was what he deserved for behaving like such a boor, yet…diplomatic incidents had arisen from less.
He fixed his eyes on Ferdinand’s face; the Portuguese was currently intent on Caro, looking down, trying to read her face. “So, Leponte, what sort of horses do you keep in town? Any Arabs?”
Ferdinand glanced up at him, momentarily at sea. Then he colored faintly and responded.
Michael kept asking questions, about carriages, even the yacht, focusing everyone’s attention on Ferdinand until the meal ended and they stood to leave.
As she followed him out from the bench, Caro squeezed his arm lightly. It was the only acknowledgment she made that she appreciated his support, yet he felt an unexpected, somewhat righteous glow.
They’d planned to take a postprandial stroll along the old walls. The view afforded over Southampton Water and south to the Isle of Wight, taking in all the commerical and private shipping that dotted the blue expanse in between, was superb.
The wind whipped the ladies’ skirts and tugged at their bonnets; conversation was difficult. The ambassador’s wife linked her arm with Elizabeth’s; heads together, they discussed some feminine thing. The duchess and countess walked alongside, captured by the view. Behind the four ladies, Caro followed, Ferdinand close beside her. Michael got the distinct impression Ferdinand was groveling, trying to get back into Caro’s good graces, knowing he’d stepped over that invisible line.
The Portuguese was exceedingly charming; he’d probably succeed.
Bringing up the rear with Edward, watching Ferdinand’s artful performance, Michael couldn’t help but wonder if the Portuguese had misinterpreted, or rather missed altogether, the irony in Caro’s nickname, and thought the “Merry” in the “Merry Widow” meant something it did not.
3
The next day dawned bright and clear. At Caro’s suggestion, Michael joined them at Bramshaw House. She, Elizabeth, and Geoffrey climbed into the barouche; Michael and Edward kept pace on their horses during the short journey to the landing stage just south of Totton.
Smiling across at Michael as the carriage rolled along, Caro reviewed her plans for the day—her order of battle. Ferdinand, anxious to please after his faux pas of the day before, had agreed to bring his yacht into the northernmost reaches of Southampton Water, thus shortening the time they, and all the others, too, needed to travel before embarking on their cruise.
Reducing time spent in the carriage had seemed wise. If Elizabeth spent too much time in Michael’s sight while in ordinary situations, she might inadvertently start to correct the image they were working to project.
They had to walk a fine line. While alone with Michael or with only herself or Edward present, Elizabeth could behave in ways she couldn’t if others were about to witness her performance; the only restriction was what Michael would believe. In public, however, if she was ultimately to marry Edward and support him in his career, she couldn’t paint herself as a silly flibbertigibbet; those in diplomatic circles had long memories. When among others, all she could do was stumble in minor ways—like her white gown and diamonds or her choking at table—that would be forgiven her youth or excused as inexperience.
Thus far they’d managed exceedingly well. Caro was pleased, but knew better than to rest on her laurels. Not yet.
They rattled through Totton, then turned off the main road and headed down the incline to the water’s edge. The twin masts of Ferdinand’s yacht came into sight, then they rounded the last hill and there it lay, bobbing gently at the jetty.
Most of the others were already there; the ambassador and his wife were boarding as the Bramshaw House party drew up beside the landing stage. A wooden platform built out from the bank, being on the western shore of the estuary, well away from the bustling port on the opposite shore, the jetty was used almost exclusively by pleasure boats.
Michael dismounted, gave his horse into the care of the ostler hired from the tavern in Totton for the day, then came to open the carriage door. Smiling with very real anticipation, Caro gave him her hand; momentarily aware of the strength of his grasp, she allowed him to help her down.
He met her gaze, then glanced at the yacht.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” she said.
He looked back at her, paused, then admitted, “I wasn’t expecting anything quite so large. Most ‘yachts’ aren’t that big.”
She settled her shawl about her shoulders. “I understand Ferdinand uses it up and down the Portuguese coast, so it would have to withstand the Atlantic breakers. They’re even more ferocious than the Channel in a storm.”