‘It is more convenient, you understand!’ But for whom and for what purpose the Countess of Painscastle made no attempt to explain.
And how was Eaton? As well as ever? And was Sir Edward Baxendale at home? No? How unfortunate. But perhaps Miss Baxendale was receiving visitors? She would no doubt welcome some company, knowing so few people in town! Perhaps Eaton could discover if.
Eleanor caught Judith’s eye in deep gratitude—and then they were being shown into the familiar red-and-gold-striped withdrawing-room where Miss Baxendale sat alone beside the fireplace, a piece of needlework lying abandoned on the table beside her. The lady sprang to her feet as Eaton introduced the guests with a flourish. He did not know the full background to this development, and although common gossip was rife…he would dearly have loved to listen at the door, except that it was below his dignity. A pleasant enough young lady, Miss Baxendale, but not to compare with the Marchioness, of course. But the word in the town suggested deep doings. He shook his head as he departed for the kitchens to organise tea and inform the members of the servants’ hall that things were afoot upstairs.
‘Edward is not at home I am afraid.’ Octavia looked rather nervously from one lady to the other. ‘But if you would care to sit. And take some tea?’
The faint look of unease that hung about her black-gowned figure suggested that she would rather they did not, but Eleanor came forward in friendly mode with hand outstretched and a smile on her face. There was nothing for Octavia to do but participate in the gentle social occasion with the lady whose social position, it appeared, she had every intention of appropriating for herself.
‘We have come to see you, Miss Baxendale, to find how you are settling in,’ Eleanor explained. ‘I trust that we are not disturbing you. And my cousin Judith has come, with whom you might be acquainted.’
Octavia looked at the lively redhead as they made a polite curtsy. ‘Perhaps… You were Miss Faringdon, were you not? And now the Countess of Painscastle? Pray take a seat.’
They did so.
‘How uncomfortable this is…’ Octavia picked up her embroidery and promptly put it down again, lost for words, unable to raise her eyes above her restless hands.
‘But it will not stop us drinking tea together and having a cosy exchange of news.’ Eleanor tried to put the lady at her ease, not for the first time wondering how Thomas could have possibly married this pretty but insipid creature.
‘We came out in the same Season, Miss Baxendale.’ Judith smiled encouragingly. ‘I believe that we met at any number of balls and soirées.’
‘Yes. I met so many people. But I think…I am sure that I remember you. I came to your coming-out ball in this very house. My aunt and uncle—and my brother, of course—chaperoned me. I remember thinking what a beautiful house it was. I never thought that I should be living here…’ With which ingenuous comment she flushed and turned her head with relief when Eaton and an interested footman brought in the tea.
The ceremony was performed with nervous competence by Miss Baxendale, the tea was served, and the ladies chatted about a range of inconsequences of fashion and the events offered by London to ladies with a degree of leisure and affluence. Then Judith returned to her reminiscing over the glories of her Seasonal debut, Octavia agreeing and nodding but adding few of her own impressions.
‘And how are you spending your time in London now?’ Judith tried for another approach as the conversation dried.
‘Sir Edward has been very busy,’ Octavia explained. ‘I have rarely been out.’
‘And of course, you are still in mourning.’ Eleanor sympathised with a sad smile, eyes keen and watchful.
‘Why, yes…it would not be seemly for me to go about in public to any great degree. I see that you, my lady, have laid aside your black gloves.’ She took in the glory of silver grey with some surprise.
‘Indeed I have.’ Eleanor did not elaborate. ‘Have you perhaps driven in the park yet, Miss Baxendale? The days have been very pleasant. And I am sure Sir Edward would drive you to take the air. It would be quite acceptable for you in your situation.’
‘No. I have not been beyond the garden.’
‘Do you enjoy music or painting? To help to pass the time a little when your brother is from home?’ Judith arched her brows.
‘No. I do a little embroidery, as you see.’
‘Perhaps you miss your garden in the country. Where is it that you lived?’
‘In Whitchurch. And, yes, I miss it so much. The roses will just be coming into bloom. I shall not be there to tend them and wish I was…’ It was the first animation that Octavia Baxendale had shown since her guests had arrived, her whole countenance blooming as did her roses, but only to be stemmed as if she feared an indiscretion. ‘But, of course, it is necessary for me to be here.’
‘You must miss it indeed. Now I have no interest at all in gardens, but I understand that it can be a great solace in times of grief.’ Judith put down her teacup and leaned across the little table to pat Octavia’s hand. ‘Eleanor has been telling me about your little son. What a splendid boy he is. Could we perhaps see him? My lord and I are hoping for a child very soon…’ She lowered her lashes in coy anticipation.
Eleanor hid a smile. Cousin Judith had a remarkable range of skills of which she had been unaware until now.
‘Of course.’ Octavia appeared a little surprised that her guests would wish to see her son, but rose to her feet to pull the bell hang beside the fireplace.
‘Would you ask Sarah to bring the child down?’ The footman bowed and departed.
Within minutes the door opened. In came the young woman whom Eleanor had last seen in Burford Hall. Fair and neat with a ladylike composure. Fair enough, perhaps, to be one of the family. A dependent of good birth, Eleanor decided, but most likely fallen on hard times, now holding the hand of the child, John. John Faringdon, if the documents were correct.
‘This is Sarah,’ Octavia said, confirming Eleanor’s impression. ‘She has been my companion and now acts as nurse to John.’ The lady curtsied and released the little boy, who immediately ran to show his mama a wooden boat that he had clasped in his hand. Miss Baxendale patted his head. John thrust the precious possession into her hands, announcing ‘Boat!’ with a disarming smile.
‘What a beautiful child.’ Judith held out her hands. ‘Come here, John. Let me see your boat.’
The child, aware of the possibility of a wider audience, walked shyly to Judith and then gurgled with shocked pleasure when she snatched him up and sat him on her knee. ‘What a handsome boat. And so are you very handsome. All those golden curls and such blue eyes.’ She pinched the end of his nose to make him laugh.
‘He is a good child.’ Octavia nodded and smiled as Judith stood him back on his feet when he struggled for freedom and restored his boat to his grasp. With a crow John launched himself back towards Sarah where she had remained beside the door, but, with uncoordinated enthusiasm, fell on the wide expanse of deep turkey carpet. For a second he crouched motionless. Then tears came to his eyes and a sob to his chest.
‘There, now,’ Octavia said. ‘You are not very hurt.’ Sarah swooped, picked up the child, kissing his cheek, smoothing away his tears with her hand, crooning to him in a soft voice.
‘Is he well?’ Octavia watched the little scene with a graceful turn of her head. So did Eleanor and Judith.
‘John took no hurt, ma’am.’
‘Perhaps you could take him back to the nursery, Sarah. He tends to get a little excited in company’ she explained to the visitors. ‘It is not good for a child.’
With a curtsy to the assembled company, Sarah walked to the door, holding the boy close, and left.
What else should they