Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [9]
Vespasia, to Eustace’s eternal disapproval, had her own newspaper.
“There has been a murder in Bloomsbury,” she observed over the raspberries.
“What has that to do with us?” Eustace did not look up; the remark was intended as a criticism. Women should not have newspapers, let alone discuss them at breakfast.
“About as much as anything else that is in here,” Vespasia replied. “It is to do with people, and tragedy.”
“Nonsense!” old Mrs. March snapped. “Probably some person of the criminal classes who thoroughly deserved it. Eustace, would you be good enough to pass me the Court Circular? I wish to know what is happening that is of some importance.” She shot a look of distaste at Vespasia. “I trust no one has forgotten we have a luncheon party at the Withingtons’, and that we are playing croquet at Lady Lucy Armstrong’s in the afternoon?” she went on, glancing at Sybilla with a frown and a faint curl of her lip. “Lady Lucy will be full of the Eton and Harrow cricket match, of course, and we shall be obliged to listen to her boasting endlessly about her sons. And we shall have nothing to say at all.”
Sybilla colored, a stiff, painful red. Her eyes were bright. She stared straight back at her grandmother-in-law with an expression which might have been any of a dozen things.
“We shall have to see whether it is a boy or a girl before we consider a school,” she said very clearly.
William stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth, incredulous. George drew in his breath in a little hiss of surprise. Eustace lowered his paper for the first time since he had sat down, and stared at her with amazement, then slow dawning jubilation.
“Sybilla! My dear girl! Do you mean that you are ... er ... ?”
“Yes!” she said boldly. “I would not have told you so soon, but I am tired of Grandmother-in-law making such remarks.”
“You cannot blame me!” Mrs. March defended herself sharply. “You’ve been twelve years about it. It is not surprising I despaired of the March name continuing. Heaven knows, poor William has had his patience strained to breaking point waiting for you to give him an heir.”
William’s head came round to glare at his grandmother, his cheeks burning, his eyes hot blue.
“That is absolutely none of your affair!” he said abruptly. “And I find your remarks inexpressibly vulgar.” He pushed his chair back, rose, and walked from the room.
“Well, well.” Eustace folded his newspaper and poured himself another cup of coffee. “Congratulations, my dear.”
“Better late than never,” Mrs. March conceded. “Although I doubt you will have many more, now.”
Sybilla still looked flushed, and now thoroughly uncomfortable. For the only time since her arrival, Emily felt sorry for her.
But the emotion was short-lived. The next few days passed in the customary fashion of Society during the Season. In the mornings they rode in the park, at which Emily had taught herself to be both graceful and skilled. But she had not the outrageous flair of Sybilla, and since George was a natural horseman it seemed almost inevitable that they should more often than not end up side by side, at some distance from the others.
William never came, preferring to work at his painting, which was his profession as well as his vocation. He was gifted to the degree that his works were admired by academicians and collected by connoisseurs. Only Eustace affected to find it displeasing that his only son preferred to retire alone to the studio arranged for him in the conservatory and make use of the morning light, rather than parade on horseback for the fashionable world to admire.
When they did not ride, they drove in the carriage, went shopping, paid calls upon their more intimate friends, or visited art galleries and exhibitions.
Luncheon was usually at about two o’clock, often at someone else’s house in a small party. In the afternoon they attended concerts or drove to Richmond or Hurlingham, or else made the necessary, more formal calls upon those ladies they knew only slightly, perching