Chapter Twenty-Four
Gwen
It’s a short walk from the Tudor-style Henley-on-Thames locomotive station to Henley bridge, but it takes nearly an hour of pushing and shoving to do it. By the time they’ve hauled halfway across the bridge, Father’s new white linen suit and top hat look a bit dusty, and there’s mud on Gwen’s deep blue gown, the white edging almost invisible beneath the muck.
Gwen stares out at the river, wondering how the sculls will even race with so many other boats littering the water for an up-close view. She thinks it might be nice some year to get here a few days early and have a boat. Wake up at the crack of dawn and just row out. Maybe she and Beth could do that. No one would look twice at them in a little boat.
Not like the scrutiny they’ll face today beside the Steward Enclosure. The royal tent is already packed full when they finally shuffle past. Gwen wonders if she could even see the queen if there were fewer people, tiny woman that she is. If she’s here at all. Hard to tell, honestly.
Instead, they arrive at the third tent along the water, stepping gratefully into the shade and out of the hot summer sun. White linen cloths cover a series of picnic tables, and members of the ton mill about in a crowd that’s still more than claustrophobic enough to make Gwen wince. They may not have as many guests as the royals do, but it’s still a press.
Gwen subtly shunts her father toward the northern edge of their tent, pointing to two suspiciously empty seats at the front where they can gratefully collapse. Gwen plunks down, ignoring that her right arm is fully in the sun. Father sits beside her, loosens his cravat, and rests his hat in his lap with a sigh.
“Finally made it, did you?”
Albie leans around Father to wink at her. Did he reserve their seats? How would he even—
“And that’s further proof that the common folk can’t be trusted. Just look at the blockage there,” a voice booms disparagingly to their right.
Gwen glances over, and low and behold there stands Lord Ashmond, surveying the commoners along the river with disgust. Behind him, Beth and Lady Demeroven sit stone-faced while his wife titters along. Beth looks wonderful in a light pink froth of a gown. She’s fanning herself manically and Lady Demeroven beside her looks ready to melt already.
They might actually pull this off.
Father grunts as Lord Ashmond continues to bloviate about things that should be kept silent, or at worst, muttered under one’s breath. How his entire tent hasn’t already pushed him into the river is anyone’s guess. They’ve clearly been there for an hour longer than anyone in Gwen’s.
“Here.”
Bobby appears on her other side with two flutes of champagne for her and Father. She grabs hers gratefully, taking a large sip. Bobby settles into the chair behind them, downing his own glass.
“Horrid, isn’t he?” Bobby says, nodding toward Lord Ashmond, who has now attracted a small horde of equally low-minded parliamentarians.
“Quite,” Father agrees. “Now, who are you rooting for, Bobby?” he asks, turning to regard her younger cousin.
“Oh, the London Rowing Club, for sure. They’re going to trounce the Leander Club. Apologies—I know you had said they’re your favorite, Raverson,” he adds to a younger gentleman next to him.
“Oh, I’ll take a skirmish, no matter who wins,” the man says, smirking at Bobby. His deep brown eyes are quite striking. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he adds to Father.
“Lord Havenfort,” Father says, extending an awkwardly angled hand. “And this is my daughter, Lady Gwen.”
“A pleasure,” the man says, nodding to Gwen so a lock of almost-black hair falls over his face. “Viscount Raverson.”
She feels she should probably think him quite handsome. But he pales in absurd comparison to Beth and no amount of straight white teeth and broad shoulders will sway her on that fact.
“Ah, I knew your father. I’m sorry for your loss,” Father says quickly. “Will you be joining the Lords in his stead?”
“Thank you,” Viscount Raverson says rather flatly. Gwen gets the feeling he doesn’t harbor deep grief over the loss. “I will. It’s actually why I’m here today. I wanted to get your opinion on this Matrimonial Causes Act. Father was vehemently opposed as you know, but I’m not so sure.”
She watches in resignation as Father’s face lights up. “Of course, of course. Help me gather food for my lovely single daughter, and we’ll discuss,” he says, winking at Gwen as he stands.
She only just refrains from swatting him. She wants no part in his matchmaking, especially not when it’s taking him decidedly away from her own plans. She slumps in her seat as he and the viscount make their way back toward the catered buffet at the rear of the tent. She looks out over the water and spots Montson entering one of the sculls, along with a crew of three other young men. She hopes the LRC trounces them viciously.
“Want to make it interesting?” Albie asks.
Gwen sighs and digs in her skirts, pulling out a few pounds and handing them over without looking at Albie. “Put that on the LRC on top of whatever Father’s bet.”
“Don’t worry. Raverson seems malleable,” Bobby says as Albie turns back to Meredith, pocketing Gwen’s money. “He may be a handsome face, but I didn’t get the sense he has any real interest.”
“I suppose that’s good,” Gwen mumbles. Bobby leans onto Father’s chair, his face level with her own. “Do you know him?”
“He was a year above me at Oxford, I think. Didn’t get to know him well. But if your father can convince him, that might be the deciding vote.”
“Perhaps I should have made more of an effort,” Gwen says, glancing back at them. She may not be swayed by the man’s smile, but she could help in gathering votes. Men have some uses, after all.
“I think we should focus on whatever it is you and Miss Demeroven have planned.”
Gwen goes still. “What?” she manages inelegantly.
“You’ve been glancing at her every minute or so, and she’s been staring at you for the past five. Her mother looks awful.”
Despite herself, Gwen flicks her eyes over to the next tent. Lady Demeroven does look like she’s only a few minutes from passing out. “Beth and I are just . . . acquaintances,” Gwen says slowly, dragging her gaze back to meet Bobby’s, so close he’s almost blurry.
Far too close for comfort.
Gwen stands up, tugging her own fan from her skirts. She fans herself and leans out of the tent under the guise of watching the lineup. They’re pushing off from the docks, so the first heat can’t be too long now.
“Do you need a distraction?”
“Do you mind?” she asks Bobby, leaning around him to get a look at Beth.
He grins, rocking back and forth on his feet where he’s sidled up beside her. “What’s the aim?”
Gwen sighs, glancing behind him to try and catch Albie’s attention, but he’s thoroughly engrossed in conversation with one of Meredith’s cousins now. She doesn’t want Bobby underfoot for this, but she can’t make too much of a fuss. Father may be at the back of the tent, but it’s not that far, and his hearing’s too good.
“You promise not to say anything?” she mutters.
“Cross my heart,” Bobby says eagerly. “I’m at your disposal.”
Gwen sighs and tugs Bobby further out of the tent, like they’re trying to lean over the bank to get the best view. “All right. We’re hoping my father might come to her mother’s aid should she need to go into the boathouse and out of the sun.”
Bobby blinks back at her. “That’s all?”
“What?”
“That’s your whole big plan to get Lord Havenfort and Lady Demeroven together?”
“Who said—”
“Albie’s been onto you for ages. Thought it was a good laugh, and then whatever ugly business happened with the Ashmonds and you’ve been downright dreary.”
Gwen feels a flush rising up her neck. Has she been that transparent? And when did Bobby start paying any attention to her goings-on, or her father’s for that matter? And when did he get so tall? She has to look up at her little cousin now and it’s rather infuriating.
“So what’s the strategy—just hope she faints?”
Gwen groans softly into her fan. That sounds so stupid when he says it out loud. “Beth’s been pushing champagne on her.”
“And that’s enough?”
She takes in Bobby’s unimpressed face. “Well, you try wearing all the layers and moving around in a hoop in this heat. It’s no picnic.”
Bobby glances at the picnickers across the river, who are using the day for exactly that, and who look far more comfortable than they are. Gwen shifts, enjoying the light breeze that wafts up from the river and settles beneath her skirts. Would that she could wear linens like Bobby.
She thinks she might look dashing in a suit. Maybe she can get Father to tailor one for her someday. If she and Beth don’t succeed, maybe she could at least get a whole rack of them as consolation presents.
Gwen shakes herself. They’re going to succeed, Bobby’s dubious concern aside.
“And how are you planning on distracting Lord Ashmond long enough for your father to need to step in?”
Gwen wrinkles her nose. “We’re winging that bit.”
“Great. Good strategy. Excellent,” Bobby says.
“Could you be less of a brat, please?” she hisses.
“For two such smart women, this is a dreadful plan.”
Gwen glares back. Her fierce need for this to work is the only thing keeping her going, because their track record is admittedly terrible and their options severely limited. They know it’s a dreadful plan. She doesn’t need Bobby rubbing that in her face on top of everything else.
“How about this—we wait until Montson’s run his first race. They’ll probably win.”
“Wait, I thought the LRC was a given. Have I just blown my money?” Gwen asks, momentarily distracted.
Bobby laughs. “They’ll win the first heat. Montson and Jordan are both out to prove themselves, and they’ll overcompensate on the first go. By the second, they’ll be tired, and right useless by the third heat. The London Rowing Club will win, but, more importantly, Lord Ashmond will be insufferable after the first heat. Gloating.”
“And?”
“And that’s when Albie and I should start an argument with him about Leander. We’ll crowd him, and Lady Demeroven and Miss Demeroven will have to step out, and then in the heat, with the hubbub, she’ll get faint, and as you’re trying to drag your father over to break up our argument, he’ll just . . . have to catch her.”
Gwen gapes at Bobby. That’s—that’s an excellent plan. Truly. Simple, but crafty. Nuanced in all the right ways.
“When the hell did you grow up?” she demands.
Bobby smirks and nudges her. “We drank a few weeks ago.”
“We’ve drunk for seasons. This—you’ll be a right catch next season, you know?” she says honestly, impressed. Chastened too, since his plan is deceptively simple, and they really should have come up with it themselves.
They should have asked for help a month ago. She’s been telling herself she’s losing Albie to Meredith—and possibly losing Bobby by extension. But they’ve been there the whole time, hoping and speculating. Albie would have said yes, if she’d asked. He could probably have even convinced Meredith too. She’s just been too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice.
“Let’s focus on your parents this season, and you can turn your sights on me next year,” Bobby says, taking her arm to pull her back toward their tent, where Albie and Meredith are now standing at the edge. “Oh, look, they’re about to start.”
Gwen doesn’t look at the boats. Instead, she steps back so she can watch the Ashmonds watch their son. Lord and Lady Ashmond stand at the edge of their tent along with their hangers-on, leaving Beth and Lady Demeroven a row behind, and likely unable to see. Gwen notes that neither looks particularly put out about this. Lady Demeroven’s fanning herself like it’s the end of days, and Beth—
Beth looks straight at Gwen. She offers a slight smile and then turns to her mother. Gwen looks back at the river just as the starting gun goes off. They’re well and truly underway of this ridiculous charade, and there’s nothing left but to see it through and hope Bobby can deliver.
Montson and Jordan row like there’s no tomorrow. As Bobby predicted, Leander easily wins the first match, outpacing the LRC’s scull by at least a full length. Her tent is groaning but the Ashmonds are cavorting. She can hear champagne being popped, whoops spilling through the air.
“Yeah, let’s see if they can do it again,” Bobby says loudly, nudging Albie next to him. “Beginners’ luck.”
Albie stares at his brother for a moment and Gwen watches them exchange a series of nods and small gestures. She’s never paid much attention to their relationship. Bobby’s never been much more than a nuisance, but now—now it seems he’s sly and clever and persuasive.
“Jordan can’t make another round, and I’d be surprised if Montson’s not keeling over already,” Albie adds, his voice echoing across the water.
She glances over and spots Lord Ashmond frowning at them. “I don’t know, they won by a full length,” Gwen says, her voice light and easy, but louder than perhaps it should be.
She hears Lady Demeroven agreeing and has to hide a smile. Gwen glances over at them and Beth stares back at her, perplexed.
“Two rowers simply filling in—there’s no way Leander makes it another round,” Bobby says quickly.
“The LRC’s got this locked up. You wait and see,” Albie adds.
Lord Ashmond scoffs absurdly loudly and both boys lean around Gwen to make eye contact.
“You don’t agree?” Bobby calls over.
“Well, his son’s racing. He’s bound to be biased,” Albie says, smiling affably at Lord Ashmond.
“I am no such thing,” Lord Ashmond exclaims.
Bobby steps around Gwen and Albie squeezes her waist as he follows, the two of them beginning a tirade of challenges and statistics that Lord Ashmond meets with glee. She supposes besting her father’s nephews will only add to his sanctimonious disdain. Make him feel tall.
She wonders if he’s poorly endowed. What else could make a man so rich this pompous?
“What are they up to?” Meredith asks, stepping up to Gwen’s side as the argument escalates, just as Bobby predicted it would.
“Have they had much to drink?” Gwen asks, going for innocent.
“No more than you or I, seeing as it’s not even noon,” Meredith says flatly. “Oh dear.”
Bobby has stepped into Lord Ashmond’s space, the two of them nearly chest to chest. Of course, Lord Ashmond towers over Bobby. He looks absurdly childish squared off that way and Gwen feels her bubble of excitement deflating into anxiety.
Father may actually have to step in.
She glances around and finds him already moving toward her, his eyes on the escalating altercation. Lady Ashmond’s wringing her hands and Gwen notices a few older gentlemen moving toward the cluster, as tall and intimidating as Lord Ashmond, and possibly less concerned with appearances.
She may have just aided and abetted a brawl.
“What are your cousins doing?” Father asks as he reaches Gwen.
“I’m really not sure,” she says honestly, watching Albie brace Bobby from behind. Lord Ashmond leans down, spilling vitriol about the boys’ father and how Ashmond used to trounce both Viscount Mason and Father in scull racing when they were lads.
As if any of them could do damage in a boat these days.
“Sod it all,” Father says, starting forward just as Lady Demeroven drags Beth out from the tent, the two of them stepping back carefully into the sun. One of Lord Ashmond’s men knocks over a chair.
“Father, don’t make a—” Gwen starts, but he’s already striding across the small gap of lawn between the tents.
Gwen follows after, no longer concerned with their plan. Lord Ashmond’s just pushed Bobby into Albie, and the boys are building up toward fisticuffs. She has to stop this.
She takes another step forward only for a hand to close over her wrist.
“Don’t.” Gwen turns, surprised, and Lady Demeroven slides her hand up to take Gwen’s arm. “You don’t want a black eye, and none of them can take the scandal of accidentally knocking you one,” she says lowly.
Beth steps up on her other side. Gwen glances at her, both of them wide-eyed. It takes her a moment before she turns to Lady Demeroven.
“Should you be standing with me?” she asks, too anxious and overwhelmed to find a subtler way to ask.
“Your father is about to defend your cousins from that clod. No one will blame me for watching over you in his stead right now.”
She gives Gwen a tight smile, though Gwen can feel the tension in her frame from the vise of her arm.
“Okay,” Gwen whispers.
Beth takes her other hand, the tangle of their fingers hidden by their bumping skirts.
“What possessed Bobby?” she asks as they watch Lord Ashmond’s friends trying to step between the boys and Lord Ashmond.
Father’s visibly restraining Albie, who’s yelling obscenities that Lord Ashmond is spitting right back.
“Walk it off, Lord Ashmond,” Father shouts as he wrestles Albie behind himself and steps up, wrapping an arm around Bobby’s torso to hold him back. “Your son will be in another race in minutes, we’ll return to our tents, let calmer heads prevail.”
“So you can keep bribing honorable men into your heathen schemes? I think not,” Lord Ashmond shoots back, pressing forward.
Father sidesteps and pushes Bobby out of the way. Gwen gasps as he and Lord Ashmond press chest to chest. With Father, it’s an even match.
“Your mangy nephews have no business here,” Lord Ashmond spits.
“They’ve as much right as anyone. It’s you who’s turned a sporting bet into a fight.”
Gwen watches in horror as Albie pulls Bobby back. Lord Ashmond’s men—others from the House of Lords—encircle Father and Lord Ashmond.
“He’s going to end up on the floor,” Lady Demeroven mutters.
Gwen bristles. “Father can handle himself.”
“Lord Ashmond,” Lady Demeroven clarifies. “Your father has a mean left—”
CRACK. Father throws a punch that spins Lord Ashmond into the chairs, sending him toppling headfirst into the grass. Lady Ashmond shrieks in dismay. Bobby and Albie rush back in to restrain Father as the other Lords gape.
“Go back to your betting,” Father spits out as Lady Ashmond attempts to help her husband up.
But he doesn’t need the help. In a blink, Lord Ashmond has risen from the chairs and launched himself at Father. The two go down in a flurry of fists and linens, rolling on the grass like two common urchins. Both sides hurry to try to pry them apart. Beth squeezes Gwen’s hand so hard it hurts and Lady Demeroven holds her back when Gwen goes to surge forward.
This is her fault. He’s in this fight because of her. She has to stop it—
The Lords manage to pull Lord Ashmond off Father, but not before they each get one more punch in. Lord Ashmond clutches at his jaw as the men force him away, his wife caterwauling after them. Bobby and Albie help Father off the ground and everything goes quiet.
She can distantly see another race underway, knows the commoners on the river have been watching, can almost hear their own tent tittering. The Ashmond tent has entirely cleared out. She doesn’t know where they’ve taken Lord Ashmond, but she hopes it’s somewhere to be doused in cold water, the lout.
“Father,” Gwen exclaims.
Lady Demeroven finally loosens her grip and Gwen rushes forward, dragging Beth with her. Father turns and regards them, squinting. His white suit is stained green, and she can tell he’ll have a livid bruise and swollen eye tomorrow, but otherwise he looks remarkably unscathed.
“You always could take a punch,” Lady Demeroven says. She comes up behind Gwen, placing a hand on her waist.
Father rolls his eyes, testing his jaw and brushing off Albie’s supportive arm. “And you always could pick the rottenest of the bunch,” he returns.
Gwen winces, but Lady Demeroven simply pulls a lace kerchief from her skirts, stepping up to dab at a trickle of blood that’s making its way down Father’s face. Lord Ashmond must have nicked him with a ring.
“What were you thinking?” Lady Demeroven asks. Beth steps close to Gwen, hiding their hands amid their skirts as they glance at each other.
“You’d rather I let that man hit my nephew?” Father asks, making no move to stop her ministrations. “Should you be doing this?”
Lady Demeroven stills for a moment before shrugging. “I doubt this will be the most exciting part of the story. Boys, go get some cold water,” she instructs, leaning around Father to look firmly at Bobby and Albie.
The boys jolt into action, slipping off into the tent.
“Are you staying the night here?” Lady Demeroven asks.
“We took the train,” Father says, gently taking the handkerchief from her to press it hard against his temple.
Gwen watches as Lady Demeroven hovers close, a hand on his chest for a long moment before she steps back. “You’ll want to get a steak from the inn before you head back.”
“Yes, I’ll certainly look a sight beside Gwen then,” he says, chuckling. “Violence is never the answer,” he adds, looking at Gwen and Beth.
“Fat lot of good that advice has done you,” Gwen says, the words slipping out.
Father merely laughs. “I’m just fine. Though, Miss Demeroven, I suppose you should watch the rest of the race, cheer on your intended, as his parents—”
They all glance into the Ashmond tent, utterly empty.
“Yes, someone should support Lord Montson, I guess,” Lady Demeroven agrees. “Girls, why don’t you join—Lady Meredith, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Beth startles as Meredith appears beside them. “We’d be happy to have Miss Demeroven with us for a few hours if you’d like to, um, see to things, Lady Demeroven?” Meredith offers.
“Thank you, dear,” Lady Demeroven says kindly. “Walk me to the boathouse?” she asks Father.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Father asks.
“I’m simply making sure you aren’t going to involve the authorities. He made the first move against your nephew. I’m smoothing things over,” Lady Demeroven says archly.
Father just shakes his head. “All right. Gwen, take good care of Miss Demeroven. We’ll be back,” he says, gesturing for Lady Demeroven to precede him.
Gwen watches as they move through the empty Ashmond tent and out of sight, walking close but unconnected. Holy hell—
“Did that actually work?” Meredith asks.
Gwen gapes at Meredith.
“Did what work?” Beth asks.
“Oh, it took all of two seconds to realize Bobby was up to something. Come on, I could use a drink.”
She takes Gwen’s free arm and strides back toward the tent, forcing Gwen to tug Beth along behind her.
“Did you plan that?” Beth hisses as they cluster back under the tent.
They huddle by the refreshments, far from Albie and Bobby. The boys are preening under the attention of their schoolmates. Beyond them, the next heat lines up on the river. Gwen couldn’t possibly care less about the race.
“No,” Gwen tells Beth. Meredith quirks an eyebrow and passes them each a flute of champagne. “Well, not—not like that. Bobby thought he could distract Lord Ashmond and we’d get your mother to faint, like we planned,” she tells Beth, deflating at her flat look. “It made sense at the time.”
“Who could have known Lord Ashmond would get that drunk this early in the day,” Meredith says, shrugging.
“He could have been badly hurt,” Beth says softly.
“Father wouldn’t injure him too badly,” Gwen protests.
“Your father,” Beth corrects. “Or Bobby, or Albie. I didn’t—why did you involve them in this?” she asks, part shock, part indignation.
“It wasn’t intentional,” Gwen cuts back.
“It’s not as if you were being particularly subtle about it,” Meredith adds. “The two of you glancing at each other every minute. It was clear something was afoot.”
Gwen winces and Beth sighs. Meredith laughs at them both.
“Do you think our parents knew?” Beth asks.
“Oh, no,” Meredith says quickly. “They’re shockingly oblivious to everything but the politics right now, and though it wasn’t a good plan, your mother did look halfway to a fainting spell for a while there before the fight.”
“At least I can stop forcing drinks on her,” Beth says, shaking her head as she takes a sip of champagne.
“She seemed remarkably together after the fight,” Gwen notes, glancing over at the Ashmond tent. No sign of the Ashmonds or their parents.
“Oh, she’s good in a crisis,” Beth says, waving it off. “I do wish we could see where they went. Hard to know our next steps with them out of sight.”
“Hard to know how they’re avoiding the Ashmonds. I can’t imagine this will make the earl any more inclined to let the two of you see each other,” Meredith says, looking between them.
Gwen cocks her head. Beth glances at her and then looks back at Meredith. “What . . . exactly do you think we’re trying to do?”
Meredith considers them and then looks back at the cluster of boys. Gwen notes that all of the Lords have disappeared as well. She wonders if the two camps are elsewhere, planning political machinations in light of the Havenfort/Ashmond brawl, as she’s sure it will come to be known.
“Based on the little I’ve heard from Albie, you’re trying to match up your parents. I’m entirely unclear on the motivation.”
Gwen glances at Beth, who’s simply staring at Meredith.
“That’s . . . yes. We just think they could be happy together,” Gwen offers.
“And provide you some leeway in finding marriages yourselves, I expect, though you’ve left it a little late, Beth, to get out of this one.”
“I know,” Beth says softly.
“Do you really want to? I know Lord Ashmond is an unmitigated arse, but Lord Montson seems sweet enough, and he does like you very much.”
“I know,” Beth repeats. Gwen swallows hard as Beth raises their hands for Meredith to see. “But Lord Montson isn’t who I’d like to spend my life with. And my mother will be miserable, much as she keeps insisting it’s best for us both.”
“Oh,” Meredith says softly before glancing around the tent again.
But no one’s paying them any mind. All of the men are eagerly watching the races. Beth should probably be cheering for Montson, but Gwen won’t give her up. Won’t pull her away. Won’t shy away from the look Meredith gives them as she returns her gaze, soft and understanding.
“I see.”
“If our parents marry, it will mean we can . . . do away with charades and the marriage market. And they’ll be happy,” Beth adds desperately. “If we thought they were going to be miserable, we wouldn’t try.”
“We almost didn’t,” Gwen says, squeezing Beth’s hand. “But they’ve both been nearly as heartbroken as we have, and if there’s a chance for everyone to have . . .” She trails off, can’t quite articulate it.
“For everyone to get a happily-ever-after, I understand,” Meredith says, her smile growing. “Well. I think we’re going to have to meet about my wedding much more often.”
“What?” Gwen says, inelegant. She’d rather have an ice pick to the eye.
“Beth and I are just going to have to meet to compare notes. And her mother will have to come. And the Mason house has been having terrible mold issues, haven’t you heard? So we’ll have to meet at mine. And as your father is providing some of the funding and working with Albie’s uncle to shore up the vote, I imagine he’ll have to come along. And we’ll simply need to picnic, won’t we?” Meredith says.
“You really ought to have consulted Mere from the outset,” Albie says as he steps up behind them. “She’s the most devious of all of us, and that’s saying something.”
He glances at their hands and Gwen slowly tugs Beth’s tangled fingers down between their skirts, smiling at her and then at Albie. She never said it plain, but they’ve both just known. He’s been her companion for nearly a decade through all of this nonsense. She should have just told them.
“Are you all right?” Beth asks as Albie steps around them to stand beside Meredith, taking her hand the way Beth has Gwen’s.
“I’m just fine. Bobby’s man of the hour now. And I think your father will be fine. I spotted him sitting on a bench with Lady Demeroven behind the boathouse. She found him a steak for his eye.”
“Good,” Gwen says, tension leaking out of her.
“So I hear we’ll be seeing you in a few days?” Albie asks, winking at Beth.
Beth has the gumption to wink back, her hand squeezing Gwen’s. Perhaps all is not lost, even if today was utter chaos.
“I think you just might,” Beth says gamely.