Chapter Eight
Gwen
“It’s dry.”
“Just eat it.”
“I’m telling you, it’s overbaked.”
“So go in and tell them, then, and get your money back.”
“I cannot go and complain that my scone is overbaked.”
Gwen glares across the table at Albie, who glares right back. “Then at least go and ask for more cream if it bothers you so much,” Gwen says.
“Only if you admit these are as dry as sandpaper.”
Gwen refrains from sticking out her tongue, but only just. They’re supposed to be sitting primly out front of Patisserie Violette, eating little overpriced delights together, demure companions. Instead, they’ve been kicking each other and taking turns hogging the cream for their scones and their tea and generally making a nuisance of themselves.
Father, seated a few tables away, keeps chuckling while pretending to read his paper.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” Gwen decides, slouching just a bit in her seat as Albie snickers. “I bet you’d get more cream for Meredith.”
“’Course I would,” he says immediately. “But she’d say please.”
“Give her a year,” Gwen says, waving off his proud little grin.
He and Meredith have been on nine outings and he’s probably a month away from a proposal. He’s doing Gwen a favor, sitting out with her. Albie doing favors for her instead of her doing favors for him, how the tables have turned.
It rankles.
“Here, eat the rest of this if it’ll stop your pouting,” Albie says, sliding his scone, smothered in cream and jam, across the table.
Gwen takes it without complaint, popping it in her mouth and savoring the cream, even though the dough is horribly dry. This is supposed to be the best patisserie in the city, but Mrs. Gilpe’s scones could dance circles around these pathetic crumbly things.
“I could speak with Grish,” Albie says softly as Gwen slumps back in her seat, the momentary pleasure of sweetness giving way to her melancholy.
“Grish is a drip,” Gwen says immediately.
Albie frowns and glances back toward Father, who’s thoroughly engrossed in his paper now. “He’s not . . . that terrible.”
“You got to wait until you found someone you actually like. Afford me at least that courtesy,” Gwen says gruffly.
Albie sighs. “I just—I’d like to see you happy,” he says, and she looks over to find his face laid bare, honest.
“I’m fine,” she says, sitting up, prim and proper and pasting on a smile. She can’t let Albie start feeling bad for her now. Not Albie.
“It’s just—”
“What a pleasant surprise.”
Gwen turns, delighted to find Beth hovering at her shoulder. Lady Demeroven frowns lightly down at them, but Beth’s bright smile has Gwen’s focus.
“Hello!” Gwen chirps, her bad mood vanished. She stands to kiss Beth’s cheek and curtsy to Lady Demeroven. “Will you join us?”
Beth glances at her mother. Lady Demeroven looks around, taking in the packed outer tables. “Ten minutes. I’ll find you somewhere inside—keep on the lookout for Lord Montson.”
“Yes, Mother,” Beth says demurely.
Lady Demeroven gives Beth a significant look and heads inside. Gwen notices her father watching over the edge of his paper, quickly ducking down again when he catches her eye. Gwen snorts and pulls a chair around for Beth so they can squish together at her little table with Albie.
“Miss Demeroven,” Albie says, nodding to her.
“How are you, Mr. Mason?” Beth asks, her cheeks a pretty shade of pink, light green skirts rustling. She looks a bit like a pastry.
“I’m well,” he says.
“He’s going to propose to Meredith,” Gwen says conspiratorially, just to see him roll his eyes.
“Oh, how exciting! She’ll be so thrilled,” Beth says. Her hand snags Gwen’s in an enthusiastic squeeze. Gwen can feel the warmth of her palm even through both of their white kid gloves. “She was telling me yesterday how much she enjoyed going boating with you.”
“Didn’t you fall in the lake?” Gwen asks, clenching her jaw against a frown. She and Beth haven’t attended a single mutual event all week.
Albie glares at Gwen.
“Were you hurt?” Beth asks.
“You should be more like her,” Albie grumbles toward Gwen. “And no. Gave Mere a good laugh though.”
Beth smiles and then turns and meets Gwen’s eyes. “How are you? It’s been ages.”
“I know,” Gwen agrees, squeezing the hand she hasn’t yet released. “Montson’s keeping you busy?” she asks, scooting a bit closer to savor the time they have together without him.
“Yes,” Beth says. “My mother and his have scheduled so many events, it’s exhausting.”
“I assume he’s meeting you here?” Albie asks.
“That’s the plan,” Beth says. “Though it’s awfully crowded. Mother wanted to make sure we’d be seen,” she adds to Gwen.
“You can join us at worst,” Albie says gamely. “I see her all the time.”
Gwen does stick her tongue out at that, just to hear Beth’s high, bright laugh. The sound makes her smile.
“What have you been up to?” Beth asks.
Gwen shrugs, tangling their fingers together. Nothing’s felt as good as sitting here with Beth, soft and close and thrumming. “A few boring tea parties, a few small dinner parties and dances. Bobby’s getting better,” she adds for Albie’s sake.
“Good. Awkward chap,” he says, taking a sip of his tea.
“Did you ever finish Madame Bovary?” Gwen asks Beth. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it after the performance.”
“Yes!” Beth says, turning to face her more fully. Gwen basks in her excited regard, warmth spreading through her chest. “It was almost like a role reversal. I just lent it to my housekeeper, I hope you don’t mind—”
Albie raises a hand, breaking Beth from her thoughts.
Gwen follows his look and spots Lord Montson approaching them, looking thoroughly handsome and affable. Immediately all their cozy loveliness disappears, like being drenched in a bucket of ice water. Gwen sighs quietly as Beth stands up, dragging Gwen up with her, her hand still a vise around Gwen’s own.
“Hello, Lord Montson,” Beth says, her hand slipping from Gwen’s so she can dip into a pleasant curtsy.
Gwen follows suit, tugging discreetly at Beth’s skirt so she doesn’t get tangled up when she sits back down. Montson smiles at her and then looks at Beth, that smile blooming into a look of fondness that twists unpleasantly against Gwen’s gut. Her empty hands curl into fists in her skirts.
She shouldn’t be anything but happy for her friend, and yet she feels as if she’d like to stamp her feet in frustration. She doesn’t want to give up her moment with Beth just because Montson’s here. She wants to shout that Beth should stay at her table—tell Montson to sod off with his perfect hair and teeth and obvious wealth. Beth has books to discuss, with her.
Lady Demeroven exits the patisserie, looking harried, and spots Montson with their little group. Gwen notes the tightness in her jaw as she walks over. She feels herself getting jittery, anxious in her sudden desperation to find a reason to forestall Beth and Montson’s date.
Lady Demeroven curtsies. “Lord Montson, lovely to see you. I’m sorry to report there are no free tables available. I’ve ordered tea for you and Miss Demeroven, but—”
“They can join us,” Albie says, standing to greet Lady Demeroven formally. Gwen could kiss him. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. The Honorable Albert Mason, Lady Gwen’s cousin.”
“Charmed to meet you,” Lady Demeroven says, dipping in another shallow curtsy. “I’d hate for Miss Demeroven and Lord Montson to interrupt your tea,” she adds quickly.
Gwen opens her mouth, eager to explain just how much she’d like for Beth to keep interrupting—
“It will give us time to get reacquainted,” Montson says gamely. “It’s been at least a year, hasn’t it, Mason?”
“More,” Albie says with a little grin. “That boxing match, I believe, near Oxford?”
“Oh, that was a set, wasn’t it?” Montson returns, sliding into the seat beside Albie as Albie plops back down.
Gwen blows out a relieved breath. For once, she’s glad that men are so utterly predictable. She turns to see Lady Demeroven and Beth exchanging a series of pointed glances. Albie and Montson might be content, but Lady Demeroven seems hell-bent on keeping Beth’s date intact. Gwen bites at her cheek to keep from glowering at the woman, a possessive irritation clawing at her chest. They’ll suffer the intrusion of Montson, isn’t that enough? Do they really have to be parted too?
Gwen casts about, searching for another excuse. It would be far from ideal, but perhaps if Lady Demeroven could join them too, she could lose that sour look—
“I believe I can offer some assistance,” Father says, stepping up behind Lady Demeroven. Gwen chokes back a laugh. The woman’s hat hid him from view. “Lady Demeroven, would you join me for a spot of tea? Leave the children to their chat?”
Beth’s cheeks lift hopefully as Lady Demeroven considers it, looking apprehensively up at Father. Gwen finds she’s almost vibrating with anticipation, pleading silently with Lady Demeroven to just for once give in, even a little.
“If you really don’t mind,” Lady Demeroven says softly.
Gwen nearly deflates in relief. She grins over at Beth, bouncing on her toes. Beth beams back.
Father simply smiles at Lady Demeroven, winking—how cheeky.
“But let me at least buy tea,” Lady Demeroven says. “I did . . . injure you the last two times we saw each other.”
Father frowns. “Only the once.”
“The second time was a wound to your ego.”
Father puts a hand to his heart as Gwen stares, shocked, at Lady Demeroven’s little smirk. Father starts laughing and Gwen shifts her gaze to the pink on his cheeks and the full-bellied delight that pours forth. Dear Lord, he’s still smitten. She socked him in the jewels and insulted him, and he’s like a lovesick schoolboy even still.
Honestly, she can hardly blame him. Lady Demeroven’s blush is nearly as pretty as Beth’s. And if he’s as excited for an afternoon with Lady Demeroven as Gwen is with Beth, how could he not be just a bit dopey? Not that it’s the same, of course, but they are charming, these Demeroven women.
“My pride is more than intact. However, I’ll let you pay for tea if we get those Florentines you used to devour by the basketful,” Father says.
“They still make those?” Lady Demeroven asks, all hesitance forgotten.
“Mrs. Chutsky will, for me,” Father says with a little grin.
Lady Demeroven laughs. “All right. But we’re getting two sets then.”
“Glad to see your appetite hasn’t changed a bit.” He looks over their table, nodding to Albie and Montson. “We’ll send your biscuits to you when they come out. Enjoy your time, ladies. Boys, behave.”
“Thank you, Lord Havenfort,” Beth says, managing to find the words Gwen can’t seem to push out around her own eagerness and shock.
Father nods at her and then winks at Gwen before gently taking Lady Demeroven’s arm as both Albie and Montson salute him.
That went astoundingly well for something they didn’t plan.
Beth giggles and grabs Gwen’s hand to tug her back down to their seats. Gwen threads their gloved fingers back together, a rush of excitement coursing through her at the prospect of a true afternoon with Beth. Even if she does have to share her with Lord Montson.
They settle in together, all four of them crowded around the table, too close and a little too warm. But she’s sitting at the table with Beth, poised for a whole afternoon with her, their knuckles knocking together, shoulders brushing. Her cheeks are starting to ache from smiling.
Albie ends some story about another boxing match and then the boys turn back to them. Montson seems to return to propriety and smiles at Beth. A brief, awkward silence descends on the table and some of Gwen’s joy slips away.
“Miss Demeroven, I meant to ask, Lady Gwen says you can best her in chess. Is that true?” Albie asks.
“It is,” Beth says quickly.
Albie whistles. “That’s a feat,” he tells Montson. “Lady Gwen can best even the most senior Lords in the House.”
“Oh dear, and you can beat her?” Montson asks, looking at Beth. “I’m ruined.”
Gwen sucks on her cheek, her chest tightening to see Beth’s attention turned to Montson, that pretty blush coming out for him too. She goes to pull her hand back, telling herself it’s to give Beth the best advantage in flirting, but Beth’s grip tightens. Perhaps she’s not as comfortable as she appears. She’s become a better actress in the last two weeks.
“I’m sure you can still beat me at archery,” Beth offers. Gwen can’t help but scoff. “What?”
“You’re a perfect shot,” Gwen says, giving Montson a sympathetic look as he playfully slumps in his seat. “You’d have to teach her something new. She’s annoyingly good at everything.”
“That’s not true at all,” Beth says, even as she goes further scarlet.
“You’re not tall,” Gwen allows.
Beth huffs. “Well, you’re very pale.”
“You’re paler!” Gwen argues, grinning as Beth’s eyes sparkle with challenge.
“Lady Gwen’s terrible at group dances,” Albie puts in. Gwen shoots a glare his way. “I am too. We were the worst at lessons.”
“Abysmal,” Gwen agrees, eyes still narrowed. “But I can stay in a boat.”
“She made me laugh!” Albie exclaims.
“You fell out of a boat?” Montson asks.
“Courting Lady Meredith,” Gwen says, smiling as Beth leans into her, giggling. It sends a little spark through her chest, that laughter just for her.
“A lovely girl,” Montson says, clapping Albie on the shoulder. “What’s a little embarrassment for love?”
“Nothing,” Albie says, holding his chin high. “Though Father almost had my hide. The suit was new.”
“I’m sure he’ll forgive you,” Montson says seriously. “The chance for grandchildren forgives so many sins.”
Beth blushes, and Albie snorts. Gwen forces a polite chuckle, but the very thought curdles in her gut. She doesn’t want to consider Beth taking tea with Montson, let alone having babies with him.
Montson blinks and then goes scarlet. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”
“Funny,” Albie finally says, when neither Beth nor Gwen has offered something else. Albie glances over at Gwen, raising an eyebrow. She tightens her jaw, searching for something respectable to say to be polite.
“I’m sure Lady Demeroven would forgive Miss Demeroven for falling into a lake as well,” she pushes out, forced sweetness in her voice.
“Oh, never,” Beth says, picking at the lace of her dress. “The money and the hours hemming this? She’d make me sew a new one.”
“Could you?” Montson asks, genuinely curious. Gwen laughs, how ludicrous. “What?”
“I suppose I could,” Beth allows, her thumb stroking against Gwen’s wrist. The sensation almost makes her shiver. “But it would take ages, and the material—”
“I absolutely could not,” Gwen puts in, a little overloud. “Clumsy fingers, me.”
“You said you do needlepoint very well,” Montson says, still somehow confused.
“Not as well as a modiste would,” Beth explains.
Gwen fights the urge to roll her eyes as Beth gives a more detailed explanation of what goes into a season gown for Montson. All the while, her thumb continues to draw hypnotic patterns against Gwen’s pulse. She wonders if Beth can feel the way her heartbeat is jumping through her gloves.
Lady Demeroven and Father exit the patisserie, balancing baskets of biscuits with a pot of tea and cups, followed by an employee who walks a truly mammoth platter of goodies over to their table. Gwen keeps an eye on Father and Lady Demeroven as they head to their table, but it is difficult with Beth’s fingers between hers and the absurd array of baked goods placed down before them.
They’ve pulled out all the stops here—biscuits, cakes, canapés, and sandwiches, with a full tea set. She hopes Father at least persuaded Lady Demeroven he could pay for this. Gwen knows that Beth’s success with Montson is important, but this is . . . excessive.
“Excellent!” Albie says, grinning eagerly with Montson.
Beth smiles and then looks over at Lady Demeroven, her eyes lighting up. Gwen follows her gaze, watching as Lady Demeroven laughs at something Father says while they bicker over the biscuits, and squeezes Beth’s hand.
“Going surprisingly well, isn’t it?” Beth mutters.
“Yeah,” Gwen agrees, leaning in to whisper in her ear. The scent of her lavender perfume pervades Gwen’s senses, sweet and lovely. It’s a moment before she can find her words. “Maybe group outings are the way to go?”
“We’ll have to plan some more surprise encounters, I think,” Beth whispers back, turning her cheek to catch Gwen’s eye. Gwen swallows hard and nods, her breath catching as their eyes meet, close and secret. Between the perfume and the sun and Beth, she’s a little bit dizzy.
Beth’s fingers curl against Gwen’s and Gwen feels herself shiver in anticipation. The promise of more intrigue and scheming and time simply spent with Beth flutters through Gwen’s chest. She feels her cheeks pinking with pleasure and is about to make another suggestion when Lord Montson passes Beth a plate piled high with sugar and crème and biscuits.
“What are you two whispering about?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Gwen says quickly, leaning back into her seat with regret.
“I was telling Lady Gwen about my tree house,” Beth says instead, her hand slowly slipping from Gwen’s.
Gwen feels the loss of her touch like a cold draft, all that warmth and comfort and fun sliding away. Beth uses her newly freed fingers to pluck the pistachio macarons from her plate to slide onto Gwen’s, as if in consolation.
“Tree house?” Albie asks.
“Miss Demeroven wants to build a forest tree house,” Montson explains.
“I’ve wanted one since I was small,” Beth admits.
“Oh, there’s a marvelous spot on my father’s estate. We could put yours next to mine,” Gwen says eagerly, a little pride surging through her as Beth turns back to her, eyes alight.
“You have one?” Beth asks.
“Father and I helped the staff build it one fall,” Gwen says, glancing over toward Father and Lady Demeroven, who are laughing. “Maybe you can come see it later in the summer. We could bring books and spend the whole day up in the tree.”
“I’d like that,” Beth says, beaming at her.
Gwen feels an answering grin spread across her face as she frees two profiteroles from the croquembouche to place onto Beth’s plate—her favorites.
“If her grove is too perfect, I’ll happily supply your wood,” Montson says.
Gwen glances his way and finds him watching Beth’s excited nod fondly. Gwen bites back a quick retort that she and Father have more than enough wood. If it means Beth’s tree house will be on her land, she can allow Montson the expense.
“I didn’t know you and Lord Havenfort built that yourselves,” Albie says, looking rather impressed.
“We had some help,” Gwen admits. “But Father insisted we do as much as we could. Nearly broke all of our fingers and I fell out of a tree, but we managed. It was fun.”
“Lord Havenfort’s a good man,” Albie says with a smile.
“The best,” Gwen agrees.
“You should come hunting with us,” Albie adds, drawing Montson in, though Gwen notes Montson’s interest is tepid at best. “The Havenfort lands are wild with game, and Lord Havenfort always stocks his lake to the brim. Has to have the whole village for the open or it never empties.”
“That’s generous of him,” Montson says with a tight smile.
Gwen wonders what hesitation lies under his placid look. Her father’s never been anything but kind to him, even though they do both think he’s boring.
Beth taps her knee and glances toward their parents, both of them flushed and laughing, making rather a spectacle of themselves even. Gwen suddenly wishes she could share in the joke. Wishes she and Beth could simply sit at their own table, pressed up close. Wishes she could spend the afternoon with Beth’s gloveless fingers tangled in her own, cheeks pink, breathless from laughter.
Instead, a stilted tension falls over their table, and Beth pushes biscuits around on her plate. Lord Montson begins describing everything they do on the Ashmond estate each summer, and how Beth will adore it.
Gwen’s appetite disappears altogether. She fights the instinct to insist Beth will be too busy visiting her to see much of Lord Montson.
* * *
Father’s smile lasts the whole evening. He returns from the kitchens with their desserts, chuckling to himself and brushing flour from his jacket, thoroughly engrossed in some private joke. Probably something Lady Demeroven said. Gwen watches as he sits and attacks his cake, still looking pleased as punch—a wholly different man to the acerbic Father she left with this morning, teasing her about Albie and Meredith.
“You look absolutely smitten,” she decides finally, unable to rein it in any longer. He looks like a child.
Father rolls his eyes. “No worse than you do.”
Gwen stills. “Excuse me?”
“You and Miss Demeroven, thick as thieves. I’m surprised Montson got a word in edgewise.”
“He talked the whole time,” Gwen returns, feeling a blush climb up her cheeks for absolutely no reason.
“And yet it was you two sharing sandwiches, and he spent more time making plans with Albie than with Miss Demeroven as we left.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, taking a bite of cake to avoid his eyes.
It was all fun and games on the carriage ride home, talking about Montson’s faults, and the jokes Lady Demeroven told, and how lovely Beth looked. But now he has his game face on. Father dearest about to give a life lesson. And for the first time perhaps in her life, Gwen wants to run away.
Because that gnawing feeling in her gut is still there. Has been since the ball. It only got worse as the tea went longer, and even with Beth beside her, she couldn’t quite shake it. Or perhaps because of Beth beside her. She doesn’t want to think about why.
“Be careful, Gwennie, that’s all I ask.”
Gwen feels her brow crease. “Careful with . . . what?” she asks, hushed, like she’s little again.
Father considers her. She waits, watching him open and close his mouth a few times before he shakes his head.
“What?” she asks, her shoulders coming up. He’s never bashful about his opinions, never shies away from a frank conversation. With no mother at home they’ve had more than one.
“Just remember why you’re both here, that’s all I ask,” he says finally, reaching out to squeeze her hand that’s turned into a fist on the tabletop, her nails digging into her palm.
“Of course,” she says, searching his face. She doesn’t know what he means—or maybe doesn’t quite want to know.
Gwen watches as he considers her for a moment longer before standing. He comes close and bends to kiss her head.
“Why don’t you take these into the kitchen,” he suggests gently, nodding to the dishes. “Mrs. Stelm and Mrs. Gilpe are baking—I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”
He leaves her with a pat to the shoulder. Gwen sits there, rolling his words over in her head. Careful—careful of what? Of wanting her friend close? Of interfering in Beth’s relationship?
Lord Montson might not be good enough for Beth, but she’s not about to upend Beth’s courtship or something ridiculous like that. She might run interference more, find ways to get them apart, save Beth the exhaustion of the courting season as much as she can. But there’s nothing to be careful of.
She stands and clears their plates mechanically. The dishes clatter in her grip. Father’s reading something into this that isn’t there. Something strange and worrying, but that’s just Father, overprotective and—
Gwen swings the door to the kitchen wide and then stops cold, staring at Mrs. Gilpe and Mrs. Stelm, pressed up as they are against the counter, covered in flour and kissing like they’re drinking oxygen from each other’s mouths.
It takes her longer than she wants to unstick her feet and back through the door. It swings closed on Mrs. Stelm giggling as Mrs. Gilpe leans her back over the counter, both of them flushed and grinning.
Gwen stumbles back to the dining room, depositing their plates with a clatter before sinking shakily into her chair.
She knew. Of course she knew—has known since she was small. They never discuss it, but the women share a room and trade affections with little disguise. But she’s never—in all her years somehow she’s never seen them together. She supposes they’re more careful in the country with more staff about. The London house has fewer people in it in general. Father—who insists staff take the night off, who keeps the household small and close and secretive—
Is that why he had her clear the plates? He wanted her to see?
Does Father think she’s so inclined? Think she wants to be like Mrs. Stelm and Mrs. Gilpe—happily living together in secret beneath their roof since she was small? Loving, caring, adoring women who’ve helped her grow—does Father think that she feels—that she wants—that—with Beth?
Gwen stares blankly at the wall. She can’t—she likes Beth. She thinks about her a lot, of course. And the days are better when they get to be together. And when she’s dressing for balls now she thinks more of what Beth might think of her gown than what any of the young men might. And holding Beth’s hand today made her feel more than she’s ever felt dancing with anyone, even the prettiest, nicest boys.
But surely that doesn’t mean—they’re friends. Shouldn’t she love her friend?
Gwen blinks, the image of Mrs. Stelm and Mrs. Gilpe burned there behind her eyes. She’s never much liked to see courting couples kissing, finds it intrusive and showy, and it always looks a bit like they’re eating each other’s faces.
But Mrs. Gilpe and Mrs. Stelm looked . . . happy. Playful and fun and bright. Beautiful.
Is that what Gwen wants? Is that what she wants with Beth? The gnawing in her gut, the unsettled feeling of jealousy—is it because she wishes it were them on that countertop, giggling and flushed and kissing?
And Father—Father what? Approves? Worries for her?
Gwen blows out a breath, sinking further down in her chair, a heavy weight settling over her chest while her mind whirs dizzily.
Father wasn’t mad. He wasn’t disgusted. He wasn’t judgmental. But he saw it. Sees it. Sees what she’s been telling herself she doesn’t feel for weeks—feelings she shouldn’t have. Feelings society won’t want. Feelings she’s sure Beth won’t want either.
Feelings that could get them both terribly hurt.