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was I not? Much better than those dreary gowns you usually wear. Even with that plain cut, the color gives you a bit of life you need at your age. And really those little pearls look quite nice,” she said, patting her own splash of glittering diamonds. Her gown was of pomona green satin, embellished with a quantity of lace and ribbons. A brightly patterned shawl of red and white trailed over her arm.
    “Shall we go?” she rattled on. “It should be dark enough by the time we reach the Abbey that no one sees the dust on Dick’s carriage. He is such a slackard!” she added, smiling tolerantly at her beloved. “I have told him a dozen times that you don’t drive a dusty rig to visit a lord, but there. I’m sure if a scold like you cannot make him behave, Roz, a mere fiancée can have no hope of reforming him.”
    Dick accepted this chastisement in good humor. “Dash it, it’s only Harry. He has seen me in dirtier rigs than the one we are driving tonight,” he said, and ushered the ladies out the door. As they drove the few miles to the Abbey, Miss Fortescue entertained the company with a recital of what an honor she was conferring on Lord Harwell to grace his table that evening on such short notice.
    “I was promised to the Coughlins for dinner,” she said. “When the note came, I said to the footman, ‘You must tell his lordship I cannot accept.’ Imagine sending an invitation on the very day of the party! And late afternoon at that. Shabby, I call it. Then I read further and saw that this heedless fellow was to attend.” Dick received a poke in the ribs. “What was a lady to do? Attend the Coughlins’ rout without an escort and be mobbed by all the provincials, or humbly submit to do as her lord and master ordered? But I am not complaining. I hope I am not one to quibble at such a little solecism. It is always delightful to visit the Abbey. Who else will be there? Have you heard, Roz?”
    “A Lord Sylvester Staunton,” Rosalind replied.
    “Is he anyone?”
    “Lord Dunston’s younger son,” Dick told her. “Dunston is something high in the government.”
    “No doubt Papa knows him. Younger son. I see. Not the heir, then. Pity. He might have made a beau for you, Roz. You will not want to be under our feet at Apple Hill when Dick and I marry. Not that you would not be welcome! I am only thinking of you. It would not be comfortable for you to live as a pensioner in a house where you were used to being the mistress for so many years.”
    It was such remarks as this that assured Miss Fortescue the lack of popularity she enjoyed.
    “I’m sure the house is big enough for all of us,” Dick said, and meant it.
    This was no new theme to their conversation. Annabelle was always sure to throw in a reminder that a sister-in-law would be de trop in her house. It was one of the reasons Rosalind was so eager to go to London. She was determined to find another abode before the wedding, which was to take place in the autumn. Her hope was that she would meet some gentleman in London and never have to burden Annabelle’s hospitality, except for visits.
    Lord Sylvester was the most interesting gentleman she had met in an age. She had no objection to a younger son, nor indeed an untitled gentleman, so long as he was of good family. Sylvester’s manners were exquisite, he was handsome, and their mutual love of poetry would be a bond. She closed her ears and gazed out the window as the carriage bowled along through the lengthening shadows.
    When it slowed to turn in at the massive stone gates of Drayton Abbey, she looked out at the park. At eventide the sun was sinking low on the horizon, gilding the trees and limning their outlines against the violet sky. The park had not received the attentions of any of the famous gardeners. Neither Capability Brown’s nor Repton’s improving hand had been busy to devise prospects or a meandering stream, or the requisite groups of three trees—two would not clump—in close