Widow in White

Part One: The Mistress - Chapter One: Feminine Company

"Good to hear," Brocket said, without caring. "I'll recommend you my physician."

"Thank you," said Richard, to end the conversation, knowing the recommendation would never be passed on. But Brocket followed Richard as he stepped into the room.

"Can't have you going to seed yet. You're still young, you know. Now, let me introduce you to someone."

With a sinking feeling, Richard realized he was going to be set up. He stopped short and stared in dismay at Brocket. For the first time, he noticed a faint red mark on the older man's pallid cheek. He wondered what it was. Port-flush? But Brocket had always drunk very sparely.

"Something wrong?" Brocket asked.

"I — I just remembered." Richard floundered for an excuse and lit upon one with relief. "I have not given my compliments to Lady Laura. Is she not to host tonight?"

If there was anyone he could rely upon to ruin a set up, it was the embittered, querulous Lady Laura. He'd never heard her speak a good word of another woman in her life. And her opinion of him was worse.

Lord Brocket flushed, and the mark on his face deepened, showing for a moment, very clearly, the outline of a small, feminine handprint.

"She is... unwell tonight." Brocket touched his cheek briefly. "She will not be attending. I'm afraid her health has been delicate since Mr Maidstone's death."

"It has not been long."

"A year."

"But that isn't long. Not when you love someone." For a moment, Richard thought he had said too much. He hurriedly went on, "You must give her my compliments. And my condolences."

"I certainly shall, my dear boy," Brocket said. "Now, do let me introduce you to Miss Oliver."

But the gong sounded again, and another guest was announced at the door. Richard took the chance to slip away into the crowd. There was no doubt he would have to be introduced to Miss Oliver sooner or later, but he didn't see why it shouldn't be later. Perhaps so late that there wouldn't be any chance for more than hello before he could make an excuse to say goodbye.

He ducked under an ostrich feather blooming from a woman's hairpiece and skulked behind a group of fat old men, who hid him from view of Lord Brocket. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a woman he knew, sitting down out of the way by a vase of palm fronds with a deep frown on her wrinkled face. Miss Dalrymple, about eighty years old, and a sort of charity case in the Leamont parish. Her manners were awful, but she was the last of a very good family, and somehow no one dared deny her a place at their table. She was the perfect armour against flirtation. Richard went over to her in relief.

"Good evening, Miss Dalrymple."

She looked up, saying nothing. Her brown eyes directly on his, she cracked a nut in her bony old hands, ate it, and stuffed the shell into the crack of the sofa.

"Oh that's not—"

"Don't you start," she said warningly.

"But you'll attract mice to Lord Calloway's house."

"Shan't." She cracked another nut. "It's too full of snakes for the mice to have a chance. Did you see his daughter slapped him?"

"I have not seen Lady Laura for some time," Richard said. "Now do give me those shells and I'll find a servant."

"I told you not to start." She cracked another nut and tossed the shell in the vase of palm fronds. "There's too many nosy young footmen in the dining room. I had to take the nuts and run."