After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing room while the men remained behind, no doubt to smoke and drink and, Regan knew from what Edmund had told her, to speak about things that most gentlemen considered improper topics for ladies' ears. Mostly business, or politics, or sometimes even the ladies themselves were discussed through the haze of tobacco fumes and the heady scent of expensive liquor.
Regan often wondered if she'd rather stay behind with the men, to share in their ribald jokes and talk of parliament or the rumblings of war in Europe. Surely anything would be more stimulating than an hour spent perched on a settee with one Miss Lane, who droned on and on in the voice of a simpering three-year-old about the latest fashions in sleeves and hemlines out of London this season.
It was quite by chance that Regan found herself seated beside Miss Lane, the same young woman who had been so determined to win Mr. Cranmer's attention at the dining table. She was also the fourth daughter of a baronet, a fact Miss Lane was sure to tell Regan more than once in the span of only a few minutes.
"Poor Mama will be so sorry to have missed dinner," Miss Lane pouted in a babyish voice, her blond curls bouncing around her ears as she shook her head. "But she says that travel always 'does her in', and so she crawled into her bed complaining of a terrible headache and professed that she wouldn't come out again until Davis—she's our maid, you know—finds her bottle of cordial."
Regan nodded politely and added a few words to the conversation—when Miss Lane paused long enough for her to do so. After her third cup of tea, the men made their return from the dining room and Regan regretted not excusing herself for a trip to the water closet earlier. Mr. Winthrop wasted no time in seeking out Katharine on the other side of the room, her daughter's face lighting up with pleasure at his arrival. The two of them fell into their own little bubble of conversation, for all the world as if they were the only ones in the entire room.
Miss Lane, Regan noticed, fell into a blessed silence as Mr. Cranmer approached them. The young lady twisted her upper body about in an absurd manner in order to regard him over her shoulder - most likely a tactic she'd been taught by another young lady - her chin lowered and eyelashes fluttering at such a rate that Regan feared the poor girl had gotten something in her eye.
"Lady Griffith, Miss Lane," Mr. Cranmer bowed to each of them in turn. "Would you think me terribly rude to impose on your conversation?"
"Oh, la!" Miss Lane waved her fan at him and laughed in a high-pitched squeal. "Dear Mr. Cranmer, you are a tease!"
Before Regan could make her excuses for a hasty exit, Miss Lane began pushing up against Regan's side, shoving her into the corner of the sofa in order to make more room for Mr. Cranmer's tall frame.
"How did you find London?" Mr. Cranmer asked Miss Lane, while Regan attempted to discreetly remove a portion of her skirt out from beneath Miss Lane's bottom.
"So terribly dull!" Miss Lane heaved a dramatic sigh and rolled her eyes heavenward. "I cannot abide how little there is to do, and all of the dances and parties grow dreadfully tiresome when it is nothing but the same tedious people, over and over again."
"For my part," Mr. Cranmer began, his gaze lingering on Regan for a moment before returning to Miss Lane. "I find I can never be bored when I am surrounded by intriguing and intelligent people. That, and I believe one who finds himself constantly in need of diversion may themselves be the one who is dull and uninteresting."
"Oh, I quite agree!" Miss Lane simpered, seemingly unaware of the thinly veiled barb in his words. "One day, Mama insisted we visit some museum or the like, and I could hardly keep my eyes open. It was nothing but one bland painting after another. But she did have us stop at Gunter's for ices afterwards, and that was at least something worth putting in a letter!"
Regan opened her mouth to speak, to remove herself from the conversation and perhaps even plead a headache in sympathy with Miss Lane's mother, but Mr. Cranmer seemed to notice her subtle movement forward in her seat, and he stopped her with a question.
"And what about you, Lady Griffith? You used to frequent London, no doubt? Did you find enough entertainment there to keep you satisfied?"
It was then Regan realized why she was so drawn to his eyes. It wasn't merely their color, that shifting of blue and grey that seemed to change on a whim that caught and held her attention. No, it was something more. For all of the quiet kindness etched in his smile, in those faint lines around his eyes she wanted so desperately to touch, there was a heat tucked away in the depths of his gaze, a light that stilled her breath in her throat and ignited a dull ache in her abdomen she hadn't experienced for some time.
"I'm afraid Miss Lane would count me among her more tedious acquaintances," Regan said, meeting his gaze boldly, though she still couldn't fathom how the simple act of looking at him could stir up such an unusual restlessness inside of her. "I always preferred the museums and the libraries, and I could have walked for hours in the less frequented areas of the parks."
Miss Lane blew out an exasperated breath, while Mr. Cranmer leaned back slightly on his side of the settee. "Which is why, I assume, you prefer the quiet beauty of your home in Kent over the bustle and smoke of town?" He raised one dark eyebrow in question.
"And why not? I have a household to run, children to rear, and myriad other projects with which to occupy my time in a most satisfactory manner. London no longer holds any appeal for me, especially now that my hus-" She raised a finger to her lips and cleared her throat. "At my time in life, I've found that my needs are quite simple, even bucolic, you might say. I shall leave the fussings and trappings of town for those with greater interest in them than I."
Before Mr. Cranmer could speak again, Lady Polmerol fluttered over to them, her attention fixed on Miss Lane in particular.
"Miss Bunting wants to do a duet on the pianoforte, my dear! And I told her how you had only just complained that no one ever wanted to do a duet with you!"
Miss Lane smiled weakly, her gaze darting back and forth between Regan and Mr. Cranmer. "Oh, well. I..." she faltered in a lower tone as her put-on voice failed her.
"Please, Miss Lane," Mr. Cranmer urged her, the soft burr in his words more pronounced as he stood and held out a hand to help her from her seat. "I cannot think of what would give me more pleasure than to see you stationed at the pianoforte, regaling us all with your musical talents."
Another hesitation, and then Miss Lane slipped her hand into Mr. Cranmer's. She seemed as if she did not wish to release him, but she allowed Lady Polmerol to lead her towards the grand instrument situated in the corner of the room.
Regan considered finding another seat, somewhere not beside Mr. Cranmer, but the realization struck her that she would be a guest at Brandon Hall for another two weeks, at least. As would Mr. Cranmer, more than likely. She could not run away from him simply because he made her feel uncomfortable. Though it was a discomfort that frightened her, an awakening of feelings she thought had gone fully dormant after her husband's death.
And so she remained in her place, crushed into one side of the settee as Mr. Cranmer resumed his seat, only now without the barrier of Miss Lane between them. They sat in silence for several moments, and then, when the first notes of the duet began, he shifted a few inches towards her.
"What do you mean by 'at my time in life'?" he said, his voice considerably lower now in respect for the music.
Regan blinked, confused for several seconds until she realized he'd leapt back into their conversation as if there hadn't been any interruption from Lady Polmerol. "I beg your—"
"'At my time in life' implies that one has reached some sort of aged and decrepit state," he continued, as if she hadn't even spoken. "Such a phrase brings to mind a powdered wig and a powdered face and an inability to walk from one place to another without the aid of a cane."
She clasped her hands and placed them in her lap. "You're being facetious," she told him, her gaze fixed on the pianoforte. "I wasn't aware you were capable of such behavior."
"I'm capable of a great many things, Lady Griffith," he said, near enough that she realized he must have closed the distance between them by another inch or two. "And of course I'm being facetious. Just as you're being absurd, referring to yourself as if you're already casting a shadow across your grave." He moved near enough that she felt the brush of his leg against her skirt as he crossed his legs. "What is your age, if I may ask?"
Regan looked at him sharply, though the humor in his expression softened the edge of her purported scolding. "You may ask, and I may not answer." A smile capped off her last word, and she fought to keep her voice at the level of a whisper. "I didn't realize manners had altered so much in the last few years that it had become acceptable to ask a woman such a personal question."
"So you're ashamed of how old you are?"
"And now we are to put words in my mouth?" She clasped her hands and set them primly in her lap. "Is this the sort of incorrigible behavior I should expect from my son when he comes of age?"
The lines around his eyes and the appearance of the pale scar on his cheek presaged another grin. "Should you interrogate my cousin, I'm sure she'll not hesitate to inform you that I have been incorrigible for the whole of the time she has known me."
She bit down on her lips. Miss Bunting began to sing, and Regan waited until she could trust herself to speak without breaking out in laughter. "Dare I ask how old you are, then?"
The mischievous light in his eyes only brightened. "If I'm not mistaken, I posed the question first."
"And if I'm not mistaken, I believe a gentleman should have the courtesy to submit to a lady's request."
His smile deepened, his chin nearly dropping down to disappear into the folds of his neckcloth while a touch of color warmed his face. Had she succeeded in embarrassing him so thoroughly? And yet she liked this playful side of him, a complement to the softness he had displayed upon their first meeting, when she'd watched him spy on baby birds and tie a perfect bow on her daughter's bonnet. "I am twenty-four," he confessed, once his color returned to normal. "Though perhaps I should add that my birthday is in November, if you wish to also count by half-years."
Regan took a deep breath. "I am thirty-nine," she said quickly. "And my birthday is next month. So, there. I am not at all ashamed of my age."
"Nor should you be." He lowered his voice again, until it was a gentle rumble from the back of his throat and she caught herself leaning towards him, despite her original intentions of remaining firmly situated on her side of the settee. "But then, do you not feel the slightest bit of envy for, say, someone like Miss Lane? With all of her youth and her vast, blank canvas of inexperience?" She detected an element of teasing in his words, though if his taunt were directed at her or the absent Miss Lane, she wasn't certain. "Would you not want to trade places with her, and live that part of your life over again?"
Despite the lightness of his tone, his questions daunted her. To return to her youth? To all of the innocence she'd exhibited when she first met and was courted by Edmund? To experience again the births of her children? Or to once more endure the pain of saying goodbye to her husband, the only man she had ever loved?
"No." The word slipped out under her breath. "No, I would not..." She glanced over at Mr. Cranmer, who sat watching her, his easy grin replaced by a more somber expression. She closed her mouth and lowered her gaze to her lap, while her speech remained unfinished.
They sat in silence for several minutes. Miss Lane and Miss Bunting ended their song, eagerly moving on to another after they were greeted with fine praise from several of the listeners. Regan looked towards the windows, as if there might be some prospect on the other side worthy of distracting her from her thoughts, but only the reflections of the candles and those seated nearest to the glass met her eyes.
"I'm sorry," Mr. Cranmer said, near enough that his words stirred a few of the hairs curled around her ear.
"For what?" Regan studied him, and wondered if he'd ever experienced a grief so tremendous it could threaten to swallow one whole.
"Most likely for too many things to mention," he told her. "But I offer it just the same, for you to use as you will."
She licked her lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Katharine, still sitting next to her Mr. Winthrop, deep in conversation with him while not exhibiting any signs of impropriety. Regan had agreed to come to this house party for her daughter, Regan reminded herself. To help guide her on the path to matrimony and enjoy what time with her she had with her before her eldest child would be married and running a household of her own.
And here she sat, questioning if Mr. Cranmer's attentions towards her were merely a symptom of his kindness and affability, or if he did have an interest in her, and as something more than simply another person to share a conversation with after dinner.
Her gaze strayed again to Mr. Cranmer. The man was far too handsome, far too persistent, and far, far too young.
She laced her hands together, only to fidget and pull them apart. But they found their way back to each other, the fingers of her right hand seeking out the wedding band she still wore on her left, hidden as it was beneath her gloves.
"Thank you," she said. She noticed his own glance dropping down to her restless hands. Quickly, she released her ring and took to picking a piece of imaginary lint from her skirt instead.
"You're most welcome," he said, just as another bout of light applause marked the end of the second piece of music. And as the applause died, and another young woman stepped up for a turn at the pianoforte, Mr. Cranmer leaned towards her one last time, his breath again stirring the hairs on the back of her neck before he whispered in her ear. "My lady."
Regan held her own breath as he stood up and walked away from the settee. She looked around the room, suddenly afraid his attention towards her had been spied by others and would be remarked upon. But they had been positioned near the back of the drawing room, and most everyone else's gazes were currently diverted by the exchange of performers at the pianoforte. No one appeared to have paid their conversation any mind.
And what would have been the trouble if her close conversation with Mr. Cranmer had been noticed? As young as she accused him of being, he was a man grown. And she was no longer married, nor was her reputation dependent on a record of spotless behavior. There could be nothing untoward construed from a few whispered words to one another in the rear of Lady Polmerol's drawing room.
The guilt, however, would not fade. Regan could not help but feel as if she'd done something wrong, committed some unforgivable faux pas by continuing to welcome Mr. Cranmer's attentions, even though she had yet to decipher what the intentions were behind his gentle smiles and teasing.
"Oh, Edmund," she whispered, and bit her lips at the sound of her husband's name upon them. "What am I going to do?"
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Thank you for reading! Chapter Six will be posted on Wednesday, August 7th!
Quenby Olson