Sybil delicately stifled a yawn, then grinned at Madeline and put a hand on her sleeve. “Thank you. I know you don’t think you did very much, but indeed, having you beside him made Gervase’s day a great deal easier.”
Sybil glanced at the door, confirming Gervase was still occupied. “It’s easier for you, having grown up here knowing your place. It’s not as difficult even for me, because I’ve had time to grow accustomed. But I’ve worried how he will cope—not because he won’t but because he hasn’t had much time to gather all the background knowledge he needs.” Again she smiled at Madeline. “That’s what you give him, dear—solid ground on which to stand.”
Gently squeezing Madeline’s arm, Sybil released her. “I know he appreciates your help—I just wanted you to know I do, too.”
Madeline smiled; she would have disclaimed, but doing so would have made light of Sybil’s thanks, and she was too fond of Sybil to hurt her feelings.
Then Gervase reappeared, striding toward them. He met Madeline’s eye. “Burnham’s bringing my curricle around.”
“In that case,” Sybil said to Madeline, “I’ll leave you to Gervase’s care, dear. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Gervase nodded to Sybil. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Indeed, dear.” With a benedictory wave, she drifted toward the stairs.
“Come.” Gervase offered his arm.
Madeline took it and let him lead her out to his curricle.
Within minutes they were bowling through the castle gates, then east on the lane along the cliffs. The light was poor, but Madeline felt completely relaxed, completely confident of Gervase’s ability to manage the powerful blacks he had harnessed between the shafts.
The moon shone fitfully, weak and waning, screened by high clouds, yet there remained sufficient light for her, leaning back against the curricle’s seat, to study his profile. To consider what she saw there, cast like a Roman coin against the dark backdrop of the sea.
The events of the day scrolled through her mind. He needed a wife, a fact no one could question. But what sort of wife? Until today, she hadn’t dwelled on the point; no cogitations had been required to know that whatever the specifications she wouldn’t fit. But after today, especially after viewing Lady Hardesty with poor Robert in tow, the question had grown more important, more insistent.
Like Sybil, she wished Gervase nothing but happiness. More than most she knew what he’d sacrificed during the war; to her mind society owed him some reward, specifically a contented life. It would be a travesty of justice and fairness if he didn’t have that.
Which meant he needed the right wife.
But what, in that context, constituted “right?”
Before seeing the evidence of Lady Hardesty, she would have suggested a London beauty, a daughter of some peer of suitable rank with a solid background in the glittering world of the capital.
But of what use was knowing the order of diplomatic precedence, or the most fashionable type of tea to serve a duchess in the afternoon, if one’s husband’s most urgent question was whom among numerous local functionaries gathered together it was politic to recognize first?
She’d answered that question, in one form or another, on several occasions that day, and while any lady might learn the answer, learning presupposed an interest in doing so, and that—as not just Lady Hardesty but also her female guests had demonstrated—was not a quality London ladies necessarily possessed.
The curricle’s wheels rhythmically rattled along the well-beaten track.
She’d stood in Gervase’s countess’s shoes for the day; she shouldn’t find it impossible to imagine the lady capable of filling the position, yet her mind remained blank, unhelpfully vacant, no matter how she tried to focus, to conjure…no more could she think of any local lady of the right age, the right background, let alone one capable of holding his interest.
He checked the blacks, jerking her attention back to the moment. Slowing to a crawl, he turned his pair; she glanced around and realized he was taking the track to the boathouse.
It took a second to question her own impulses, then to inwardly shrug.
With the horses at the top of the steep path, he drew them to a halt, then climbed down and handed the reins to her. “Stay there and mind the brake.”
She’d started to swing her legs out, but stopped, considered, then swung them back. He went to the leader’s head; grasping the harness close by the bit, he started leading the pair down.
Having someone on the brake was necessary in case the horses tried to go too fast or the curricle’s wheels slipped; the path was too steep, his horses too valuable to risk. Keeping the reins loose in one hand, her other hand on the brake, she let him guide them down.
The curricle fitted neatly into the space behind the boathouse. It felt normal to let him take her hand and help her down, then steer her inside and up the stairs. It was the third time she’d been there with him, in his private place; she was a little surprised by how comfortable and confident she felt—serene and assured—as he led her to the daybed, then turned her into his arms.
He kissed her, the exchange long and sweet, drawn out as she returned the pleasure. When he drew back, her fingers were tangled in his hair, his already busy with her laces. He looked down at her face, his own a medley of sharply delineated planes and shadows. “I wanted to thank you.”
She smiled. “Everyone already has. Multiple times. But what I didn’t tell Sybil, I’ll tell you—I need no thanks. I enjoyed my day thoroughly.”