As soon as it was possible to do so without giving offense, people started leaving. By late afternoon, the last guests were wending their way down the drive.
Lady O clomped up to where Simon and Portia stood. She poked Simon’s leg with her cane. “You may give me your arm upstairs.” She turned her black gaze on Portia. “You can come, too.”
Simon obeyed; they turned to the house. Portia walked on Lady O’s other side, taking her other arm when they reached the main stairs. Lady O was not young; for all her ferocity, they were both deeply fond of her.
She was breathing stertorously when they reached her room; she pointed to the bed and they helped her to it. They’d barely got her settled, sitting propped high on her pillows as she’d commanded, when there came a knock on the door.
“Come!” Lady O called.
The door opened; Lord Netherfield looked in, then entered. “Good—a confabulation. Just what we need.”
Portia quelled a grin. Simon met her gaze briefly, then turned to set an armchair for his lordship close by the bed. Lord Netherfield accepted Simon’s help into the chair; like Lady O, he, too, walked with a cane.
They were cousins, Portia had been informed, although several times removed, much of an age, and very old friends.
“Right, then!” Lady O said, the instant he was settled. “What are we to do about this nonsense? Horrible mess, but there’s no sense in the whole company suffering.”
“How did Ambrose take it?” his lordship asked. “Will he prove difficult, do you think?”
Lady O snorted. “I should think he’ll be glad if nothing more is ever said. Shocked to his toes—he went white as a sheet. Couldn’t get a word out. Never seen a would-be politician so lost for words.”
“I should think,” Simon said, propping a shoulder against the bedpost, “that this would be a case of least said, soonest mended.”
Portia perched on the edge of the bed as Lord Netherfield nodded.
“Aye, you’re most likely right. Poor Calvin—no wonder he was in such a state. Last thing in the world he’d want at present, to take up an intrigue with a female like Kitty. Here he is, trying to get her father’s support for his cause, and there she is, flinging herself at his head!”
Lady O looked from one face to the other, then nodded. “We’re in agreement, then. Nothing of any great moment occurred, nothing need be said—all is perfectly normal. No doubt if we stick to that line, the others will, too. No reason Catherine should have to weather having a disaster of a house party just because her daughter-in-law’s lost her wits. Hopefully, that mother of hers will straighten her out.”
Decision made and judgment delivered, Lady O sank back on her pillows. She waved at his lordship and Simon. “You two may take yourselves off. You”—she pointed at Portia—“wait here. I want to talk to you.”
Simon and Lord Netherfield left. When the door was once more closed, Portia turned to Lady O, only to discover she had shut her eyes. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
One lid rose; one black eye glinted. “I believe I’ve already advised you against spending all your time in any man’s pocket?”
Portia blushed.
Lady O humphed and closed her eyes. “The music room should be safe enough. Go and practice your scales.”
An imperious wave accompanied the order. Portia considered, then obeyed.
Their plan to keep the house party on an even keel should have worked. Would have worked if Kitty had behaved as they’d all expected. However, instead of being sunk in mortification, quiet, careful of her manners, especially careful to toe every social line and transgress no more, she swept into the drawing room and proceeded to give a command performance in the role of “the injured party.”
She didn’t utter a single word about the afternoon’s debacle; it was the set of her face, the tilt of her chin, the extraordinary elevation of her nose that communicated her feelings. Her reaction.
Sweeping up to Lucy and Mrs. Buckstead, she placed her hand on Lucy’s arm, and inquired solicitously, “I do hope you met some entertaining gentlemen this afternoon, my dear?”
Lucy blinked, then stammered a vague answer. Mrs. Buckstead, made of sterner stuff, inquired after Kitty’s health.
Kitty waved, limpidly dismissive. “Of course, I did feel let down. However, I do think one should not let such wounding behavior on the part of others overwhelm one, don’t you?”
Even Mrs. Buckstead didn’t know how to answer that. With a smile and glittering eyes, Kitty moved on.
Her high-handed, arrogant behavior overset everyone, left them off-balance, totally unsure what to do. No one could understand what was going on. What were they witnessing? Nothing made any kind of social sense.
Dinner, far from being the agreeable, soothing if quiet affair they’d all hoped for, was subdued to the point of discomfort, all laughter in abeyance, talk suppressed. No one knew what to say.
When the ladies removed to the drawing room, Cecily and Annabelle, along with Lucy, encouraged by their mothers, retired early, claiming tiredness after the long day. Portia would have liked to leave, too, but felt compelled to remain in support of Lady O.