polite interest in other people’s conversations, no matter how tedious they were.
Irene’s mother, Lady Claire, was one of the women now listening to Maura with a pleasant and interested look on her face. She would, of course, have considered it bad form to have allowed any other expression to mar her features, but Irene knew that more was involved; her mother was frightened to express a dislike for, or even a disinterest in, anything her daughter-in-law had to say. For the past year, ever since Humphrey had married Maura and brought her back here to live with them, Lady Claire had walked on eggshells, knowing that Maura was now the true power in the household, and could make her and her daughter’s life a misery.
Of course, in Irene’s opinion, having to bow to Maura’s every whim already made life a misery, so it seemed foolish to work so hard to avoid the woman’s ire. Nor did she think that her brother Humphrey was so weak-willed as to turn his mother and sister out of their home if Maura took it into her head to demand that. However, she knew that it was certainly within his power to do so, as well as in Maura’s nature to selfishly demand such a thing. And it was, unfortunately, quite true that she and her mother had been left virtually penniless upon Lord Wyngate’s death and were completely dependent upon her brother’s generosity.
Lord Wyngate had died three years ago in a fall from his horse after a particularly heavy bout of drinking. Irene had been, frankly, somewhat surprised at the grief she had felt. After all the years of battling with the man and despising him, there had, it seemed, been a core of love inside her that even his wicked behavior had been unable to entirely squelch. However, there was no denying that his demise had also evoked a great sense of relief in all those connected to him.
There were no more bill collectors lurking outside their door; that had stopped once Humphrey had sat down with their creditors and worked out a plan to pay his father’s debts in full. Nor were shady characters popping up looking for Lord Wyngate anymore. They had no further need to fear that he would bring some scandal to the family name. And, most of all, his presence no longer hung over the house like some dark cloud, forcing everyone do whatever they could to avoid running into him or doing anything that might set off one of his fits of rage.
It was not until after Lord Wyngate was dead that, upon hearing one of the upstairs maids singing a cheerful song as she polished the furniture, Irene realized just how silent and cold the house had been. Suddenly, despite the black wreath on the front door and the black cloth draped above Lord Wyngate’s portrait, the house was a lighter, brighter place.
Her younger brother, Humphrey, a rather serious, shy young man, had, of course, inherited the title and estate from their father. Aside from the entailed land and the house in London, Lord Wyngate had left little but debts for his heir; for his widow and daughter there had been nothing.
However, Humphrey was a loving son and brother, and he was happy to provide for Irene and Claire. Two years younger than Irene, he had always looked up to and relied upon her. In their childhood, it had been she who had shielded him from their father’s curses and blows.
Humphrey had set about settling his father’s debts and rebuilding the estate, leaving it to his sister to run the household, as she long had done for her mother. Life had moved along smoothly enough as they emerged from the period of mourning into a resumption of social activities. The debts had been largely repaid, and though there was a heavy mortgage on the entailed land that had passed to Humphrey, the money situation had loosened enough to allow for new dresses and the giving and attending of parties.
Irene knew that some found her life pitiable, as she was in her midtwenties and still unmarried, facing life as a spinster, but she did not care. The fact was that she was happy and useful, and she was not one of those women—those she privately characterized as foolish females—who found her life empty if it was not connected to a man’s. Indeed, having witnessed the storms of marriage, she was certain that her life without a husband was far preferable to the one most married women endured.
Then Humphrey had taken a hunting trip to the North of England with a friend. His visit had been extended by first one week, then two, and at the end of the third week, he had returned home, flushed and happy with the news that he was engaged to be married.
Maura Ponsonby, the daughter of a local squire, had caught Humphrey’s eye…and then his lonely heart. She was a jewel, he informed them, and he was the luckiest man alive. They would, he assured them, love Maura just as he did.
When they met Maura, it was easy enough to see why he had fallen in love with her. She was pretty, and she showered Humphrey with attention and affection. However, it did not take them long to see how she also controlled him with her pretty pouting and lively flirtation turning stony and unyielding when she did not get her way.
All smiles and charmingly deferential to Lady Claire before she married Humphrey, she swept into the house after the wedding full of self-importance. As the new Lady Wyngate, she made it quite clear to both Claire and Irene that she was now in charge. Though Irene had intended to turn over the running of Wyngate Hall to Maura, the woman gave her no opportunity to do so, merely informed the housekeeper and butler that she would now be in charge of all decisions regarding the household.
Maura seized every opportunity to show that she was of primary rank in the house, inserting herself into any conversation, informing the butler whom they would or would not receive as callers and when they were at home to such visits, and boldly accepting or declining invitations for Irene and Claire, as well as for herself and her husband.
Lady Claire, as was her way, had submitted meekly to such behavior. Irene, of course, had refused to knuckle under, and the result had been a long series of skirmishes between the two women.
Now Maura, perhaps sensing Irene’s disinterest, broke off in the middle of her description of the bows that adorned the hem of her dress and turned toward Irene, eyes wide, smiling in an arch way that made Irene itch to slap her. “But we are boring poor Irene with our talk of frills and furbelows, aren’t we, dear?” She turned gaily toward the other women, saying, “Irene has little interest in fashion, I fear. Try as I might, I can hardly ever convince her to let me buy her a thing to wear.”
Maura shook her head, a picture of loving despair over Irene’s odd ways, setting her soft dark curls bobbing.
“You are so generous, my dear Lady Wyngate,” murmured Mrs. Littlebridge.
“I am well content with my clothes,” Irene responded coolly.
Lady Claire, as always, quickly stepped into the conversation to avoid the possibility of conflict. “Miss Cantwell, you must tell us about the wedding at Redfields. I am sure we are all eager to hear about it.”
Irene’s mother had chosen the topic well. The marriage of the Viscount Leighton to Constance Woodley a week before had been the highlight of the social year, and an invitation to witness the wedding at Leighton’s family estate had been highly sought after. All those who had managed to attend were assured of being welcomed almost everywhere for their description of the wedding.
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Littlebridge agreed. An inveterate social climber, she loved nothing more than gossip and storing up tales that she could repeat to make herself appear more important than she was. “Was the bride radiant?”
“She is pretty in her own way,” Miss Cantwell admitted. “But no family to speak of. One cannot help but feel that the viscount has married down.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Littlebridge nodded sagely. “A bit of a country mouse, I hear.”
“Exactly.” Miss Cantwell gave the other woman a thin smile. “But then, Leighton always has been a bit…well, unconventional.”
Irene, who felt sure that Miss Cantwell’s opinion of the viscount’s oddity sprang more from that very eligible bachelor’s complete disinterest in her own person than from anything else, said, “I quite like Miss Woodley—or I should say now, Lady Leighton. I find her refreshingly unpretentious.”
Maura let out a little brittle laugh. “You would find that admirable, of course, Irene. Not everyone admires a lack of refinement as you do, I fear.”