“He’s hardly a boy any longer.”
“He will always be a boy to me.” Lady Winstead turned to Mrs. Wetherby, who had remained silent during the entire exchange. “Don’t you agree?”
“Oh, indeed,” Mrs. Wetherby agreed. “But of course I have known him since he was in nappies.”
Honoria was certain Marcus would not approve of this conversation.
“Perhaps you can choose some books for him, Honoria,” her mother said. “I am sure you know his taste better than I.”
“I’m not sure that I do, actually,” Honoria said, looking down at her tea. For some reason that bothered her.
“We have a comprehensive library here at Fensmore,” Mrs. Wetherby said with pride.
“I’m sure I’ll find something,” Honoria said, pasting a bright smile on her face.
“You shall have to,” her mother said, “unless you wish to teach him to embroider.”
Honoria shot her a panicked look, then saw the laughter in her eyes. “Oh, can you imagine?” Lady Winstead said with a chuckle. “I know that men make marvelous tailors, but I am sure they have teams of needlewomen hiding in their back rooms.”
“Their fingers are too big,” Mrs. Wetherby agreed. “They can’t hold the needles properly.”
“Well, he couldn’t be any worse than Margaret.” Lady Winstead turned to Mrs. Wetherby and explained, “My eldest daughter. I have never seen anyone less skilled with a needle.”
Honoria looked over at her mother with interest. She had never realized that Margaret was so dismal at needlework. But then again, Margaret was seventeen years older than she was. She had been married and out of the Smythe-Smith household before Honoria had even been old enough to form memories.
“It’s a good thing she had such talent for the violin,” Lady Winstead continued.
Honoria looked up sharply at that. She’d heard Margaret play. “Talent” was not a word she’d have used to describe it.
“All my daughters play the violin,” Lady Winstead said proudly.
“Even you, Lady Honoria?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.
Honoria nodded. “Even me.”
“I wish you had brought your instrument. I should have loved to have heard you play.”
“I’m not as capable as my sister Margaret,” Honoria said. Which, tragically, was true.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” her mother said, giving her a playful pat on the arm. “I thought you were magnificent last year. You need only to practice a bit more.” She turned back to Mrs. Wetherby. “Our family hosts a musicale every year. It is one of the most sought-after invitations in town.”
“Such a treasure to come from such a musical family.”
“Oh,” Honoria said, because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to manage much of anything else. “Yes.”
“I do hope your cousins are rehearsing in your absence,” her mother said with a worried expression.
“I’m not sure how they could,” Honoria said. “It’s a quartet. One can’t really rehearse with one of the violins missing.”
“Yes, I suppose so. It’s just that Daisy is so green.”
“Daisy?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.
“My niece,” Lady Winstead explained. “She is quite young and”—her voice dropped to a whisper, although for the life of her, Honoria couldn’t figure out why—“she’s not very talented.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wetherby gasped, one of her hands rising to her chest. “Whatever will you do? Your musicale will be ruined.”
“I am quite certain Daisy will keep up with the rest of us,” Honoria said with a weak smile. Truthfully, Daisy was bad. But it was difficult to imagine her actually making the quartet worse. And she would bring some badly needed enthusiasm to the group. Sarah was still claiming that she’d rather have her teeth pulled than perform with the quartet again.
“Has Lord Chatteris ever been to the musicale?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.
“Oh, he comes every year,” Lady Winstead replied. “And sits in the front row.”
He was a saint, Honoria thought. At least for one night a year.
“He does love music,” Mrs. Wetherby said.
A saint. A martyr, even.
“I suppose he will have to miss it this year,” Lady Winstead said with a sad sigh. “Perhaps we can arrange for the girls to come here for a special concert.”
“No!” Honoria exclaimed, loudly enough that both the other women turned to look at her. “I mean, he wouldn’t like that, I’m sure. He doesn’t like people going out of their way for him.” She could see from her mother’s expression that she was not finding this to be a strong argument, so she added, “And Iris doesn’t travel well.”