out, “Leighton, is there something wrong with your vision?”
Leighton, for his part, had recovered his unflappability and swiftly answered, “No, ma’am.”
“Good to hear. I should hate to have to put you in spectacles. Ghastly indulgence for a butler. Oh, and keep Mr. Bambridge’s coat handy; he’ll have to leave shortly enough if he’s to dress and attend the theatre with us this evening.”
And with that, Totty crossed into the cozy sitting room, poured herself a liberal glass of sherry, and ensconced herself by the fire. Winnifred and George could do nothing but follow.
“I still don’t see why I must bear the expense and put up at a hotel,” George grumbled. “There’s room enough for me here, and you yourself have told me time and again that your childhood friendship with both our mothers extended to her offspring.”
Winn caught Totty’s eye and shrugged. But the older lady simply winked back at her. Before Totty was a Tottendale, she was just a girl, growing up in a practical and boring village in the south, where luckily, the only thing to defy practicality and boredom could be found just next door: Clara and Margaret. A pair of cousins who were raised practically as sisters. Totty ran wild with them, until their wildness ran out and everyone involved had to become a young lady. A trying loss, but their friendship bore it, and when they were married and had children, gifts and letters were exchanged, visits and holidays spent in each other’s company. And when grief came, when Totty lost her son and husband, or Winn her mother Clara, it was shared, and thus eased. And when Winn finally plucked up the courage to leave Oxford and come to London and try her fate, Totty immediately offered to act as chaperone, guide, and friend. And Winn could not be more grateful.
Especially when it came to George.
“Because you have told me time and again that your intentions toward Winn are more than cousinly.” She sent a soft look of inquiry to Winn, the same one she offered whenever the subject of her and George’s relationship was discussed. Winn dodged it, much as she had all the times before. “And,” Totty continued, “while I may not be strictly concerned with appearances in general, both your mothers would rise from the grave and murder me if they thought I had damaged your reputations. So considering I doubt there is sherry in hell, which is, quite frankly, where I know I’m headed, I’ll keep myself comfortable here on earth as long as possible. Besides”—she sent George a look of sympathy—“this is a ladies’ house. You bump your head on the door frames once a day as is.”
It was true, even George would have to admit that. The little house on Bloomsbury Street was everything that was comfortable, stylish, and chic. If you were a single gentlewoman. And Totty had purchased it two years ago for just that reason. She’d told Winn in a letter at the time that it was because while living with Phillippa Worth, she’d discovered “the bigger the house, the fewer options you have in keeping out disagreeable company. At the rate Phillippa involves herself in charitable functions,” she wrote, “it is only a matter of time before a sewing circle or some such odious thing takes over a wing and never leaves.” So now, Totty had her little house, with its little garden and little stairs, and little door frames that George’s gargantuan size simply could not avoid. Now, she could sit by her fire and ignore invitations to charity teas or the theatre if she felt like staying in . . .
“Totty,” Winn asked suddenly, “what prompted the desire to go to the theatre this evening? I thought you hated boring lovesick swains pouring their hearts out from the shrubbery.”
“Yes, and I have a rather thin tolerance for the plays as well.” Totty smiled at her own joke. “But the short answer is you, my dear. I received a note not five minutes before you got home, from Phillippa Worth, saying
Leighton, for his part, had recovered his unflappability and swiftly answered, “No, ma’am.”
“Good to hear. I should hate to have to put you in spectacles. Ghastly indulgence for a butler. Oh, and keep Mr. Bambridge’s coat handy; he’ll have to leave shortly enough if he’s to dress and attend the theatre with us this evening.”
And with that, Totty crossed into the cozy sitting room, poured herself a liberal glass of sherry, and ensconced herself by the fire. Winnifred and George could do nothing but follow.
“I still don’t see why I must bear the expense and put up at a hotel,” George grumbled. “There’s room enough for me here, and you yourself have told me time and again that your childhood friendship with both our mothers extended to her offspring.”
Winn caught Totty’s eye and shrugged. But the older lady simply winked back at her. Before Totty was a Tottendale, she was just a girl, growing up in a practical and boring village in the south, where luckily, the only thing to defy practicality and boredom could be found just next door: Clara and Margaret. A pair of cousins who were raised practically as sisters. Totty ran wild with them, until their wildness ran out and everyone involved had to become a young lady. A trying loss, but their friendship bore it, and when they were married and had children, gifts and letters were exchanged, visits and holidays spent in each other’s company. And when grief came, when Totty lost her son and husband, or Winn her mother Clara, it was shared, and thus eased. And when Winn finally plucked up the courage to leave Oxford and come to London and try her fate, Totty immediately offered to act as chaperone, guide, and friend. And Winn could not be more grateful.
Especially when it came to George.
“Because you have told me time and again that your intentions toward Winn are more than cousinly.” She sent a soft look of inquiry to Winn, the same one she offered whenever the subject of her and George’s relationship was discussed. Winn dodged it, much as she had all the times before. “And,” Totty continued, “while I may not be strictly concerned with appearances in general, both your mothers would rise from the grave and murder me if they thought I had damaged your reputations. So considering I doubt there is sherry in hell, which is, quite frankly, where I know I’m headed, I’ll keep myself comfortable here on earth as long as possible. Besides”—she sent George a look of sympathy—“this is a ladies’ house. You bump your head on the door frames once a day as is.”
It was true, even George would have to admit that. The little house on Bloomsbury Street was everything that was comfortable, stylish, and chic. If you were a single gentlewoman. And Totty had purchased it two years ago for just that reason. She’d told Winn in a letter at the time that it was because while living with Phillippa Worth, she’d discovered “the bigger the house, the fewer options you have in keeping out disagreeable company. At the rate Phillippa involves herself in charitable functions,” she wrote, “it is only a matter of time before a sewing circle or some such odious thing takes over a wing and never leaves.” So now, Totty had her little house, with its little garden and little stairs, and little door frames that George’s gargantuan size simply could not avoid. Now, she could sit by her fire and ignore invitations to charity teas or the theatre if she felt like staying in . . .
“Totty,” Winn asked suddenly, “what prompted the desire to go to the theatre this evening? I thought you hated boring lovesick swains pouring their hearts out from the shrubbery.”
“Yes, and I have a rather thin tolerance for the plays as well.” Totty smiled at her own joke. “But the short answer is you, my dear. I received a note not five minutes before you got home, from Phillippa Worth, saying
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