prospective spouse must be far different from Reginald’s. He seemed to believe they could exchange a list of questions and—voilà!—know each other well enough to decide whether or not they were compatible.
But, Cosima told herself, considering marriage proposals wasn’t something in which she was well versed, even in her imagination. Perhaps his view was more realistic than the silly dreams she had tried to squelch, of intimate conversation pouring out of two people like water from a fountain with two spigots, mingling as one in a great pool of shared ideas and similarities.
And so she decided she would try Reginald’s way. By intention rather than inspiration. “The other day, when I mentioned my plans for Escott Manor, you didn’t seem at all put upon. Have you no designs of your own on the land and holdings that will one day be mine?”
“My dear Cosima,” he said lightly, “do you think for a moment that I would choose to live on this side of the Irish Sea?”
Stiffening at his clear disdain for the land of her birth, she did not reply.
A moment later Reginald must have guessed her indignation. He leaned forward and gently took both of her hands in his. “Cosima, Cosima,” he said softly, “I am not money hungry, nor a landmonger. I’ve no designs on any of your property. It’s yours to do with as you like. A school, you say? That’s a noble plan, one I would encourage you to pursue.”
Cosima forced a smile to her lips. Such words should comfort her. The land would remain hers to do with as she wished. Wasn’t that more than she could have hoped for? Here she was, being pursued by an English gentleman—one who would allow her free use of her inheritance. What could be better?
Reginald let go of her hands and leaned back in his seat, once again gazing out of the window. He did nothing to further the conversation, though he hadn’t really stymied it a moment ago.
There were a great deal more questions on Cosima’s mind, but she hesitated to bring them up. Her foremost concern was Royboy’s future. Once her parents were gone, he would need someone to look after him, and Cosima had always envisioned herself in that role.
Even her plans for a school to provide care and lessons for him and others like him had included her presence to ensure Royboy’s safety and comfort. Could she leave him there if she couldn’t hope to live there as well? That was one question she could not rid from her mind.
Far preferable would be to have him in whatever place she called home, whether in Ireland or England, if Reginald would allow it. But why should she fear Reginald’s answer? Hadn’t he shown himself to be tolerant of Royboy? Even when Royboy had joined them on several occasions, endlessly mimicking with his own sometimes incoherent version of speech or sitting at Reginald’s feet and fussing with his shoe ties or even the luncheon fiasco, never once had Reginald complained of Royboy’s presence. Perhaps he would welcome Royboy—or tolerate him, at least.
“What are your plans for your future then, Sir Reginald?” she asked at some length, like a coward putting off the real topic on her mind. “You indicated to my father an interest in politics. Is that your desire?”
He laughed. “Ho, I’d not get far with my lowly title, I’m afraid, except in the House of Commons. And I’ve no wish to associate myself with commoners.”
“What of the work for which you were knighted?” she asked, recalling the story he told her parents of benevolent efforts in London and Liverpool.
“Oh, that.” He looked out the window again. “That was mainly because of my friend Peter. He’s a current baron and will be a viscount once his father passes on. Have I mentioned Peter before?”
Cosima shook her head.
“It was his idea to set up workhouses in two of the worst neighborhoods in London and Liverpool. We went there with a few of our men, to find whomever we could pluck from the gutter able to do the
But, Cosima told herself, considering marriage proposals wasn’t something in which she was well versed, even in her imagination. Perhaps his view was more realistic than the silly dreams she had tried to squelch, of intimate conversation pouring out of two people like water from a fountain with two spigots, mingling as one in a great pool of shared ideas and similarities.
And so she decided she would try Reginald’s way. By intention rather than inspiration. “The other day, when I mentioned my plans for Escott Manor, you didn’t seem at all put upon. Have you no designs of your own on the land and holdings that will one day be mine?”
“My dear Cosima,” he said lightly, “do you think for a moment that I would choose to live on this side of the Irish Sea?”
Stiffening at his clear disdain for the land of her birth, she did not reply.
A moment later Reginald must have guessed her indignation. He leaned forward and gently took both of her hands in his. “Cosima, Cosima,” he said softly, “I am not money hungry, nor a landmonger. I’ve no designs on any of your property. It’s yours to do with as you like. A school, you say? That’s a noble plan, one I would encourage you to pursue.”
Cosima forced a smile to her lips. Such words should comfort her. The land would remain hers to do with as she wished. Wasn’t that more than she could have hoped for? Here she was, being pursued by an English gentleman—one who would allow her free use of her inheritance. What could be better?
Reginald let go of her hands and leaned back in his seat, once again gazing out of the window. He did nothing to further the conversation, though he hadn’t really stymied it a moment ago.
There were a great deal more questions on Cosima’s mind, but she hesitated to bring them up. Her foremost concern was Royboy’s future. Once her parents were gone, he would need someone to look after him, and Cosima had always envisioned herself in that role.
Even her plans for a school to provide care and lessons for him and others like him had included her presence to ensure Royboy’s safety and comfort. Could she leave him there if she couldn’t hope to live there as well? That was one question she could not rid from her mind.
Far preferable would be to have him in whatever place she called home, whether in Ireland or England, if Reginald would allow it. But why should she fear Reginald’s answer? Hadn’t he shown himself to be tolerant of Royboy? Even when Royboy had joined them on several occasions, endlessly mimicking with his own sometimes incoherent version of speech or sitting at Reginald’s feet and fussing with his shoe ties or even the luncheon fiasco, never once had Reginald complained of Royboy’s presence. Perhaps he would welcome Royboy—or tolerate him, at least.
“What are your plans for your future then, Sir Reginald?” she asked at some length, like a coward putting off the real topic on her mind. “You indicated to my father an interest in politics. Is that your desire?”
He laughed. “Ho, I’d not get far with my lowly title, I’m afraid, except in the House of Commons. And I’ve no wish to associate myself with commoners.”
“What of the work for which you were knighted?” she asked, recalling the story he told her parents of benevolent efforts in London and Liverpool.
“Oh, that.” He looked out the window again. “That was mainly because of my friend Peter. He’s a current baron and will be a viscount once his father passes on. Have I mentioned Peter before?”
Cosima shook her head.
“It was his idea to set up workhouses in two of the worst neighborhoods in London and Liverpool. We went there with a few of our men, to find whomever we could pluck from the gutter able to do the
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