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Authors: Danielle Lisle
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brushed it aside, incapable of putting her feelings into words, unable to entertain that unmentionable aspect of their marriage at the heart of all their problems.
“Catherine? A minute, if you please?” Cressida waylaid the stately, dark-haired young woman dressed as a siren about half an hour later as the Colonel—thankfully—responded to his wife’s perfunctory summons. With a little intake of breath and a stammered excuse, the recently gossiping Mrs Browne slipped away while Cousin Catherine betrayed her guilt with a blush.
“Why, Cressy, I did not notice you. How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to wonder who Madame Zirelli might be and what she is to my husband,” Cressida responded with uncharacteristic harshness.
Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Cressy,” she gasped. “I had no idea you— I’m so sorry. But, of course, it’s only gossip. You know how quick people are to jump to conclusions.” But her cheeks were flushed. She knew she was guilty of the charges Cressida made. “You’re looking unwell, Cressy. I’ll take you home. We’ll have a nice cosy chat in the carriage, shall we? I hadn’t expected to see you out this evening, you’ve been hiding away so long.”
Cressida was about to argue that she planned to return with Justin when Catherine took her arm, saying breezily, “Don’t trouble yourself over Justin. He’s asked me to tell you he’s off to White’s with Roddy Johnson. He knew you were anxious to return home to little Thomas.”
Was that grim satisfaction she saw on her cousin’s face?
It wasn’t until she’d gained the darkness of the vehicle that Cressida broke her tense silence.
“I’d thank you to tell me everything you told Mrs Browne.” Sinking back against the squabs of her husband’s plush equipage, she hid her disquiet beneath a veneer of dignified anger. “If she is under the impression Justin has taken a mistress, you apparently did little to disabuse her of that fact, when I know very well it is not true. I’d like to know the source of your information.”
Catherine shifted beside her and although Cressida could not see her face she could tell she was uncomfortable. “No need to get on your high ropes, Cressy,” she muttered and Cressida could imagine the proud, defiant tilt to Catherine’s pointed chin as she defended her actions, just as she had done all through her impish childhood and spirited adolescence. “Like you say, I’m sure there’s nothing to it.”
Cressida was not about to assume her normally pliant role in order to appease her cousin. In steely tones she asked, “I would like to know, Catherine, how you gained the impression Justin has taken a mistress.” This was too important for the tears to which Cressida was sometimes prone, especially lately. With her back pressed stiffly against the carriage seat in the darkness she felt, ironically, as if some of her own youthful confidence had returned. Justin was the axis of her existence. If her happiness was at risk—though she was sure it was not—she needed to know so she could act.
“Justin appears just as loving towards you as he ever did, my dear,” Catherine hedged. “Why, only last week when James and I dined with you he remarked to me—”
“Obviously there must be something specific which has prompted the gossip. I’m sure you’d not repeat hurtful gossip .”
Catherine halted in the middle of her response, paused, then said in careful, clipped tones, as if she were angry with her cousin, “Well, my dear Cressida, I had hoped to spare you. However, as you’ve all but accused me of being a gossiping jade, I’ll tell you what whispers are buzzing around the salons in London.” In the gloom, her expression was combative. “Justin has been a regular visitor to Mrs Plumb’s Wednesday salons.” She gave a self-righteous sniff. “James told me Mrs Plumb is an actress with literary pretensions. A very vulgar woman, I believe,
“Catherine? A minute, if you please?” Cressida waylaid the stately, dark-haired young woman dressed as a siren about half an hour later as the Colonel—thankfully—responded to his wife’s perfunctory summons. With a little intake of breath and a stammered excuse, the recently gossiping Mrs Browne slipped away while Cousin Catherine betrayed her guilt with a blush.
“Why, Cressy, I did not notice you. How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to wonder who Madame Zirelli might be and what she is to my husband,” Cressida responded with uncharacteristic harshness.
Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Cressy,” she gasped. “I had no idea you— I’m so sorry. But, of course, it’s only gossip. You know how quick people are to jump to conclusions.” But her cheeks were flushed. She knew she was guilty of the charges Cressida made. “You’re looking unwell, Cressy. I’ll take you home. We’ll have a nice cosy chat in the carriage, shall we? I hadn’t expected to see you out this evening, you’ve been hiding away so long.”
Cressida was about to argue that she planned to return with Justin when Catherine took her arm, saying breezily, “Don’t trouble yourself over Justin. He’s asked me to tell you he’s off to White’s with Roddy Johnson. He knew you were anxious to return home to little Thomas.”
Was that grim satisfaction she saw on her cousin’s face?
It wasn’t until she’d gained the darkness of the vehicle that Cressida broke her tense silence.
“I’d thank you to tell me everything you told Mrs Browne.” Sinking back against the squabs of her husband’s plush equipage, she hid her disquiet beneath a veneer of dignified anger. “If she is under the impression Justin has taken a mistress, you apparently did little to disabuse her of that fact, when I know very well it is not true. I’d like to know the source of your information.”
Catherine shifted beside her and although Cressida could not see her face she could tell she was uncomfortable. “No need to get on your high ropes, Cressy,” she muttered and Cressida could imagine the proud, defiant tilt to Catherine’s pointed chin as she defended her actions, just as she had done all through her impish childhood and spirited adolescence. “Like you say, I’m sure there’s nothing to it.”
Cressida was not about to assume her normally pliant role in order to appease her cousin. In steely tones she asked, “I would like to know, Catherine, how you gained the impression Justin has taken a mistress.” This was too important for the tears to which Cressida was sometimes prone, especially lately. With her back pressed stiffly against the carriage seat in the darkness she felt, ironically, as if some of her own youthful confidence had returned. Justin was the axis of her existence. If her happiness was at risk—though she was sure it was not—she needed to know so she could act.
“Justin appears just as loving towards you as he ever did, my dear,” Catherine hedged. “Why, only last week when James and I dined with you he remarked to me—”
“Obviously there must be something specific which has prompted the gossip. I’m sure you’d not repeat hurtful gossip .”
Catherine halted in the middle of her response, paused, then said in careful, clipped tones, as if she were angry with her cousin, “Well, my dear Cressida, I had hoped to spare you. However, as you’ve all but accused me of being a gossiping jade, I’ll tell you what whispers are buzzing around the salons in London.” In the gloom, her expression was combative. “Justin has been a regular visitor to Mrs Plumb’s Wednesday salons.” She gave a self-righteous sniff. “James told me Mrs Plumb is an actress with literary pretensions. A very vulgar woman, I believe,
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