Her stomach went queasy, and no doubt the smile she forced out reflected her distaste for being accused of having episodes. Which implied some sort of habitual event, which she certainly did not have. If one discounted falling asleep randomly after bouts of insomnia, which one certainly should, because…because one should.
“Miss Hampton—” Mrs. Lane spoke the name without a hitch, though Gwyneth had heard her and Thad having a rather heated debate on the wisdom of the falsehood—“has been quite well, thank you, though we had better hurry on our way. The clouds have grown darker still, and I certainly do not want to be responsible for my charge catching her death of cold.”
Gwyneth hadn’t seen any great change in the heavens, but she noted one in Mrs. Lane’s countenance. Her eyes had gone decidedly blank, and her face, while smiling pleasantly, seemed entirely devoid of consideration. As if she had slipped on a mask.
Mr. Mercer breathed a laugh that oozed condescension. “I daresay with as warm as it is, the worst the rain can do is damage your very lovely bonnet. But far be it from me to be responsible for so great a travesty.”
How did Mrs. Lane manage to blink in such a way, as if the man had spoken in Greek? Which, come to think of it, the lady likely knew. “Do you take issue with wall hangings, sir?”
Mr. Mercer frowned and then renewed his smile. “I believe you are thinking of a ‘tapestry,’ Mrs. Lane. A travesty is a grotesque imitation.”
Mrs. Lane lifted her nose into the air. “Well, certainly I have seen some poorly woven ones, but there is no need to insult the craftsmen.”
Only her bafflement allowed for Gwyneth to hold back a snort of laughter.
Mr. Mercer inclined his head and took a step backward. “Of course not. And I shan’t hold you up, as you will be eager to get home before it rains, in any case.” His gaze moved to Gwyneth again, and again turned too familiar, too meandering. “My mother will be coming for a visit after my current trip to Virginia. Perhaps your family would like to dine with us one night to welcome her to Baltimore.”
Mrs. Lane dismissed him with a flip of her wrist. “Send an invitation round when you have returned, sir. Come, Gwyn dear, we had better hurry or all the best lace will be gone.”
Lace? Hardly the staples Amelia had requested, but Gwyneth would play along if it meant escaping this companion. “Of course. Good day to you, Mr. Mercer.”
He tipped his hat to them and stepped out of their way. She felt his gaze on her all the way down the street, until Mrs. Lane led her into a dry goods store. Only then did she dare lean closer to her and whisper, “What was that you were doing?”
A sheepish look overtook Mrs. Lane’s face. “Ah. An old habit, let us call it. One that seems to reemerge when faced with someone for whom I do not much care. ’Tis how I got through the Revolution as a Patriot in a Loyalist stronghold. When one acts utterly silly, no one ever thinks to look for deeper motives.” Her lips bloomed in a smile. “Until my Bennet, that is.”
Gwyneth glanced to the door, though Mr. Mercer was thankfully nowhere in sight. “You do not care for him either, then?”
“Even less than I care for his mother, whom I avoid when I can in Annapolis. We will not be accepting any invitations from him.”
A chill skittered up her back, and she had to check over her shoulder again to make sure he did not still watch her. People aplenty clipped past, but the only indication she saw of him was the last of the line of roped-together slaves shuffling out of sight. A fresh chill danced after the first. What a despicable man.
Jack snagged her attention with a squeak of distress. His gaze was latched onto the bins of sweets, but he pressed his lips together against his obvious instinct to beg for one. And the resulting confliction had him hopping from foot to foot. Gwyneth exchanged a smile with Mrs. Lane. “May I?”
She winked. “What Grandmama does not see, hmm?” She turned down an aisle and perused the offerings.
One hour and two stores later, with Jack sucking happily on a stick of peppermint candy, Mrs. Lane had found the items her elder daughter had requested. And from the looks of the sky, they had not a minute to spare. Gray clouds had compounded and shoved their way into a low-hanging, roiling mass of black.
Gwyneth couldn’t resist a smile at the impending weather. Maryland had far too much sun. ’Twould be a pleasant reprieve to have a day of rolling thunder and cleansing rains. Perhaps she would sit by an open window while the storm rolled through and let the wet breeze caress her. Or if she could escape the watchful eye of Rosie long enough, she might even sneak out to the garden as she did when they were in the country so it could soak her through. She could even—
“Watch out!”
In a chaos of shouts and grunts and shoves, Gwyneth’s breath evacuated her lungs as something pressed her to a wall of warm, damp brick. Her fingers still clutched Jack’s, but before her was only a jumble of muted browns and blues as at least a dozen men surged by. A few tossed apologies over their shoulders, but none slowed.