“Eat fast,” she advised.
Deirdre opened the drawing room door and announced us, then stood aside to allow us to enter the room ahead of her. Honoria and Charlotte rose from their chairs to welcome their nephew effusively while favoring Bess and me with perfunctory smiles. William and Amelia kissed me on both cheeks and told me how lovely I looked before taking Bess with them to show her the Staffordshire spaniels on the mantel shelf. I sat on the Regency settee and waited for World War III to begin.
“Bill needs a drink, Donovan,” Charlotte said gaily as Bill escorted her and Honoria back to their seats and their martini glasses.
“A drink for Bill,” said Honoria, snapping her fingers at Deirdre.
“Nothing for me, thank you, Deirdre,” Bill said, joining me on the settee.
“Not even a small one?” Charlotte coaxed. “To celebrate your release from home detention?”
The muscles in Bill’s jaw began to work, but he kept his cool.
“I’m driving,” he explained.
“We’re not!” Honoria crowed.
She and Charlotte raised their glasses to Bill, drained them, and motioned imperiously for Deirdre to refill them. Though Deirdre filled the glasses to the brim, the sisters didn’t spill a drop as they went on speaking. I was impressed.
“You’ll never guess who we ran into at L’Espalier last month,” Charlotte said, naming one of Boston’s most exclusive restaurants. “Pamela Grove! Dear, sweet Pamela. You remember Pamela, don’t you, Bill?”
“She was Pamela Highsmith when you dated her,” said Honoria.
“I remember Pam,” Bill said woodenly, putting his arm around me.
“Her son is the same age as Will and Rob,” said Charlotte. “He’s already finished his first year at Beresford.”
“I’m sure you remember your old prep school,” Honoria said playfully.
“I remember my prep school,” said Bill.
“Imagine our surprise,” Charlotte continued, “when dear Pamela informed us that you hadn’t put your sons’ names down for Beresford.”
“Our sons,” Bill said, tightening his hold on me, “won’t be attending Beresford.”
“If you don’t send them to Beresford,” said Honoria, “where will you send them?”
“Lori and I aren’t sending them anywhere,” said Bill. “Will and Rob are happy where they are.”
“My dear boy,” said Charlotte, “prep school isn’t about happiness. It’s about making the right friends.”
“Friends who share the same background,” Honoria elucidated. “Friends who will stand them in good stead for the rest of their lives.”
“Will and Rob aren’t likely to meet their own sort in this godforsaken corner of the world, are they, Bill?” Charlotte asked silkily.
“Will and Rob have many friends,” Bill said through gritted teeth.
“But what kind of friends?” Charlotte asked with a dissatisfied moue. “Farmers’ sons? Shopkeepers’ sons? Public schools are good enough for ordinary people”—her eyes darted to me—“but are they good enough for your children?”
I could almost see the faint wisps of steam coming out of Bill’s ears. I willed Bess to break the rising tension with a well-timed wail, but she insisted on cooing contentedly in her grandfather’s arms.
“We realize that you were pressured into moving here, Bill,” Honoria said, sending another malevolent glance my way, “but you mustn’t allow the same kind of pressure to jeopardize the twins’ futures.”
“They’re your sons and heirs, Bill,” Charlotte said gravely. “Don’t you think they deserve to have the same advantages your father gave you?”
The vein in Bill’s right temple was throbbing. His face was flushed and his jaw muscle looked as if it might snap. I felt the hand clasping my waist curl into a fist, and braced myself. The outbreak of war seemed imminent.
Then the doorbell rang.
“See who it is and send them away,” Honoria said peremptorily to Deirdre.
“This is a family occasion,” said Charlotte. “Interlopers are not welcome.”
She directed her last comment at Amelia, but Amelia deflected it with a gracious smile. The week in Oxford had evidently rendered William’s fiancée immune to his sisters’ jibes.
“You haven’t invited one of the villagers to dine with us, have you, William?” Honoria drawled. “The ramblings of a country bumpkin will do nothing to elevate the tone of the—”
She broke off as Deirdre returned to the drawing room, looking faintly disconcerted.
“A gentleman to see you, sir,” she said to Willis, Sr.
“Gentleman might be overstating the case,” said a familiar voice from the entrance hall. “I prefer to think of myself as a humble scholar.”