It was rather dizzying to see such a crowd in the dining room, Percy thought a few times during dinner. Extra leaves had been added to the table, and Mrs. Evans in the kitchen had risen magnificently to the occasion, as she had said she would when he had suggested employing someone to assist her.
It ought not to be dizzying. He had spent much of his life in company with crowds of people. Even as a child, when he had remained at home with tutors rather than going away to school, there had always been cousins and other relatives and neighbors and friends of his parents in the house. He had not been here long, but already he had grown accustomed to the quiet of Hardford, give or take a few distant cousins and a menagerie. He rather liked it, he thought in some surprise, though he would not stay. He would leave when his family did. Now that Knorr had arrived, there was no real reason for him to remain. There would be crops this year, a thinning of the flock, a new barn, repairs to the sheep pens, and numerous other improvements. Ratchett would have more detail to add to his books—and that would keep him happy.
“You are unusually quiet, Percy,” Aunt Edna remarked over the roast beef course.
“Am I?” He smiled. “It must be the sobering effect of being thirty years old.”
“Or it could be,” Uncle Roderick said, “that it is difficult to get a word in edgewise. Whatever must you think of us, Lady Lavinia?”
“I could positively weep with happiness,” she replied. “All this time there has been an estrangement between the two branches of the family because of a foolish quarrel so long ago that no one even remembers its cause.”
No one pointed out to her that about half their number were his mother’s family and bore no relationship to her at all. She was clearly happy, and so was Percy’s mother, who was beaming back at her and dabbing the corner of one eye with her handkerchief. No one could call his family unsentimental.
“And we have rediscovered one another, Cousin Lavinia, because Percy finally decided to come here where he belongs,” his mother said. “And also because of the sad demise of Cousin Imogen’s husband. How strange life is. Good things can arise from bad.”
Everyone looked suitably solemn over this less-than-profound pronouncement. Percy’s eyes locked upon Lady Barclay’s. She was still looking a bit marble.
The female cousins appropriated her attention in the drawing room after dinner, and Percy, who sat with his uncles and found himself talking, of all things, about farming, realized from the snatches of conversation he overheard that they had discovered she had been in the Peninsula with her husband and were peppering her with questions about her experiences there. Alma wanted to know if she had been much in demand as a partner at regimental balls and thought it must be simply divine to be at a ball and no one but officers with whom to dance.
Fortunately, perhaps, Percy did not hear Lady Barclay’s response, but she seemed to be humoring her listeners.
She rose to leave after the tea tray had been removed.
“You have your carriage, dear?” Aunt Nora asked.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “The dower house is not far away.”
“But the path is dark even on a bright night, Imogen,” Lady Lavinia said. “Do take a footman to carry a lantern for you.”
“I shall escort Cousin Imogen myself,” Percy said.
“There is no need,” she said.
“Ah, but there is,” he told her. “I must impress my relatives with how well I play the part of responsible lord of the manor.”
Most of the relatives laughed. She did not. She did not argue, though.
“I look forward to seeing your home, Cousin Imogen,” his mother said. “May I call?”
“But of course, ma’am,” Lady Barclay said. “I shall be delighted to see you and any other of Lord Hardford’s guests who care to come visit me.”
“We are a gregarious lot,” Percy warned her after they had left the house together, without a lantern. “You cannot expect us to remain within the hall to mind our own business when there is another house close by and someone else’s business to mind instead.”
“You have an amiable family,” she said.
“I do,” he agreed. “Will you take my arm so that I may feel more protective and therefore more manly? I am fortunate to be a part of such a family—on both my father’s and my mother’s side. But sometimes they can be a little . . . intrusive.”
“Because they care,” she said.
“Yes.”
The night was reasonably bright. There seemed to be no clouds overhead. It was also crisply cold. She set her hand within his arm. Neither of them took up the conversational slack.
He could see the outline of the dower house ahead. It was, of course, in total darkness. He did not like the fact that there were no servants there waiting for her. But he could say nothing. She had made it clear that she would not tolerate his interference.
“Thank you,” she said, sliding her hand free of his arm when they reached the gate. “I appreciate your accompanying me even though it was unnecessary. I have done the walk many times alone.”