To Sir Phillip, with Love: The Epilogue II

She finally glanced up. “What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Brougham. We did say the afternoon, did we not?”

She looked at me blankly.

“I may stop waiting for him once the afternoon passes into evening, may I not?”

Mother paused for a moment, her quill suspended in air. “You should not be so impatient, Amanda.”

“I’m not,” I insisted. “I’m hot.”

She considered that. “It is warm in here, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “My habit is made of wool.”

She grimaced, but I noticed she did not suggest that I change. She was not going to sacrifice a potential suitor for anything as inconsequential as the weather. I resumed fanning myself.

“I don’t think his name is Brougham,” Mother said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I believe he is related to Mrs. Brougham, not Mister. I don’t know what her family name is.”

I shrugged.

She went back to her letter. My mother writes an inordinate number of letters. About what, I cannot imagine. I would not call our family dull, but we are certainly ordinary. Surely her sisters have grown bored of Georgiana has mastered French conjugation and Frederick has skinned his knee.

But Mother likes to receive letters, and she says that one must send to receive, so there she is at her desk, nearly every day, recounting the boring details of our lives.

“Someone is coming,” she said, just as I was beginning to nod off on the sofa. I sat up and turned toward the window. Sure enough, a carriage was rolling up the drive.

“I thought we were meant to go for a ride,” I said, somewhat irritably. Had I sweltered in my riding habit for nothing?

“You were,” Mother murmured, her brow knitting together as she watched the carriage draw near.

I did not think that Mr. Brougham-or whoever was in the carriage-could see into the drawing room through the open window, but just in case, I maintained my dignified position on the sofa, tilting my head ever so slightly so that I could observe the events in the front drive.

The carriage came to a halt, and a gentleman hopped down, but his back was to the house, and I could see nothing of him other than his height (average) and his hair (dark). He then reached up and assisted a lady down.

Dulcie Brougham!

“What is she doing here?” I said indignantly.

And then, once Dulcie had both feet safely on the ground, the gentleman aided another young lady, then another. And then another.

“Did he bring all of the Brougham girls?” my mother asked.

“Apparently so.”

“I thought they hated him.”

I shook my head. “Apparently not.”

The reason for the sisters’ about-face became clear a few moments later, when Gunning announced their arrival.

I do not know what Cousin Charles used to look like, but now…well, let us just say that any young lady would find him pleasing. His hair was thick and with a bit of wave, and even from across the room, I could see that his eyelashes were ridiculously long. His mouth was the sort that always looks as if it is about to smile, which in my opinion is the best sort of mouth to have.

I am not saying that I felt anything other than polite interest, but the Brougham sisters were falling all over themselves to be the one on his arm.

“Dulcie,” my mother said, walking forth with a welcoming smile. “And Antonia. And Sarah.” She took a breath. “And Cordelia, too. What a pleasant surprise to see all of you.”

It is a testament to my mother’s skills as a hostess that she did indeed sound pleased.

“We could not let dear Cousin Charles come over by himself,” Dulcie explained.

“He does not know the way,” added Antonia.

It could not have been a simpler journey-one had only to ride into the village, turn right at the church, and it was only another mile until our drive.

But I did not say this. I did, however, look over at Mr. Brougham with some sympathy. It could not have been an entertaining drive.

“Charles, dear,” Dulcie was saying, “this is Lady Crane, and Miss Amanda Crane.”

I bobbed a curtsy, wondering if I was going to have to climb into that carriage with all five of them. I hoped not. If it was hot in here, it would be beastly in the carriage.

“Lady Crane, Amanda,” Dulcie continued, “my dear cousin Charles, Mr. Farraday.”

I cocked my head at that. My mother was correct-his name was not Brougham. Oh dear, did that mean he was related to Mrs. Brougham? I found Mr. Brougham the more sensible of the two.

Mr. Farraday bowed politely, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes caught mine.

I should say at this point that I am not a romantic. Or at least I do not think I am a romantic. If I were, I would have gone to London for that season. I would have spent my days reading poetry and my nights dancing and flirting and making merry.

I certainly do not believe in love at first sight. Even my parents, who are as much in love as anyone I know, tell me that they did not love each other instantly.

But when my eyes met Mr. Farraday’s…

As I said, it was not love at first sight, since I do not believe in such things. It was not anything at first sight, really, but there was something…a shared recognition…a sense of humor. I’m not certain how to describe it.

I suppose, if pressed, that I would say it was a sense of knowing. That somehow I already knew him. Which was of course ridiculous.

But not as ridiculous as his cousins, who were trilling and frilling and fluttering about. Clearly they had decided that Cousin Charles was no longer a beast, and if anyone was going to marry him, it was going to be one of them.

“Mr. Farraday,” I said, and I could feel the corners of my mouth pinching in an attempt to hold back a smile.

“Miss Crane,” he said, wearing much the same expression. He bent over my hand and kissed it, much to the consternation of Dulcie, who was standing right next to me.

Again, I must stress that I am not a romantic. But my insides did a little flip when his lips touched my skin.

“I am afraid that I am dressed for a ride,” I told him, motioning to my riding habit.

“So you are.”

I glanced ruefully at his cousins, who were most assuredly not dressed for any sort of athletic endeavor. “It’s such a lovely day,” I murmured.

“Girls,” my mother said, looking squarely at the Brougham sisters, “why don’t you join me while Amanda and your cousin go for a ride? I did promise your mother that she would show him the area.”

Antonia opened her mouth to protest, but she was no match for Eloise Crane, and indeed she did not make even a sound before my mother added, “Oliver will be down shortly.”

That settled it. They sat, all four of them, in a neat row on the sofa, descending as one, with identically placid smiles on their faces.

I almost felt sorry for Oliver.

“I did not bring my mount,” Mr. Farraday said regretfully.

“That is no matter,” I replied. “We have an excellent stables. I’m certain we can find something suitable.”

And off we went, out the drawing-room door, then out of the house, then around the corner to the back lawn, and then-

Mr. Farraday sagged against the wall, laughing. “Oh, thank you,” he said, with great feeling. “Thank you. Thank you.”