wanted to meet them. Emily had, after all, spoken nothing but the truth when she had mentioned his aversion to paying social calls. And the two ladies must indeed be elderly. Doubtless the conversation would consist of lengthy health reports and even more lengthy reminiscences about the dim distant past and he would have to pinch himself to keep awake after the first few minutes.
Was he going simply because they were related to Frances? It would be the damnedest of poor reasons if that were so.
But what other reason could there possibly be?
In the event he was not bored at all. Mrs. Melford, a small, round lady, whose good-humored countenance still bore evidence of the prettiness his grandfather had spoken of, was delighted to see the husband of her old friend and exclaimed with delight over the fact that his grandchildren had chosen to accompany him. The two of them did indeed talk about the past, but they did so with such wit and humor that they kept both Lucius and Amy laughing and eager to hear more.
“But there is nothing more calculated to alienate young persons,” Mrs. Melford said at last, “than to have two old people prosing on about a past so distant that even to me it seems like something from another lifetime. Tell me about yourself, child.” She smiled kindly at Amy.
Amy immediately launched into a description of her newest triumph, her visit to Bath, where she had been allowed to attend a soiree and had heard Miss Allard sing, and where she had played hostess when Miss Allard came to tea and attended an assembly in the Upper Rooms with Miss Allard as her grandpapa’s special guest and her companion.
“I liked her exceedingly well, ma’am,” she said, beaming at her elderly hostess. “She treated me just as if I were a grown-up.”
“Well, and so you are, child,” Mrs. Melford said, “even if you have not yet made your come-out. You have that all to look forward to. How fortunate you are! You have the look of your grandmama, you know, especially about the mouth and chin, and all the world fell in love with her, as your grandfather will tell you. He did too.”
“I did indeed,” the earl confessed. “I rushed her off to the altar within six weeks of meeting her lest she see someone else she preferred.”
“She had eyes for no one else but you, as you very well know,” Mrs. Melford assured him as they all laughed. “But did you really meet our dear Frances when you were in Bath? And was she indeed singing again? I so wish we had been there to hear her.”
She spoke with obvious affection for her great-niece.
This was one of the ladies she had left behind the morning of that snowstorm, Lucius thought. It was in their ancient carriage, driven by their ancient coachman, that Frances had been traveling when he overtook her.
“It amazes me,” the earl said, “that no one discovered Miss Allard’s talent when she lived in London.”
“We understood that someone had,” Mrs. Melford said. “Her father always saw to it that she had voice lessons with the best teachers, you know. It was both his dream and hers that she would be a great singer one day. But then he died suddenly, poor man, and Frances went to live with Lady Lyle for a couple of years even though we offered her a home with us. We heard that someone had agreed to sponsor her and that she was indeed singing. We expected to hear any day that she had become famous, but one day she wrote quite suddenly from Bath to inform us that she had taken a teaching position at Miss Martin’s school there. We have been concerned for her happiness ever since, but when she spent this past Christmas with us in the country, it seemed to us that she was indeed quite contented with her chosen career.”
“She assured me that she was quite happy with what she was doing with her life when I was impertinent enough to ask her why she was not enthralling the world with her singing,” the earl said.
“Both Gertrude and I think of her almost as a daughter,” Mrs. Melford told them. “I was never blessed with children of my own, and Gertrude never did marry. We both fairly dote upon Frances.”
The earl inquired politely about Miss Driscoll, who had not appeared to greet the visitors. She was in bed, her sister explained, quite unable to shake off the chill she had taken during the journey up to town. She suffered from a perennially weak chest, it seemed, and was a source of endless worry to her sister.
“Though one consolation is that at least we have access to the best physicians here in town,” she added.
“She doubtless needs a good tonic,” the earl said. “Something to cheer her up. You must ask your physician to prescribe something suitable, ma’am. I would recommend a course of the waters at Bath, but perhaps you feel that your sister is too weak to make the journey.”
“Indeed I do,” Mrs. Melford said, “though I will keep the recommendation in mind.”
That was the point at which Lucius abandoned common sense and spoke impulsively again without giving himself any chance to think first.
“Perhaps, ma’am,” he suggested, “Miss Driscoll would benefit most from seeing Miss Allard again.”
Mrs. Melford sighed. “I am quite sure you are right, Lord Sinclair,” she said. “How wonderful that would be for both of us. But Gertrude will have to improve considerably in health before we can travel down to see her.”
“I meant, ma’am,” he said, “that perhaps
“Oh, but she will be busy with her teaching duties until well on into the summer,” Mrs. Melford said. “I am sure she cannot be spared.”
“Not even for the sake of a beloved aunt?” Lucius asked. “If she knew that Miss Driscoll was in poor health and not making a rapid recovery even though she has been attended by a London physician, surely she would ask to be released from her duties for a week or two on compassionate grounds, and surely Miss Martin would not detain her.”
“Do you think so?” Mrs. Melford looked quite eager at the prospect. “It is kind of you to show such concern, Lord Sinclair. And really I cannot imagine why I did not think of it for myself. A visit from Frances would be just the thing to lift Gertrude’s spirits. Our niece always brings such a draft of fresh air into our lives.”
