Why wasn’t James Wyndham interested? Surely he must realize that if he married her, he’d eventually have the Warfield stables to add to his own holdings.
“It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“What doesn’t, dearest?”
“Oh, Mother, I was just thinking that James Wyndham should be proposing to me rather than ignoring me.”
“You’re right,” Portia Warfield said, frowning at this injustice. “It doesn’t make any sense. It is perplexing. Your chemisette is nonexistent, dear. Come with me to the l
adies’ withdrawing room and I’ll arrange it. You don’t want to be thought loose by the other ladies.”
“Yes, Mama,” Glenda said. She dutifully followed her mother from the large Poppleton drawing room.
Portia Warfield said to her daughter as they climbed the wide cherry-wood Poppleton stairs to the second floor, “I just wormed it out of your father—James was married to an Englishwoman. Your father wanted to stop there, but I wouldn’t let him. He gave in finally when I offered to let him order whatever he wished for dinner. The woman James married was the daughter of a baron and very young. Evidently she died in childbirth within the first year of their marriage. One supposes that he’s still wounded, at least as much as a man is capable of being wounded when his wife dies. Of course he hadn’t known her all that long, less than a year. The child died with her. I suppose that would depress a man to have his heir lost, but I understand it’s been at least three years since it happened. He should be snapping out of this indifferent stance he’s taken with all the lovely girls in Baltimore.”
“He has a mistress. He doesn’t need any of the lovely girls until he is ready to marry for an heir.”
“A mistress?” Mrs. Warfield said, pausing a moment, pursing her lips. “Why haven’t I heard anything about that? Do you know who she is, Glenda? Not that you should know anything at all about such improper situations, but anyway, who is she?”
Glenda leaned closer. “Mrs. Maxwell.”
“Connie Maxwell? Goodness, she must be at least thirty-five years old! She’s been a widow for years now. Fancy that. Are you certain, dearest?”
“Oh yes. Maggie Harmon told me she heard her papa tell her mama that he saw them together in her garden and they were kissing and laughing and doing other things, too. Her papa told her mama that they disappeared behind a huge rosebush and the laughing stopped.”
“Interesting,” Mrs. Warfield said. “I’m not saying that Connie’s an old hag, but she isn’t a fresh innocent like you, dearest. She has kept her figure, I’ll have to say that for her. And I suppose she has a pretty enough face, what with all that blond hair of hers and skin so white I’ve often wanted to shoot her. Ah, well, James is a man, so I’m not at all surprised. But soon he will have to find himself a wife. He must be nearing thirty.”
“James is twenty-seven,” Glenda said, her voice sounding depressed. “Just three weeks ago he was twenty-six, not very old at all for a man, Mama.”
“That’s close enough. Don’t frown, dear, it will wrinkle your angel’s brow.”
“Maybe when James decides to marry, he’ll want to marry another Englishwoman. Maybe he’s already met her. His cousin is an earl, you know, and that’s nearly royalty. He could marry anyone.”
“Why ever would he want another Englishwoman? The first one didn’t even last out the year. Even though his accent hints of an Englishman, he’s only half English, doubtless his worst half, the half that is still wounded, though not so wounded he doesn’t see to his man’s pleasure. Now, your father tells me that James will be here the rest of the year. That gives you a goodly amount of time, Glenda. But listen, dear, there are other young gentlemen for you to consider.”
“Who, Mother?”
“Emerson McCuddle, for one. A nice young man with a very rich father.”
“His breath is bad.”
“Let him kiss your cheek and hold your own breath whilst he does it.”
“Emerson is a lawyer. He has no interest in horse racing or breeding. What would he do with the stud and stables?”
“There is that. As for James Wyndham, perhaps he will recover himself soon. Perhaps he will tire of Connie Maxwell. Perhaps her years will begin to tell on her, but I wouldn’t count on that. You will dance with him this evening. Ah, let’s not pull your chemisette up too high, all right, dear?”
Jessie eased back into the shrubbery. She would have sworn that James had looked right at her, but that was impossible. He was inside in all the light. He could only see the black night and that quarter moon just behind the budding apple trees off to her left. She heard the four musicians set at the far end of the drawing room strike up a waltz. Even though she hadn’t a clue as to how to dance, she loved the waltz, the sound of it, the feel of it, the way it made her want to sweep around in wide circles and laugh and laugh with pleasure. She eased back up and looked through the window. She saw James bow over Glenda’s hand and swing her into the rhythm of the fast German music.
She saw him lean down to listen to something Glenda said. He smiled. Jessie couldn’t remember the last time Glenda had said something that had made her smile. She saw her mother moving to stand beside Wilhelmina Wyndham, James’s and Ursula’s mother. Ursula and her husband were now waltzing, laughing over at James. There was Giff calling something out. More laughter. Soon the whole dancing area was filled. Even Mr. Ornack, as fat as a stuffed clam, was galloping happily about with his thin wife.
She lightly touched her fingertips to her cheeks. The cucumber mixture had hardened nicely. She’d looked very closely this morning. The bridge of freckles over her nose was lighter; she was certain of it. She sniffed. James was right. She did smell like cucumbers. Not a bad smell, but certainly distinctive.
She sighed and watched. She counted off steps, swaying with the music. When it came to a stop, she watched James guide Glenda back to their mother, who was still speaking to Mrs. Wyndham. She turned away from the window when a dark cloud blocked the moonlight. Knowing Baltimore weather, it could begin to rain at any moment. Jessie got to her feet and brushed off her bottom and legs. She heard voices then and recognized James and his brother-in-law, Gifford Poppleton, coming from the open French doors.
“I tell you I saw her with her nose pressed against the window.”
“That’s ridiculous, Giff. You drank too much of your own punch. Filled it with rum, didn’t you? What the hell would the brat be doing here?”