“Deeplyoffended,” Gillian said.
A little smile touched the lady’s face. It was good to see. Bits of her were returning as she slowly regained her strength.
Scott returned to the table. They were soon settled and enjoying the repast.
“I have been wondering . . . since our visit earlier today,” Mrs. Brownlow said to Scott. “How is it your parents met, if your mother is American . . . but your father was an English gentleman?”
A look of tender nostalgia crossed his face. No one could deny he was shockingly handsome. And he was wonderfully kind to Mrs. Brownlow.
“My mother’s family traveled to England when she was eighteen years old. Her parents were determined to see her marry into English Society. My mother did not particularly care for the idea, fearing it would mean she’d have to live in England, which, to her, seemed like the very worst sort of punishment.”
Mrs. Brownlow nibbled on her slice of toasted bread as she listened.
“Much to my mother’s horror, I’m certain, she met an Englishman to whom she rather immediately lost her heart. He was a younger son, which wasn’t quite what her family wanted, but he was kind and adventurous, whichshewanted. He also made her laugh, which she told me had been an unspoken requirement of hers.”
“Laughter works miracles,” Mrs. Brownlow said.
“I suspect,” Scott continued, “she decided to be completely and totally in love with him when he said he had no objections to making his home in America, provided they returned to visit his family home regularly. They married and returned to America. My sister and I were both born in England, at the family estate in Nottinghamshire, something I imagine my father had to negotiate for. He was proven wise, as I inherited that estate, and many have voiced objections to ‘an American’ inheriting an English estate. My being born here, for reasons I still have not yet sorted out, has helped quell some of those objections.”
“I’m certain Americans have . . . their own oddities.” Mrs. Brownlow leaned back on her pillow, having eaten her toast but left the rest of the food untouched. “I know perfectly well that we English have more than our share.”
“I will grant you the truth of that,” Scott said.
A moment passed with Gillian and Scott eating.
“What was Gillian like when she was younger?” Scott asked. “Beyond her propensity for laughter and silliness.”
“When she was . . . quite little, she was a bundle of energy,” Mrs. Brownlow said. “That didn’t truly change between . . . her childhood and when she came to live here with me . . . but the focus of it changed. And she has always been quite clever.”
“That does not surprise me.”
“You have been the victim of her cleverness, have you?”
“Victim?” Scott laughed. It was a kind laugh, not the mocking sort Gillian had endured in London but still a laugh. A laugh resulting from talk of her. Hearing people laugh when discussing her never ceased to be painful.
She lowered her eyes to her plate of food, pretending to focus on a bit of potato but inwardly trying to decide whether to object, change the subject, or simply stand up and leave.
“My husband was alive when she was little.” Another slow breath broke up Mrs. Brownlow’s reminiscence. “He thought her the most wonderful little troublemaker he’d ever met. I suspect ... that is hard for you to imagine, considering how very proper she is now.”
“Oh, I can imagine. I’ve seen a bit of a tendency toward mischief in her.”
Gillian’s eyes darted to him. Was he mocking her?
But his attention was entirely on their hostess. Gillian might just as well have not been in the room.
“What is the most mischief she got herself into when visiting you?” Scott asked. “I would enjoy hearing all the embarrassing stories you have about Miss Gillian Phelps.”
Ah. He was in a position to embarrass her a bit. And since she had required that he tell Banbury tales on her behalf, he meant to learn a few absolutely true tales in return. It wasn’t public humiliation but private. Not public laughter but private teasing. She’d imposed on him and caused him difficulty; he was goingto exact a bit of what likely seemed to be harmless and teasing revenge. It would hit its mark more pointedly than he could possibly realize.
No one in Society dared openly ridicule her as they had done in the time before Artemis had declared her a valued friend. But there were still quiet jabs and whispered evaluations. People still sometimes laughed at her when she was not with the Huntresses, when Artemis’s standing didn’t save her from feeling the lowliness of her own.
Being laughed at was familiar footing.
Gillian took a breath and cleared her mind. She closed the gate in the walls she had long ago erected around her heart. She simply focused her thoughts on her meal as Mrs. Brownlow told of scraped knees, imaginary friends, and childhood adventures.
Scott asked question after question, none of which was truly humiliating but all of which encouraged the stories to continue.
Gillian refused to allow any of it to bother her. She was a poor relation, yes, and secretly the butler’s daughter. She was lowlier than even Society’s scoffers knew. But she was also the first of the Huntresses, the first Artemis had claimed as her own.