“And he has a son,” Imogen volunteered.
Mercy felt her eyes widen. She waggled her eyebrows. “A son? Goodness.”
“Indeed. A bachelor son,” Imogen said with heavy emphasis.
“A bachelor? As in unmarried? Dare I say it? Not for long.”
Imogen laughed delightedly. “He has been deemed the most eligible man in the area and he has not even arrived in Shropshire yet.”
“But of course!”
“Can you imagine when he actually arrives here?”
“The Blankenship sisters will camp out on the grand lawn at Penning Hall.” Mercy laughed.
“It won’t even matter if he looks like a frog.”
“He need not even speak English . . . or any language, for that matter!”
“So long as he has a pulse,” Imogen agreed jovially. “That would be the only requirement for Penning’s son.”
Their joint laughter faded into contented sighs. Imogen held her side as though her ribs ached.
Oh, it was good to see her friend. It felt nice to laugh with her again. Living so far outside of the village could be rather isolating at times.
Mercy certainly did not long for city life, but it would be lovely to have a friend in close proximity to talk to when life became stressful. When she was forced to contend with Bede and Grace, which was often. More than often. Mercy on her own. Coping on her own. It was the way of things. All the time.
Except recently.
Recently she had not been on her own. For over a week she’d had Silas at her side, and it had been nice. Nice. She winced. It was a weak and insignificant word, but accurate.
“Do you recall the last time we were here? A few months ago?” Imogen asked, intruding on her thoughts.
“Mm-hmm.”
“It feels like a lifetime since then,” Imogen mused. “I was quite at odds with Peregrine Butler then.”
Mercy nodded. “Oh, yes. You wanted to claw his eyes out that night as I recall. The things you were saying! I worried for you.”
Imogen glanced around rather surreptitiously, and then said, “But that also happened to be the night we first kissed.” Her cheeks pinkened at the admission. “You must take me for a perfect scandal to confess such a thing.”
Mercy did not immediately reply. Her own thoughts went to Silas.
Heat crept over her as she recalled all the things they had done. It had been more than kissing. She tugged at her modest neckline, feeling suddenly constrained, her clothes too tight, too restrictive chafing against her.
Imogen’s face blanched at her prolonged silence. “Oh, my! You do! You think me shameful.”
“No!” Mercy shook her head. “I was not thinking that at all,” Mercy assured her, wondering what Imogen would say or think of her if she knew the extent of her wicked actions in London not so very long ago. “I think that you and Mr. Butler were clearly meant to be together and you are very much in love.” She shrugged as if the matter were as simple as that.
It always seemed that simple for others. For everyone else. Others could fall in love. Marry. Live among their family with trust and love. It always looked so very easy from the outside looking in, but Mercy was not so naive to believe others did not have their hardships, too. People were complicated. Lives complicated. Everyone had their trials. Nothing was simple for anyone.
“When did your brother arrive home? He has not been here in a while. And he brought a friend with him, I see.”
“Hmm,” Mercy murmured noncommittally, hoping she looked casual at the mention of Silas. Even as close a friend as she considered Imogen to be, Mercy was not about to confess the entire sordid debacle to her. “He’s been home close to a fortnight now. His friend arrived . . . a little behind him.” Again, she hoped she gave nothing away to her friend that alerted her to the fact that there was something more between Silas and her.
“A handsome man,” Imogen remarked in such a way that Mercy felt certain her friend was looking at him at that very moment.
Mercy followed her gaze, searching over the many faces until she landed on Silas Masters so at ease among a group of ladies. Of course.
They surrounded him like a flock of pecking hens. He was a young and handsome finely attired stranger, dropped into their midst—at a ball no less. Naturally he would not be spared from their attention.
They would eat him alive.
He would be lucky if he was still standing at the end of the night.
As though he felt her stare, his eyes lifted and locked on her.
She smiled and gave him a small, unassuming wave.
“Uh-oh,” Imogen murmured.
“What?” Mercy asked quickly, anxiously, immediately worried her friend detected something in that small wave to Silas.
“Would you look at that? Both Blankenship girls and the Widow Berrycloth are closing in on him fast. Should we rescue him? He is looking rather desperately at you.”
Mercy’s lips twitched. “He is, isn’t he?”
Imogen giggled.
Mercy continued, “He is a grown man who is accustomed to life in London. No doubt he can cope with a few admiring country ladies.”
“I don’t know,” Imogen said, “these are Shropshire ladies. They’re cut from a different cloth and not to be underestimated.”
Mercy nodded in agreement. Whatever she intended to say next flew from her mind as she caught a flash of pink skirts. Her sister. Grace. Grace dancing in the arms of one Amos Blankenship to be exact.
Grace tossed back her head and laughed with an abandon. Mercy winced. Such behavior would have tongues wagging, to be sure.
“Oh. Your sister looks lovely tonight. So very grown-up.”
“Yes,” Mercy grudgingly agreed. Unfortunately. Things were so much simpler when Grace was nine years old.
So very grown-up indeed. Seventeen years old but she could not be led or directed or—heaven forbid—told what to do. Grace knew what was best for herself, and Mercy should simply keep her opinions to herself. As her sister frequently reminded her: they were sisters. Not mother and daughter.
Amos Blankenship swirled Grace around the dance floor, holding her closely. Too closely in Mercy’s estimation. He leaned close and spoke into her little sister’s ear in a far too familiar manner. Whatever he said made Grace’s face burn bright red.
Cad.
Mercy had to fight back the urge to storm across the room and yank Grace free of him. What reason did she have to react so emotionally? Only that Amos Blankenship possessed a reputation of being a spoiled and lecherous libertine and he danced with her sister. She would look like a madwoman if she reacted that way though. It would serve no one to cause a scene. Grace would be mortified. Mercy would never hear the end of it. And Amos Blankenship was the son of their most lauded host. She dared not give offense.
She took a measured breath, reaching deep for her composure.
“Unfortunately Amos Blankenship noticed how lovely she is, too,” Imogen muttered. “He really is a cad, you know?”
“Oh, yes. I know.”
Mercy and Imogen had grown up with Amos Blankenship. They knew precisely the manner of man he was. They were united in this opinion.
“Grace is a clever girl,” Imogen added encouragingly. “She will see through him.”
“Did you already forget? She is seventeen. Do you not remember being seventeen? No one at seventeen is that clever. It is not possible. Your emotions are in control of you.”