“Or nobody will notice. I have to ask, Pen. Could I do anything to change your mind?”
She hadn’t expected that question, so she gave it honest consideration as they wound their way down to the water.
“Years ago,” she said, “we both might have done things differently. But your father died, you had to see to the estate, and I… I was not at my best. We were dealing with double grief, a relatively new marriage, your mother’s adjustment to widowhood, finances in a muddle, and we were both so young, Vergilius. Perhaps it’s a wonder we did not end up in separate countries years ago.”
“Don’t expect me to hare off to Paris, Penelope. It’s more crowded than the Lakes.”
“I thought we were not to discuss the terms of our separation until after luncheon.”
“Whose idea was that?” He grinned and gave the red ball a gentle kick across the sand. “Choose our spot, my lady, for as surely as God made sunrises and sunsets, wherever I lay this blanket, you will tell me to move it.”
Oh God. When Vergilius smiled like that… Penelope was reminded of why, as a new bride, she’d been absolutely dazzled by her husband. She chose a place away from the rocks, but not too near the trail. As Summerton was arranging the blanket, the young father returned to the beach.
“There it is,” he said. “Beg pardon for intruding, but the children do set store by their playthings.”
Summerton kicked the ball to him. “They will sleep well tonight for having enjoyed some fresh air.”
“That was the idea,” the man said, his smile beaming from beneath a slightly reddened nose. He had sandy hair and a pleasant face, though his accent was public school rather than local for all that his dress was on the rustic side. “We take our niece and nephew to the shore every year for a week and give my brother and his wife a parental respite. We wear the children out, and they go home ready to take any and all naps and even sit quietly in the schoolroom for a few days. You’re Summerton?”
Vergilius bowed slightly. “At your service.”
The fellow bowed to Penelope, then to Vergilius. “Tregoning, at your service. I must say, Summerton, I was impressed with your speech about the tailors’ apprentice bill. Reform is meaningless without funds to enforce the measures passed. How many in the Lords have been trying to dodge that little detail?”
“Uncle!” The boy, barefoot, his hair a riot, stood where the western path met the sand. “Auntie says you must come and leave others to enjoy the shore.”
Lord Tregoning tossed the ball to the child. “Tell Auntie I’m merely exchanging pleasantries with a fellow guest. I have not been kidnapped by pirates.”
“You’re staying at the inn?” Penelope asked.
“We come every year,” Tregoning replied. “The children love it. Perhaps you’d like to dine with us this evening? Amanda would be very pleased to have a conversation that isn’t about who went first last time and whether licorice is better than lemon drops. We love the children dearly, but they are children.”
“Uncle! You aren’t coming!”
“We will be happy to join you for an early supper,” Penelope said, though she had no idea what prompted that acceptance. A desire to avoid any more private dining rooms, perhaps. “Shall we say six of the clock?”
“I will make the reservations, and Amanda will be very pleased.” He nodded briskly and jogged off as his nephew tore up the path ahead of them.
“I should know him,” Penelope said. “He’s Northford’s heir, isn’t he?”
“He is. The old marquess is too infirm to vote his seat. I’ve been told Tregoning is his uncle’s eyes and ears in the Lords, though Tregoning is only observing. It had not occurred to me that his situation is not unlike our own.”
The earl or viscount, or whatever his courtesy title, disappeared up the path, hand in hand with the boy clutching the red ball.
“They are dissolving their marriage? Perhaps the Siren’s Retreat has something to answer for.”
“They have no children,” Vergilius said gently. “He is the heir, he is without progeny, and yet, his younger brother’s union has been fruitful.”
That observation added to the undercurrent of sadness that never ran far from Penelope’s awareness of late.
“They are gracious in their affliction.” Could she have been more gracious? Bella and Tommie were awash in children, and Penelope kept her distance from their nursery. She was godmother to the second-oldest girl and conscientiously recalled the children’s birthdays. She did not take her nieces for ices, and she did not join in their nursery tea parties.
“You are frowning,” Vergilius said.
“Bella always seems so blithe in her mothering. She has all in hand, no need for assistance or respite or adult conversation.”
“If she wanted adult conversation,” Vergilius said, setting the hamper at the end of the blanket, “she ought not to have married my brother.”
Penelope could not help herself. She laughed—quietly, though she did laugh. Tommie was charming, but he was a fribbling dandy who could barely keep his children’s names straight.
“Guard the fort,” Vergilius said, pulling off his boots and stockings. “I am off to search for the holy grail.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A green ormer,” he replied, setting off down the strand.
“Watch out for pirates,” Penelope called after him. “I would not want to lose you to the foul clutches of the Barbary corsairs.”
His lordship stalked back across the beach, kissed Penelope on the mouth, and then marched on at the tide line.
Her teasing had been meant as just that, but Summerton’s kiss had been in earnest. Penelope watched him walk away, an ache starting up in her chest. A new ache, one sharp with regret, for she did esteem her husband too.
She always had. She took off her own footwear and was assailed by the thought that she hadn’t realized how much she’d lose when she set Vergilius free, but by the end of this week, she would be intimately acquainted with the magnitude of that loss—that loss too.
Gill had wanted to reserve mornings for wooing, but he’d been unable to abide by his own rules. On a blanket on the beach, over a tray of sandwiches on the terrace, at breakfast in bright seaside sunshine, he and Penelope considered finances, who should be told what, and other details of untangling a long and public marriage.
He had the sense that much of what they discussed should have been covered earlier—years earlier. Penelope was appalled by the sums the dowager viscountess and the Lychmont household drained from Gill’s exchequer. He had not known the extent of her charitable efforts, nor how much she genuinely took them to heart.
Children in the mines. Children in the mills. Children on the streets. The pattern was clear and laudable—and closely mirrored Gill’s agenda in the Lords. How had he not known this about his own wife?
Or—more accurately—how had he not appreciated it about her? All he’d noticed was that she was often from home during the day, attending committee meetings. Parliament did its work mostly in the evening, and thus husband and wife had seen little of each other for much of the year.