Gill joined his wife at the window, abruptly tired to his bones. “Are you scolding me because I have not been charming to you, my lady? I will exert myself to the utmost if you want witty banter and gossip, but I would really rather…” He’d rather sit with her on the terrace of the little cottage and watch the stars come out.
“My lord?”
When had Gill’s viscountess become so adept at hiding her feelings? “How are you, Penelope? You came down here to be alone, and that is not how we’ve typically weathered this time of year. You did not feel you could inform me of your plans in advance, and that concerns me.”
He thought she might come back with another brittle, ambiguous retort, but she instead cracked the window, letting in both a whiff of ocean and the faint, rhythmic sound of the surf.
“I hate this time of year.”
She spoke mildly, but for Penelope, Lady Summerton, to use the word hate was surprising.
“I’m not too keen on it myself. All the socializing and engagements and crowds?”
She nodded. “All I want to do is hide, except one cannot, not in spring. Sometimes, I want to talk about the past, but Bella and Mama-in-Law made it plain one does not dwell on such things. Then I will be planning some dinner or musicale for your parliamentary cronies, and your mother will mention that Bella or some cousin is expecting again…”
Gill risked taking Penelope’s hand. “Then, for just a moment, you hate Bella and Tommie and every stupidly contented couple in London.”
“In the world,” Penelope said. “Bella always means well, but she never seems to realize that her good news might bring something other than unmitigated joy to those who hear it.”
Cymbeline was—not to put too fine a point on it—somewhat insensitive. She was energetic, practical to a fault, and dear to her husband, but Gill found small doses of his sister-in-law’s company sufficient.
More than sufficient, particularly when she started haranguing him on the need to establish trusts for his nephews and set aside funds for his nieces. Tommie had inherited Lychmont, and the property was solvent, but according to Bella, the head of the family should see to his heirs.
“Was Bella threatening to come up to Town with Mama?” Mama and Bella got on amazingly well, considering both were outspoken and headstrong.
“They will arrive in London sometime after tomorrow,” Penelope said. “Mama-in-Law does not feel it necessary to provide me an exact date. They leave you mostly in peace, while I cannot claim parliamentary duties or an appointment with the solicitors when I need a respite from them.”
This made Penelope’s flight more understandable, though it did not explain the need for secrecy. Gill would have understood her reasons better than she knew.
He was contemplating putting an arm around Penelope’s shoulders when a discreet tap on the door heralded the arrival of the food. He seated his wife and took the place at her elbow so they both had a view of the ocean.
They started with a pepper pot soup, a good choice for a brisk spring evening, followed by ham, potatoes, and by some hothouse miracle, green beans amandine. The discussion was superficial—the inn appeared to be thriving, the weather agreeable, the countryside so pretty in spring. Gill was encouraged nonetheless, because it was conversation, and Gill exerted himself to go about his half of the dialogue as charmingly as he could.
Penelope had a lovely laugh, and he had not heard it in years, much less inspired her mirth.
“You aren’t eating much,” he said when they’d moved on to a tray of cheese, orange slices, and apple tarts.
“Travel truly does put me at sixes and sevens,” Penelope said, passing him a tart. “Why did you suggest we simplify our calendar this year?”
The tarts were good. Still warm, an excellent complement to a tangy cheddar and a light Sauternes.
“I am out of patience with parliamentary nonsense,” Gill said. “The intrigues and pettifogging and blatant corruption… So few citizens have the vote that the Commons gets away with nearly anything they please, and the Lords…”
He was complaining, and to his wife. Not very charming of him.
“I thought you liked all the”—Penelope waved a hand in circles—“horse trading and palaver and late nights. I thought you enjoyed wielding your influence for causes you believe in.”
Gill liked sharing a simple meal alone with his wife. Why had he never insisted that he and Penelope stay home one night a week together? Other couples did that. His own parents had done that.
“I make little headway with my causes because I am unwilling to cheat, threaten, lie, or break the rules. I told myself that if I wasn’t to have children of my own, I could at least do my bit for the children cast upon the streets of London. I had hoped…”
Penelope was looking at him as if he’d announced a plan to move to darkest Peru.
“That’s what all your committees are about? Vergilius, I don’t know what to say.”
Gill had surprised his wife. Maybe alluding to the past wasn’t always a bad idea. “I gave Parliament a good try, but I have no intention of spending another nine years beating my head against a wall of indifference and corruption. I will be conscientious and active, but not… not overly involved.”
Penelope studied him by the flickering candlelight. “Your late father was always much taken up with duties in the Lords.”
“After several years of voting my seat, I grasped that Papa was not active in the Lords, he was social in the Lords. He believed that by pouring enough good port down the throats of enough peers, he’d eventually see some bills passed. He was wrong, though by the time I realized the futility of his approach, you had a reputation as a hostess. I could not ask you to give up something that you seemed to enjoy.”
Whatever reaction Gill expected—incredulity, resentment, ridicule—he did not expect Penelope to smile and salute him with her wineglass.
“You tried. You gave it your best effort, and you are blowing retreat now that it’s clear the rules of engagement were not what you’d been led to believe. I do enjoy having some influence as a hostess, Vergilius, but I am glad you have decided to take a step back. Entertaining London year after year has paled, just as your enthusiasm for Parliament has paled.”
Encouraged by that response, Gill rose and extended a hand to his wife. “I wish we’d had this discussion sooner, Pen. I can’t say our time and effort were wasted, but we might have made a yearly sojourn here instead of bracing ourselves for the annual onslaught. Perhaps next year we’ll plan accordingly.”
Something about that little speech apparently did not agree with his wife, for when Penelope rose, she’d once again donned the mask of the gracious viscountess. Gill paused only long enough to wrap some apple tarts in a table napkin, before he held the door for her and escorted her down the steps.
They passed through the dining room, which was full of chattering guests and bustling waiters.
“The private dining room was a good choice,” Gill said. “Shall we reserve one for tomorrow evening?”
Penelope withdrew the hand she’d wrapped around his arm. “I thought you were returning to Town?”
So much for making headway over a private meal. “Let’s see about getting me a bed here at the inn,” Gill said, “and we can make further plans in the morning.”