“I really couldn’t say…” Cornelia gave an inward sigh.
Mrs. Nossle was clearly as great a gossip as the rest. When she heard of Cornelia’s past, no doubt, she’d be whispering about that instead.
“My husband, the Reverend, sees it as his duty to discover all he can about the history of the parish.” Mrs Nossle went on, between mouthfuls of soup. “The Abbey is built on the foundations of the old monastery, with only a small portion of the original remaining. It was founded by a Franciscan monk who travelled to Mexico, they say: one Friar Vasco de Benevente. During the Reformation, it all passed to private hands, like many of the holy buildings in these parts. It was then that King Henry VIII created the title of Duke of Studborne.”
Mrs. Nossle broke her bread roll and heaped a generous slather of butter upon the morsel. “The Reverend was eager to write a whole history of the Abbey but the duke and duchess weren’t keen.” She popped the bread into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Can’t blame them for wanting a mite of privacy I suppose. When people read those sorts of books it only makes them more desirous of visiting, and there are crowds enough already on the Abbey’s summer opening days.”
“There’s a lot to be said for a quieter life.” Cornelia agreed. “To be so much in the public eye must be wearing.”
Mrs. Nossle looked somewhat plaintive. “I suppose you’re right, but one can live too quietly. I wouldn’t mind a spell up in London—to take in the shows and observe the bustle of all that’s new.”
“There are amusements but one tires of them quickly. Since my husband’s passing, I’ve chosen a modest existence. I’ve no desire to ‘see and be seen’ as many have.” As the second course found its way to the table, Cornelia wondered how she might guide the conversation in some other direction.
“Oh, to be sure!” declared Mrs. Nossle. “A widow may not need chaperoning in the same way as a maidenly young woman but she must guard her reputation, nonetheless. People do love to talk, don’t they? You’re very sensible, Mrs. Mortmain, I’m sure, to keep away from the fleshpots and such.”
“Fleshpots!” The man on Cornelia’s other side perked up and gave a roguish grin, revealing teeth stained with blackcurrant jus. “Lead the way, I say. Life’s too short and all that! Though too much hedonism does play havoc with the innards. I’m a slave to the gout, but not done for yet!” Baron Billingsworth addressed Cornelia over a fork of roasted venison.
“Pretty young things oughtn’t to be without a husband. Don’t deny it! I know the urges of youth; too much temptation to fall into wicked ways.” He fell to energetic mastication.
“The Reverend will agree, won’t you Nossle?” The baron’s voice carried across the table at an alarmingly loud volume. “Attractive women shouldn’t be allowed to prowl Society too freely, setting the men aflame. Disruptive to the general peace and all that; widows are the worst of the lot…or the best, I should say.”
Turning a disturbing shade of purple, the Reverend dabbed at his face with a napkin but refrained from a reply. While others turned away, clearly unwilling to engage in such inappropriate discourse, Cornelia caught Lady Pippsbury’s eye and was certain she witnessed smirking.
The baron gave a lascivious wink and, under the table, rubbed his knee against hers. Cornelia dropped her knife with a clatter. With shaking hands, she retrieved it, wondering if it was sharp enough to stab the baron’s straying thigh.
The odious man had just begun recounting a treatment he’d heard of for the relief of stiffened limbs, and his belief that a woman’s hands were best suited for the technique when all heads turned towards the drawing room.
Looking up, Cornelia saw two tall figures silhouetted in the connecting entranceway.
“Please do carry on, everyone.” The duke pressed his lips lightly to Lady Studborne’s hand before walking to his place at the opposite end of the table.
Burnell, meanwhile, was bearing down on Cornelia’s side. Though he was formally dressed, there was no mistaking that he’d recently been outside. His cheeks bore the sort of ruddiness that came only from exposure to the elements, and his bearing spoke of having recently undertaken physical exertion.
He came to a halt behind Baron Billingsworth’s chair and, for a moment, Cornelia thought he might hoist him from his seat in much the same way as she imagined he’d dragged out the errant sheep.
A tick was working in his jaw but he merely bent to the baron’s ear.
“I don’t want to hear that kind of talk about widows, or women of any persuasion.”
The baron’s moustache worked furiously above gnashing teeth but he refrained from answering back, instead raising another forkful of food to his mouth.
Standing tall, Burnell clapped a hand vigorously upon the baron’s shoulder, causing him to half-choke on the cabbage he chewed.
With that, he strode round to the vacant seat between Mrs. Bongorge and Lady Pippsbury.
“Why, Mr. Burnell,” the marchioness simpered. “How gilligallant you are—like a knight of old defending a woman’s honourables.”
“Here, here,” added Mrs. Bongorge, leaning towards him. “What a pleasure it is to meet a man who understands our worth.”
Cornelia noticed that Burnell’s eyes were still trained on the baron, and looking none too friendly. “I did what any self-respecting man would.”
His gaze then moved to her. “Mrs. Mortmain and her aunts are old friends of my sister and I; they deserve to be accorded every civility.”
“But, of course,” cooed the marchioness. “And I do so hope that we may become friends, too, Mr. Burnell. My daughters and I have followed your exploititudes with avid interest. Such tales you must have! The days shall fly by, hearing tell of your adventures. You may be certain of a rapacious audience. We shall want every detail.”
Burnell inclined his head in recognition of the compliment but his answer was firm. “A man can hear too much of his voice, Lady Pippsbury. I haven’t the inclination to relive every aspect of my past; some of it, to be sure, isn’t fit for a lady’s ears, anyhow.”
“Oh, but those are the details we shall most relish.” Mrs. Bongorge rested her hand upon his arm, smiling conspiratorially. “You needn’t fear shocking me, Mr. Burnell. My body may be that of a soft and fragile woman, but my spirit is made for adventure. I can only begin to imagine how you might make me gasp.”
Across the table, Cornelia sawed her venison into ever smaller pieces.
Lady P was right. She is a hussy!
She suddenly felt very sorry for Mr. Bongorge, laid up in bed somewhere or other.
“If thrilling tales are the order of the day, you’d do worse than ask Mrs. Mortmain to spin a few.” Burnell was looking at her still, his eyes alight with amusement. “She’s an invaluable asset at the British Museum—helping with the security of exhibits, no less.”
“Really?” Lady Pippsbury peered in Cornelia’s direction. “One would think they had men to handle that sort of thing; hardly a lady’s realm. Whatever brought about such a strange situation?”
“Mrs. Mortmain’s expertise has long been recognized in the cataloguing of ancient artefacts; knowledge passed down by her father.” Burnell tapped his nose. “But her skills extend far beyond the usual. Just the other week, she fought off a thief attempting to steal one of the Palekmul treasures. If it weren’t for her vigilance, who knows what might have happened. Apparently, she had the fellow pinned until he begged for mercy.”