“Who is that girl with Simon Middleton?” I whisper.
Miss Chatterbox is overjoyed that I have joined her in gossip. “Her name is Lucy Fairchild, and she is a distant cousin,” she relates breathlessly. “American and very well-to-do. New money, naturally, but heaps of it, and her father has sent her in hopes she’ll marry some poor second son and come home with a title to add luster to their wealth.”
So this is Lucy Fairchild. My brother would throw himself on the tracks to gain her attention. Any man would. “She’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t she absolute perfection?” Miss Chatterbox says wistfully.
I suppose I’d hoped to hear that I was mistaken—“Why, I don’t think she’s as pretty as all that. She has a funny neck and her nose is oddly shaped.” But her beauty is confirmed, and why is it that her beauty casts such a long shadow over me that every bit of my light is extinguished?
Miss Chatterbox continues. “There are rumors of a betrothal.”
“To whom?”
My companion giggles. “Oh, you! To Simon Middleton, of course. Wouldn’t they make a lovely couple?”
An engagement. At Christmas Simon made the same pledge to me. But I turned him away. Now I wonder if I might have been too hasty in refusing him.
“But the betrothal is only a rumor,” I say.
Miss Chatterbox glances about furtively, positioning her umbrella to hide us. “Well, I shouldn’t repeat this, but I happen to know that the Middletons’ fortunes have turned. They are in need of money. And Lucy Fairchild is exceedingly well off. I should expect they’ll announce the engagement any day now. Oh, there is Miss Hemphill!” Chatterbox exclaims excitedly. Having spied someone far more important than I, she is off without so much as another word, for which, I suppose, my ears should be grateful.
While Grandmama prattles away with an old woman about gardens and rheumatism and the sorts of subjects that might very well be found printed in a primer under the heading What Old Women Must Talk About, I stand along Rotten Row, watching the horses and feeling sorry for myself.
“Happy Easter to you, Miss Doyle. You’re looking well.” Simon Middleton stands beside me. He is strong and shining and dimpled—and alone.
“Thank you. How lovely to see you,” I say.
“And you.”
I clear my throat. Say something witty, Gemma. Something beyond the obvious, for heaven’s sake. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
Simon smirks. “Quite. Let’s see…you look lovely. It’s lovely to see one another. And, of course, the weather is quite lovely. I do believe we have encompassed the loveliness of all things lovely.”
He has made me laugh. It is a talent of his. “How beastly a conversationalist I am.”
“Not at all. In fact, I daresay you are…a lovely conversationalist.”
Several horses streak past, and Simon greets them with a cheer.
“I hear congratulations may soon be in order.” It is bold of me to say it.
Simon arches an eyebrow. His lips press into a wicked smile that makes him ever so attractive. “For what, pray tell?”
“They say your suit of Miss Fairchild is quite serious,” I reply, looking down the dirt path to where Lucy Fairchild mounts her horse.
“It occurs to me that cricket is not the true sport in London,” Simon says. “Gossip is.”
“I shouldn’t have repeated it. I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. Not on my account. I rather adore rudeness.” The wicked smile is back. It works its magic, and I find I am lighter. “Actually, I do have my heart set on a new girl.”
My stomach tightens. “Oh?”
“Yes. Her name is Bonnie. She’s right over there.” He points to a gleaming chestnut mare being led to the starting line. “Some say her teeth are too strong for her face, but I disagree.”
“And think of what you shall save on a groundskeeper, for your grass shall be kept quite tidy by Bonnie,” I say.
“Yes. Ours will be a happy union. Quite stable,” he says, drawing a laugh from me.
“There is a matter I wanted to discuss with you, if I may,” I say haltingly. “It concerns your mother.”
“Indeed.” He looks disappointed. “What has she done now?”
“It is about Miss Worthington.”
“Ah, Felicity. What has she done now?”
“Lady Markham is to present her at court,” I say, ignoring his jibe. “But your mother seems to object.”