Page 63 of The Wedding Challenge

Francesca froze. “Um…I am not sure,” she murmured, stalling for time. She did not know why it was that her mind, usually so agile in concocting polite social lies, always seemed to jolt to a stop around Lady Pencully. “What time tomorrow?”

“The whole day. I have been meaning to visit the Duchess of Chudleigh. Your mother’s godmother,” she added, as if Francesca would not know whom she meant.

“Oh,” Francesca replied, with a sinking sensation in her stomach.

“Thought it might be a good idea for you to come along. She lives in Sevenoaks, you know, only a short ride. She would quite like to see you, I imagine, and you will be able to write your mother and tell her how the duchess is doing. She was in rather ill health this winter, you know.”

“I believe Mother mentioned it,” Francesca agreed weakly. The prospect of spending the day either enclosed in a carriage with Lady Odelia or sitting with the two ancient women as they shouted back and forth to each other—for the duchess was quite deaf, but refused to use an ear trumpet because she claimed it made her appear old—had no appeal for her.

However, as Lady Odelia had made sure to hint at, visiting the old lady would be what her mother would expect of her. It was her duty, and, like Callie, Francesca had been raised to do her duty. She knew that she could not look Lady Odelia in the eye and tell her that she was not going to visit her mother’s aged godmother, no matter how much she would like to. Even if she could bring herself to do it, Francesca knew that Lady Odelia would soon wear her down with argument and wrest an agreement from her. She might as well give in gracefully.

“Well, I suppose that Callie will be all right by herself for a day,” Francesca began reluctantly.

“Of course she will,” Odelia told her stoutly. “She has a whole houseful of servants to look after her. She will be fine.”

“Very well,” Francesca capitulated, suppressing a sigh. “I will go with you tomorrow.”

“Excellent!” Lady Odelia beamed at her. “I shall be here to pick you up at nine o’clock.”

“Nine?” Francesca repeated hollowly. “In the morning?”

“Yes, of course, in the morning.” Lady Odelia sent her an odd look. “It will take the whole day—best to get an early start.”

“Naturally.”

Her mission accomplished, Lady Pencully did not remain long. She soon took her leave—no doubt, Francesca thought sourly, going off to bully some other poor person into doing something for her.

Francesca went upstairs to tell Callie, who immediately chuckled.

“Well, I am glad that my misfortune pleases you,” Francesca told her with mock indignation. In truth, she was pleased to see Callie laugh for the first time in days.

“I am sorry, truly,” Callie told her, her eyes twinkling. “I know it will be a misery for you. But I am so happy that you decided I should be sick.”

“You should be,” Francesca retorted, unable to keep from smiling. “Else I would have dragged you into going with us.”

Callie gave an exaggerated shudder.

“Are you sure you do not want to go anyway?” Francesca teased. “We could say you had a miraculous recovery. ’Twill be very boring for you here alone, after all.”

“Better lonely than riding half the day in a carriage with Lady Odelia,” Callie retorted heartlessly. “Do you think she will bring that horrid snuffling dog of hers?”

“That ancient pug!” Francesca looked horrified. “Do not even think it.”

Callie dissolved into giggles at her expression, grateful for the opportunity to laugh. She was not someone who enjoyed dwelling on her sorrow.

Tomorrow, she thought, she would have to find some task to do, something to put her mind on other than her own problems.

So the next day, after she awoke and had a quiet breakfast alone downstairs, Callie rang for her maid and spent the next few hours going through her closet, choosing what dress or slippers she might refurbish with a bit of ribbon or some flowers, and what she should give away or just assign to the ragbag.

Unfortunately the job did not take long, as she had only the clothes she had brought with her from home or had only recently bought, so there was little to repair or toss out. By noon she was finished. If she had been at home, she could have gone through the attic, cleaning out old unusable things and getting pleasantly distracted by this or that old dress or well-worn toy. But she could scarcely do so in Francesca’s house.

After that, her mind began to turn in its too-well-traveled path of thinking about Brom. She was not going to do that, she told herself, and went to Francesca’s morning room to look for a novel to read. Perhaps a lurid tale from Mrs. Radcliffe’s pen would occupy her mind.

She was searching through the shelves when Fenton came into the room, his anxious face most unlike his usual unruffled expression. “My lady…”

“Yes, Fenton, what is it?”

“There is a man here. He says that he has an urgent message for you. He says, my lady, that…His Grace the Duke has been injured.”