Page 2 of The Summer Country

“No. I’m quite all right.” Laura’s lace parasol cast dappled shadows across her face. “I was—I was admiring the flowers.”

Emily rather suspected it had more to do with the topic; Grandfather hadn’t approved of Laura and Laura couldn’t bear criticism.

But she quickly said, “Flowers in February, can you imagine? Grandfather said it was always summer in Barbados.”

“Yes, but he didn’t like summer. He said it made the streets smell.” Adam craned to look around as the barouche slowed. They came to a stop before a house fronted with yellow stucco, a gallery encircling the upper story. “Could this be the place?”

He sounded as if he hoped it weren’t. The house and the galleries were freshly painted, the flowers carefully trimmed, but it looked nothing like the mansions of Bristol’s burghers. A hen pecked at the dirt in the street. A small bird darted past, wings bright.

“It must be,” said Emily. They were near enough to the wharves that Emily could hear the slap of the waves, the shouts and bustle of the dock hands. “Mr. Turner must like to live close to his investments.”

“It isn’t at all what I expected. I had thought it would look . . . different. Grander.” Adam turned to Laura. “Is my cravat crooked?”

“Here,” Laura said, and gave it a tweak, patting the edges into place where the starched folds had wilted in the heat.

Emily sat quietly back in her seat, feeling like an interloper. Of course she was delighted that her best friend and her favorite cousin had married; it was just that she didn’t quite know how to behave with them now that they had a world she didn’t share.

Adam displayed Laura’s handiwork to Emily. “All right?”

“Nanny would be proud. . . . Thank you,” she said to the coachman, who had held up a hand to help her down.

“You look very nice too,” said Laura loyally.

Emily looked down at her own modest toilette. Her skirts were narrower than Laura’s, her neckline higher, as befitted an unmarried woman on the verge of spinsterhood. “I’m tidy and respectable, at least.”

Aunt Millicent would have been delighted to trick Emily out in her cousins’ discarded dresses, to lace away her breath and trip her with flounces, never understanding, no matter how many times Emily told her, that she had no desire to play Cinderella with a borrowed slipper. She was comfortable in her poplins and twills, much happier to be busy and useful in her father’s parish than she would ever have been sitting in Aunt Millicent’s drawing room, pouring tea for the ladies on her aunt’s myriad of charitable committees, most of which seemed to consist of vying to arrive with the newest hat or the most shocking on-dit.

Proceeding behind Adam and Laura down the walk, Emily felt out of place in her own skin, self-conscious in a way she had never been before, too aware of the hair escaping its net, the dress that had never been fashionable in England and was too heavy and hot for the West Indies. She had never thought of herself, in England, as a spinster. She was Miss Dawson, the vicar’s daughter, always busy with soup or salves; Miss Dawson, Mr. Fenty’s granddaughter, with the run of his house and warehouses; Miss Dawson, Miss Laura’s practical friend.

Here, she was none of those, simply Mr. and Mrs. Fenty’s companion, the spinster cousin in the outmoded gown.

They passed through a door hidden beneath the shade of a balcony. A maidservant stood aside to allow them to enter, leaving them blinking in the sudden gloom of the hall. It might have been England again, but for the fact that there were no doors to be seen; instead, arches separated a dining room and parlor from the hall. The impression was one of endless riches, the gleam of marble and wood, crystal and porcelain, spreading on as far as the eye could see.

A staircase rose before them, a smooth curve of mahogany. Emily heard a giggle and saw a whisper of white cambric, the bounce of a curl: two schoolgirls peering down through the banisters at the guests.

A man stepped through the arch on their right. He wore a well-cut suit, his face very dark against the starched white linen of his cravat. He must, thought Emily, be a superior sort of servant. “Mr. Fenty?”

“Ah. Yes,” said Adam, and thrust his hat and gloves at the other man. “I believe your master is expecting us. If you would inform Mr. Turner—”

“My uncle,” said the other man, enunciating very clearly, in a voice that spoke of Oxbridge and private tutors, “regrets that he was not here to receive you. He should be here presently.”

“Your—” Adam stood frozen, his top hat vibrating in the air.

“If you will follow me?” said the other man curtly, and, without waiting for an answer, he strode back through the arch into the dining room.

Quietly, the maid took the hat and gloves from Adam’s hand.

“Uncle?” murmured Laura.

“A charity child,” whispered Adam. “It must be. It’s been known to happen. A servant’s child adopted into the family . . .”

Mr. Turner’s nephew was waiting. Emily poked Adam in the arm. “Shall we?”

“Er, yes.” Adam scrambled after their host, half dragging Laura with him, leaving Emily to follow along behind. “We must be—that is, we made very good time. The carriage—so well sprung. The road—so scenic. Your, er, uncle was very kind to send his own carriage.”

“My uncle,” said the other man flatly, “has several carriages.”

“Naturally. That is . . . May I present to you my wife, Mrs. Fenty?” Adam said in desperation. He dug his elbow into Laura’s ribs until she belatedly remembered to bow. “And this is my cousin Miss Dawson. Mr., er, Turner?”