Page 32 of The Summer Country

“Jonathan Fenty.” Mrs. Davenant’s face looked like a mask, frozen into place. She lifted a lace-edged handkerchief, coughing delicately into it. “I knew him. Not to speak to, of course. He was bookkeeper at Peverills. And a Redleg.”

“A Redleg?” Laura looked inquisitively at Mr. Davenant.

Mr. Davenant’s color rose. “It’s a term for—for people who live in the area we call Scotland. They’re mostly of Scots and Irish origin. When they worked in the field, their, er, extremities would burn in the sun. Hence the term.”

“Dirt poor, the lot of them,” Mrs. Davenant said, so viciously that Emily half expected to see welts rise on her skin from the venom. “I don’t expect your grandfather ever spoke to you about where he came from.”

“My grandfather,” said Emily, “never made any pretense about his origins. He was proud to be a self-made man.”

“I understood he married a wealthy widow.”

“And made her wealthier by far.” Emily didn’t know what her grandfather had done to make Mrs. Davenant hate him so, but she refused to be intimidated. “My grandmother’s inheritance was modest compared to what my grandfather achieved.”

Not that her grandmother had ever gloried in wealth. She had been raised a Methodist, and, although she had come to the Church of England with her first marriage, the principles had remained. It had made Emily’s grandmother an admirable, if not always a comfortable, figure.

But they had been well-suited, her grandparents. Emily remembered her grandfather’s boyish glee at his wealth, and the way her grandmother humored him—and continued to oversee the mending. For that, her grandfather had been equally parsimonious about small things. It was only in the large things that he tended to display, buying jewels her grandmother would never wear and waistcoats so heavily embroidered with gold and silver that they could light the way for passing ships.

Mrs. Davenant examined Emily so intently that Emily’s nose began to itch. “You loved him.”

“He was my grandfather.” Her grandfather and the one person she could trust, always, to put her interests first. Emily swallowed hard against a sudden rush of grief. “I would trade my inheritance in a moment to have him here with us again.”

“Now here’s a pattern of filial devotion for you.” Mrs. Davenant turned away with a rustle of starched linen and horsehair. Emily could almost hear everyone begin to breathe again. “Not everyone feels quite so warmly about their grandparents, eh, George?”

Mr. Davenant wrinkled his nose. “Grandmama . . .”

“Don’t write me any poems.” Mrs. Davenant stalked over to Adam, peering at him through the lenses of her lorgnette. “I don’t need to ask whether you’re a Fenty. You have the look of your grandfather.”

“Sunburnt and penniless?” Adam tried to make a joke of it, but it fell flat. “I can only endeavor to follow my grandfather’s example in the leadership of Fenty and Company.”

“Fenty and Company.” Mrs. Davenant rolled the words on her tongue as though tasting something unpleasant. “How times have changed. And is Peverills now the property of Fenty and Company?”

“No,” said Emily. She felt as though a game were being played to rules she didn’t understand, with her family the butt of it. “Peverills is mine and mine alone.”

To her surprise, Mrs. Davenant lowered her lorgnette. “Hold to that, Miss . . .”

“Dawson,” supplied Mr. Davenant.

“Miss Dawson. There will be many who will try to tell you otherwise.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the dining room. “I imagine you expect to be fed?”

Laura looked imploringly at Mr. Davenant. “We don’t wish to be any bother. . . .”

“It’s no bother at all,” said Mr. Davenant gallantly.

“George! You take in Miss Dawson. Mr. Fenty”— Mrs. Davenant eyed Adam with distaste—“your arm, if you please.”

Mr. Davenant bowed to Emily. “If you would do me the honor?”

Emily began to think that Dr. Braithwaite had made the right choice in leaving; she would have been glad to decline. But they had no way back to Bridgetown but Mrs. Davenant’s carriage, so she took his arm and said, “Thank you. We didn’t mean to put you out.”

“You haven’t,” said Mrs. Davenant, going unerringly to the head of the table. “The table is uneven. We’re short a man.”

They would have had an even number had Dr. Braithwaite stayed.

Mr. Davenant held out Emily’s chair for her, a tall affair with spindly finials and a back made of cane. She sat gingerly, glancing around the table, uncomfortably aware of the contrast between those seated at the mahogany board and the servants positioned around the table.

Would Dr. Braithwaite have been invited to sit at this table, to share this board? Or would he have been snubbed, turned away?

“Pepper pot, Miss Dawson?” A footman was holding a tureen extended in front of her, a savory blend of meat and some sort of vegetable.