“It’s certainly more her fault than anyone else’s,” Amelia added, but Grace noted that she tossed a nervous glance at the dowager as she spoke.
Grace nodded, murmuring, “I cannot disagree with that.”
Amelia stared off into space for several seconds, and then, just when Grace was convinced that she did not plan to respond, she said, “It didn’t make me feel any better.”
“Blaming the dowager?”
“Yes.” Amelia’s shoulders slumped a bit. “It’s still horrible. The whole thing.”
“Dreadful,” Grace agreed.
Amelia turned and looked at her directly. “Sodding bad.”
Grace gasped. “Amelia!”
Amelia’s face wrinkled in thought. “Did I use that correctly?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh, come now, don’t tell me you haven’t thought something just as unladylike.”
“I wouldn’t say it.”
The look Amelia gave her was as clear as a dare. “But you thought it.”
Grace felt her lips twitch. “It’s a damned shame.”
“A bloody inconvenience, if you ask me,” Amelia responded, fast enough so Grace knew she’d been saving that one.
“I have an advantage, you know,” Grace said archly.
“Oh, really?”
“Indeed. I am privy to the servants’ talk.”
“Oh, come now, you won’t be convincing me that the housemaids at Belgrave talk like the fishmonger.”
“No, but sometimes the footmen do.”
“In front of you?”
“Not on purpose,” Grace admitted, “but it happens.”
“Very well.” Amelia turned to her with quirked lips and humor in her eyes. “Do your worst.”
Grace thought for a moment and then, after darting a quick glance across the carriage to make sure that the dowager was still asleep, she leaned forward and whispered in Amelia’s ear.
When she was through, Amelia drew back and stared at her, blinking three times before saying, “I’m not sure I know what that means.”
Grace frowned. “I don’t think I do, either.”
“It sounds bad, though.”
“Sodding bad,” Grace said with a smile, and she patted Amelia’s hand.
Amelia sighed. “A damned shame.”
“We’re repeating ourselves,” Grace pointed out.
“I know,” Amelia said, with a fair bit of feeling. “But whose fault is it? Not ours. We’ve been far too sheltered.”
“Now that,” Grace announced with flair, “really is a damned shame.”
“A bloody inconvenience, if you ask me.”
“What the devil are the two of you talking about?”
Grace gulped, and she stole a glance at Amelia, who was staring at the now quite awake dowager with a similar look of horror.
“Well?” the dowager demanded.
“Nothing,” Grace chirped.
The dowager regarded her with a most unpleasant expression, then turned her icy attentions to Amelia. “And you, Lady Amelia. Where is your breeding?”
And then Amelia-oh, dear heavens-she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Damned if I know.”
Grace tried to hold still, but her shock positively burst out of her, and she rather feared she spat upon the dowager. Which did seem ironic, that the first time she did such a thing, it should be accidental.
“You are disgusting,” the dowager hissed. “I cannot believe I considered forgiving you.”
“Stop picking on Grace,” Amelia said. With surprising force.
Grace turned to Amelia in surprise.
The dowager, however, was furious. “I beg your pardon.”
“I said, stop picking on Grace.”
“And who do you think you are, to order me about?”
As Grace watched Amelia, she would have sworn she changed right before her very eyes. Gone was the unsure girl, in her place was: “The future Duchess of Wyndham, or so I’m told.”
Grace’s lips parted in shock. And admiration.
“Because really,” Amelia added disdainfully, “if I’m not, what the devil am I doing here, halfway across Ireland?”
Grace’s eyes darted from Amelia to the dowager and back. And then back again. And then-
Well, suffice it to say, it was a monstrously long moment of silence.
“Do not speak again,” the dowager finally said. “I cannot tolerate the sound of your voices.”
And indeed, they all remained silent for the rest of the journey. Even the dowager.
Chapter Twenty
Outside the carriage, the atmosphere was considerably less tense. The three men remained on horseback, never quite in a line. Every now and then one of them would increase his pace or fall behind, and one horse would pass another. Perfunctory greetings would be exchanged.
Occasionally someone would comment on the weather.
Lord Crowland seemed rather interested in the native birds.
Thomas didn’t say much, but-Jack glanced over at him-good Lord, was he whistling?
“Are you happy?” Jack asked, his voice a bit short.
Thomas looked back in surprise. “Me?” He frowned, thinking about it. “I suppose I am. It’s a rather fine day, don’t you think?”
“A fine day,” Jack echoed.
“None of us is trapped in the carriage with that evil old hag,” Crowland announced. “We should all be happy.” Then he added, “Pardon,” since the evil old hag was, after all, grandmother to both of his companions.
“Pardons unnecessary on my account,” Thomas said. “I agree with your assessment completely.”