Lady Griffith's Second Chance

Chapter Eight

The shooting commenced not long after all evidence of breakfast had been cleared away. The servants had been well occupied during the morning hours setting up awnings to protect the ladies from the ill effects of the midday sun. Targets had also been erected on a clear, flat expanse of lawn with which the participants would display their prowess with a gun.

Regan did not much care for shooting. Edmund had always been more of an angler, choosing to wile away his early mornings at the stream that cut through their property, catching a bounty of fish that would no doubt accompany their dinner later that day. Regan often accompanied him to the water's edge, sitting on the bank to paint or sew or simply enjoy the pleasure of being out of doors and in her husband's company.

The constant firing of guns, on the other hand, was a noisy business, not to mention the smoke and the odor of gunpowder it put into the air. She was happy that Jack seemed to have taken after his father in that respect, preferring to perfect his own lures, to tramp into the dirt with his sister in search of worms and grubs and other bait, to wade into thigh-deep water in search of the still, shadowed pools where the largest fish tended to linger.

Settling herself beside Katharine, beneath the shade of an awning, Regan glanced around at the other women taking their seats at the delicate tables set out for everyone. Most of the women had changed from their morning attire, putting aside the plainer dresses of white and lace for more elaborate styles, more to be shown off among their peers. Regan still wore the same gown she'd changed into after her walk. It seemed pointless, she thought, to go through the elaborate process of undressing and dressing all over again. Even at home with the children, she often wore gowns smudged with food and dirt from her hours spent with them all the way to the dining table.

But here she was, amid a dozen other ladies who no doubt planned on wearing at least three separate outfits each and every day. Regan didn't own enough gowns for such activity, unless she were to send back to her home in Kent for the mourning dresses already packed away before she came.

"Thank you," Regan said to the footman who bent over their table, delivering cups of lemonade and a tray of delicate tarts filled with fresh berries and topped with dollops of cream. Joining them at the table were Miss Lane and her mother. The latter glanced up at Regan at her words to the servant, eyes sharp and brow furrowed.

Regan wondered at the look that reeked of disapproval, and then she understood what of her behavior had brought it on: She'd thanked the footman. Around the rest of the tent, the servants moved as if they were invisible, garnering nary a look from any of the assembled guests. But she had gone and thanked the man, a holdover from her efforts with the children to ensure they always used their proper manners, their "please and thank you's" whenever the situation called for them.

She met the woman's glare from across the small table and smiled before taking a sip of lemonade.

"Oh." The whisper of sound dropped from Katharine's mouth. Regan looked over to what had caught her daughter's attention and saw Mr. Winthrop walking across the lawn, several other gentlemen accompanying him.

There was nothing remarkable about Mr. Winthrop's build or stature. A man of average height, average weight, with average brown hair that was nearly vanished from the crown of his head, more visible now beneath the full light of the sun as he removed his hat to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. But Katharine had never been one to wax poetic about a man's appearance. If Mr. Winthrop had so caught her interest, it was his mind, his intellect that had secured it.

Further on, and Regan spotted Mr. Cranmer speaking with one of the servants who held a musket out to him. There was no grin on Mr. Cranmer's face. He appeared to be listening to the servant as he went through the particulars of the weapon with him. A few paces beyond, Lord Hays milled about on the grass, though she noticed the older gentleman occasionally glancing in Mr. Cranmer's direction, before his eyes darted towards the awning, as if he were searching for her.