The Bachelor's Bride (The Thompsons of Locust Street #1) - Holly Bush Page 0,5

finally allowing himself to take a closer look at the younger woman. Her heavy auburn hair was in the new “turned up” style, making a thick roll around her head. She wore a plain dark blue dress, but it was her eyes that once again drew his gaze. Their green-brown depths were on fire!

“And what reason could you possibly have for visiting us, a respectable family, Mr. Pendergast?” she said in a voice laden with derision.

Mrs. Murdoch glanced back at her. “Fetch Mrs. McClintok for some coffee and cakes. Have a seat, Mr. Pendergast. We will conduct a civil conversation about the lovely spring weather.”

The older woman seated herself on the end of the sofa and stared straight ahead while her niece made clear her feelings.

“This is the man who was coming out of the bawdy house with his father,” she said, her voice rising on every word. She looked at him as if daring him to interrupt her. “The other man cuffed the woman, and they refused to pay her.”

“The coffee, Elspeth?”

The young woman whirled and marched through the door, calling for the woman in a none-too-soft voice.

“Sit down, Mr. Pendergast,” Mrs. Murdoch said. “Sit down or I will get a crick in my neck looking up at you more than I already have.”

Alexander made his way around the sofa and sat down in one of the chairs closest to the fireplace. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The old woman stared at him and raised her brows. “And the weather, Mr. Pendergast?”

“Oh yes,” he said, remembering her early command and realizing that he was not showing himself to be a confident man of twenty-eight years but rather a timid boy. “This spring weather has been a welcome relief after a cold winter, has it not, ma’am?”

“I don’t hear a hint of the Emerald Isle in your language, young man. When did your people come over?”

“My people?”

“Your family, Mr. Pendergast. If you arrived here as a result of the potato famine, then your lack of accent is quite remarkable.”

“My grandfather came here as an adjunct to a British commander prior to the Revolution. He stayed,” Alexander said with some finality. As if he was required to give some sort of justification for his lack of accent.

“And how does an Irishman become an adjunct to an Englishman? Likely a member of the British aristocracy, a second son of some noble house. Your family didn’t starve to death like so many Irish families as their foodstuffs were conscripted for the British army?”

“We did not,” he said, recognizing that she would not give up this line of inquiry until she had his history. “My grandfather, through some largesse, was able to attend the University of Oxford and became friends with the British commander’s younger brother. When the elder brother, second son of a marquess, left for his command here on this continent, he was told my grandfather had not yet found useful employment and hired him to be his secretary. He was never in the British Army per se.”

“Well connected, then, the Pendergasts of Philadelphia?”

This old woman was abominably rude, but if she realized it, she was in no way shameful of it, almost as if his history was her right to know. “My parents are Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Pendergast.”

“How convenient for you,” she said without a trace of recognition.

There were many Pendergasts in the city, as many Irish had landed here during the last hundred years, but her father’s name did carry some influence as the owner of one of the largest mills on the entire East Coast, as well as being brother-in-law to one of Philadelphia’s mayors, Robert Conrad. His mother was a leading lady in Philadelphia society as well, and her affairs and charities were often mentioned in The Philadelphia Inquirer. He wondered if this lady knew that but was toying with him. His thoughts were interrupted by the housekeeper, and he stood.

“Bring the tray here on the low table, Mrs. McClintok,” Mrs. Murdoch said. “Come sit, Elspeth. You can pour and pass the cakes. I am overdue for something sweet today.”

He was still here! Talking to Aunt Murdoch as if he were someone worthy of their acquaintance. She would give him the foot of the cake, where it might be dry and would surely be hard, as she’d defied Mrs. McClintok and put the three-day old cake destined for the rubbish bin on the plate beside the coffee. Elspeth sat on the sofa near the low table, poured her aunt coffee