“You know, in my youth, we were taught to fear nature, to fear the sea and the forests. But what I see of this now is quite picturesque. The sea is thrilling. It makes one stop and think, does it not?”
“Yes,” Portia agreed. “There is an undeniable beauty to it.” She looked to the cliffs that abutted the sandy shore and how they met the rolling surf and the cloudless bright-blue sky. She thought of something the poet Shelley once said: The place is beautiful. All shows of sky and earth, of sea and valley are here.
Cornelia smiled. “You know, child, when you aren’t determined to be a spoiled little creature, you are rather delightful and intelligent.”
Portia bit her lip to stop a vehement retort from slipping out. Instead, she simply replied with an old quote her father used to say about the ocean. “Toward the close of a fine summer’s evening, then the sun, declining in full splendor, tints the whole scene with a golden glow, the seashore becomes an object truly sublime.”
“Quite right, quite right,” her aunt agreed.
“Hello!” A shout from behind had the ladies turning.
An older man was hurrying toward them at a brisk pace. Although he was around Cornelia’s age, in his early seventies, he moved with the energy of a much younger man. It was the earl they’d met before. Donald . . . Rhyton, perhaps? Her mind had been elsewhere when the introductions were being made. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what he was the earl of.
“Oh, my lord. What a pleasure to see you here!” Cornelia beamed at the white-haired gentleman as he reached them.
“My fair Cornelia.” The earl bowed over her hand, kissing it. And he smiled warmly at Portia.
“How are you, Lord Arundel?” Cornelia asked as he joined them on their walk.
Arundel, that was it. Donald Rhyton, the Earl of Arundel. She committed the name to memory now.
“Excellent, now that I have run into you. I was hoping to find you so that I may invite you and your niece to join me at my home for dinner this evening.”
“We have no other engagements. We would be most delighted, wouldn’t we, Portia?”
Portia replied that she would, but it wasn’t as if she had much choice. Cornelia would not hesitate to jab the tip of her parasol into Portia’s bottom if she dared to beg off.
“Wonderful. Wonderful. Are you bound for home?” Lord Arundel asked.
“We are,” Cornelia confirmed.
“Then allow me the honor of escorting you back. We still have much to catch up on.” The earl offered his arm to Cornelia, who blushed like a young lady and tucked her arm into his.
Portia followed behind, her mood darkening at the thought of a dinner with no young people and nothing to listen to but reminiscing about things that had happened in the previous century. For a moment, she almost envied Lydia’s predicament.
During their dinner later that evening, her aunt and the earl became embroiled in a lengthy conversation about India and how his favorite grandson had just purchased a commission to serve in His Majesty’s army and was bound for the subcontinent.
“Capital fellow, my grandson. He’s engaged to the most splendid beauty, the daughter of the Duke of Suffolk, wouldn’t you know? Never a better made match. We’re all quite pleased.”
“That is splendid, my lord!” Cornelia said.
Lydia knew that her great-aunt always loved to hear about well-placed matches in society, which was no doubt why Lydia and Portia had left her so disappointed.
“Excuse me.” Portia stood, and the earl hastily rose to his feet. She waved a hand at him. “Oh please, do sit, my lord. I must excuse myself for a moment.” She exited the dining room and inquired politely of a waiting footman where she might be able to relieve herself. He led her to a private room and handed her a small bourdaloue, a small piece of china that looked rather like a gravy boat, which she might hold under her dress. Portia closed the door of the room and glanced about with a sigh. She didn’t actually need to use the bourdaloue. She simply wanted a moment alone to think.
Lydia was somewhere in Scotland. If Portia were an angry Scot on the run with an Englishwoman, she would not leave a trail of breadcrumbs so obvious, which meant they would not be in Edinburgh, so her father was headed in the wrong direction. It seemed more like he’d hide out at Castle Kincade.