It is a beautiful house. Nora said simply. Of course it is. Lady Mirabelle agreed warmly. Though I imagine the scale must be somewhat overwhelming.
Ketmore is a very modest county. My mother says the whole of it could fit inside one of the Dunmore estate's east-facing fields. She laughed gently. As though this were a charming observation rather than a precise social cut. Lady Farroww seated beside Nora said nothing.
This was notable because Lady Farroww was not generally a woman who said nothing. She was saying nothing now. Nora understood. Because she was furious at Nora. And was therefore not inclined to defend her.
Clarissa Farrow the eldest stirred her porridge with the focused energy of a woman channeling considerable emotion into a small domestic task. Delia Farrow the middle daughter was reading a letter that had arrived with the morning post and appeared to find it more interesting than the conversation. Tilda sat beside Nora and kicked her gently under the table which was Tilda's way of saying I see what is happening and I am with you. Nora looked at Lady Mirabelle and said. Pleasantly.
I have always found that the size of a place has very little to do with how much happens in it. Some of the most interesting things I have ever seen have happened in very small rooms. Lady Mirabelle smiled again. How true. She did not look remotely troubled.
At the head of the table the Dowager Duchess Heloise ate her breakfast with the focused attention of a woman storing information. She was 71, small in stature, white-haired, and possessed of the kind of social intelligence that had nothing to do with education and everything to do with a lifetime of watching people. She had said very little since her arrival the day before. She had also, but Nora had noticed, been watching very carefully. The Duke was not at breakfast.
Percival had delivered his apologies, citing an early meeting with his estate manager regarding the Northfield drainage situation, which Percival had described with the specific detail of someone who had been asked to make the excuse sound real. Lord Cecil Barton arrived at breakfast late, which he did every morning, and took his usual seat at the far end of the table with the easy confidence of a man who considered punctuality optional. He was 35, the eldest son of the Barton family, and he had accompanied his younger sister, Lady Gwen, to the selection as her escort, since their father was unwell and their mother had stayed home to manage him. He was charming in the specific way that required no particular effort, and good-looking in a conventional arrangement of features, and Nora had decided over the past 2 days, approximately as deep as a decorative dish. "Lively morning," he said, surveying the table.
"I passed three carriages on the drive yesterday. Half the candidates have fled already. Exciting stuff. " He reached for the coffee. "Miss Vane, you are the talk of the county, I understand. " "Lord Barton," Lady Dunmore's voice came from across the table, sharp and bright. "Perhaps we might discuss something other than yesterday's events.