by Jane Feather
"No one else feels right," Clarissa said. "Uncle Horace… or Cousin Cecil… they're not family in the same way."
A slow smile spread over Sylvester's face as he wrung out a cloth in cold water and gently applied it to Theo's bump. "I should be deeply honored."
"Will you give me away too?" Rosie piped up, brushing sugar dust off her lips. "When the time comes."
"No, I think I'll hang on to you," Sylvester responded dryly, gently smoothing arnica over the bruising. "Save some poor soul from a ghastly fate."
Emily and Clarissa chuckled, and Rosie, unbothered by the teasing, responded matter-of-factly, "Well, I don't particularly expect to marry anyway. I'd have to find someone who's particularly interested in snails and beetles and things. I don't think many men like that kind of thing."
"Oh, the right kind of men turn up in the most unexpected places," Theo said carelessly, reaching up to grasp Sylvester's wrist. "And from the most unexpected families."
"Even Gilbraiths," he said with a smile.
"You're no Gilbraith," Theo stated. "You must have been a changeling."
"Theo, my dear, whatever's happened to you? Foster said you're hurt." Elinor entered the room with a most unusual haste, her customary composure vanished.
"She fell in front of a passing carriage," Rosie informed her mother. "At least that's what Theo said. Stoneridge didn't say anything."
Elinor glanced sharply at her son-in-law as she bent to examine Theo's injury. His expression was wry, but he offered no further explanation.
"I don't believe it's serious, ma'am. The skin isn't broken."
"No," she said, scrutinizing the bruising. "But you must have a headache, dear."
"Like the pounding of Thor's hammer, I should imagine," Sylvester said. "She should be in bed. You'll excuse us, I'm sure, if I see to it."
"Yes, of course. I'll suggest to Lady Gilbraith that she and Mary might join us for nuncheon in Brook Street. They've just gone upstairs to take off their hats." Elinor was unable to help herself from sounding a little weary. She'd already spent an interminable morning with them.
Sylvester shook his head as he scooped Theo off the sofa. "There's no need to put yourself out further, ma'am. If my mother is unable to amuse herself for the afternoon, then I'm afraid she must go to the devil."
Elinor struggled with herself for a second, then laughed. "An unfilial sentiment, Sylvester, but I can't help but agree with it. Come, girls. Theo needs to rest."
"I'm sure I don't really," Theo protested from her husband's arms as they went into the hall.
"There's resting and resting," Sylvester said blandly, mounting the stairs.
"But what about my sore head?"
"I wasn't intending to focus my attentions on your head."
"Ah," Theo said, shifting in his hold so she could put her arms around his neck. "That's all right, then."
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