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Breakfast was a gloomy affair. The clink of cutlery echoed through the silent room as the rain pattered against the windowpane. Nobody dared to speak, carefully avoiding the scandal of the previous night. Only the occasional request for salt or pepper broke the silence.
Mary stared at her plate, the nervous tension rising within her until she could bear it no longer.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, somebody just please say something!’ she finally exclaimed, dropping her cutlery with a clatter.
The silence swelled: uneasy glances, shifting in chairs, a nervous cough.
‘Like what?’ Robert asked, his tone deliberately mild, as though hoping to smother the spark before it caught.
Mary laughed, sharp and brittle. ‘Like what? Did the princess catch wind of what had happened? Did she see me skulking under the stairs? The disgraced divorcée, still desperately trying to cling on to society’s coat-tails?’
The words hung in the air. No one answered.
Bertie shifted in his chair, fumbling with his napkin. ‘Well, it was… I mean, the princess… she was…’
‘Of course, she knew,’ Edith cut in, her voice crisp, rescuing her husband. ‘As much as Lady Petersfield would have liked to have kept it quiet, every guest at Petersfield was speaking of it before the night was out.’
‘I bet they were,’ Mary sniped. ‘My broken marriage is a juicy steak of a scandal for them to sink their teeth into, isn’t it? Heaven forbid that any of them should show an ounce of compassion.’
Robert sighed, setting down his knife. “You might have warned us. We could have handled it differently.
‘Oh, well, forgive me for wanting just one more evening of normalcy before being thrown to the wolves!’ Mary snapped.
‘He’s right, Mary,’ Cora intervened. ‘You should have told us you’d received your decree nisi.’
‘I needed some time to let it sink in! This whole thing has been a nightmare!’ Mary protested, her jitteriness increasing as it felt like her family was turning on her as well as the wider London society.
Cora softened. ‘I know that, but we could have been more prepared.’
‘You knew it was coming, Mama. You can’t have been that surprised,’ Mary pointed out, her voice turning sulky.
“Timing is everything,” Cora replied, her tone still mild. “And having it come out at Petersfield… well, it wasn’t ideal.
‘Well, it’s out there now,’ Mary said, her shoulders slumping. ‘Everyone is talking about it. We’ll just have to endure it.’
‘And we will. We’ve done this before. And we will do it again,’ Cora soothed, reaching to take Mary’s hand.
‘Have you?’ Bertie piped up, looking confused. ‘When?’
The table stilled. Eyes flicked from one face to another, some guilty, some angry.
‘Ask Edith,’ Mary muttered, shooting a dark look at her sister.
Edith lifted her chin, every inch a marchioness. ‘There was… an incident before the war. Mary became the subject of talk then.’
‘Because you made me it.’
Edith did not flinch. ‘I know now that was wrong. This time, I’m on your side. And my word carries more weight.’
Mary’s jaw tightened, annoyed by the oblique reference to the difference in their social standings now; Edith riding high, while she was flailing in the gutter.
‘Because you’re the Marchioness of Hexham.’
The words landed like a stone. Edith held her sister’s stare, unblinking. Around them, the family sat in silence, the rain still tapping at the glass.
‘Well, beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.’ Mary swallowed her pride, sharp and jagged in her throat. ‘I would be grateful for anything you can do to calm the waters.’