“Matters went horribly,” Constance said. “Ivy is wonderful. If I try to explain the details to you now, I will end up marching back to Reverend Shaw’s house and drawing his arrogant cork.”

Stephen took a placid sip of his ale. “That’s encouraging.”

“Explain yourself.” Or I will draw your cork. The violence of Constance’s anger was both frightening—she never lost her temper—and inadequate. Ivy was bound for Australia, and nothing Constance could do or promise would change that.

She was angry with Reverend Shaw and—for no defensible reason—with Rothhaven.

“For too long,” Stephen said, “you have been content to paint away your megrims, to have a nip or three on the bad days, and keep yourself to yourself. A daughter is worth fighting for, and that you want to plant Reverend Witless Show a facer doesn’t mean you’re a devil like Jack Wentworth. You are simply a mother frustrated beyond bearing.”

“Witless Show? Is that what they call him hereabouts?”

“The alewives are a merry lot. Would it cause too much scandal if I shared that bench with you?”

Such a question meant Stephen’s leg was paining him. “You had better not. Have you proper clothes with you or only the disreputable kind?”

“I have both. Did Rothhaven abandon you at your request, or must I have a chat with him about unmarried ladies and the behavior of a proper escort?”

“We are in Fendle Bridge, Stephen, not Mayfair. Any number of unmarried ladies are strolling the green without causing talk.”

“And to think I have no use for life in the country with all these fair damsels wandering at large. Where is Rothhaven?”

“Asleep, I hope.” He’d been so apologetic, and yet his staring spell could not have come at a worse time. She’d been furious with him, and that was shameful, so she’d admitted what anger she could—anger at herself. She was still angry at herself.

“Your gallant duke is asleep?” Stephen took another sip of his ale, perhaps to buy time to marshal his own temper. “You lose the opening skirmish with Ivy’s uncle, and Rothhaven puts his feet up, catches forty winks, and leaves you to wander brokenhearted among the yeomanry?”

“He had a staring spell as the discussion grew heated,” Constance replied. “Reverend Shaw expected the gallant duke to curry the favor of a mere country parson. Shaw was instead treated to a cold, awkward silence. Rothhaven is unhappy with himself.”

“I am unhappy with him. What manner of staring spell?”

“For a short time, he neither moves nor speaks. He appears to be asleep with his eyes open. I gather he could hear what was said around him, but he could not reply. Shaw took it as something like the cut direct, and I didn’t help matters.”