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“I could pen a letter,” she suggested. “Weren’t you planning to respond to the recent missive from your sister?”

“I can write my own letters,” the dowager said sharply, even though they both knew her spelling was atrocious. Grace always ended up rewriting all of her correspondence before it was posted.

Grace took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, the exhale shuddering through her. She did not have the energy to untangle the inner workings of the dowager’s mind. Not today.

“I’m hot,” the dowager announced.

Grace did not respond. She was hoping none was necessary. And then the dowager picked something up off a nearby table. A fan, Grace realized with dismay, just as the dowager snapped it open.

Oh, please, no. Not now.

The dowager regarded the fan, a rather festive blue one, with Chinese paintings in black and gold. Then she snapped it back shut, clearly just to make it easier for her to hold it before her like a baton.

“You may make me more comfortable,” she said.

Grace paused. It was only for a moment, probably not even a full second, but it was her only means of rebellion. She could not say no, and she could not even allow her distaste to show in her expression. But she could pause. She could hold her body still for just enough time to make the dowager wonder.

And then, of course, she stepped forward.

“I find the air quite pleasant,” she said once she had assumed her position at the dowager’s side.

“That is because you are pushing it about with the fan.”

Grace looked down at her employer’s pinched face. Some of the lines were due to age, but not the ones near her mouth, pulling her lips into a perpetual frown. What had happened to this woman to make her so bitter? Had it been the deaths of her children? The loss of her youth? Or had she simply been born with a sour disposition?

“What do you think of my new grandson?” the dowager asked abruptly.

Grace froze, then quickly regained her composure and resumed fanning. “I do not know him well enough to form an opinion,” she answered carefully.

The dowager continued to look straight ahead as she answered, “Nonsense. All of the best opinions are formed in an instant. You know that very well. ‘Else you’d be married to that repulsive little cousin of yours, wouldn’t you?”

Grace thought of Miles, ensconced in her old home. She had to admit, every now and then the dowager got things exactly right.

“Surely you have something to say, Miss Eversleigh.”

The fan rose and fell three times before Grace decided upon, “He seems to have a buoyant sense of humor.”

“Buoyant.” The dowager repeated the word, her voice curious, as if she were testing it out on her tongue. “An apt adjective. I should not have thought of it, but it is fitting.”

It was about as close to a compliment as the dowager ever got.

“He is rather like his father,” the dowager continued.

Grace moved the fan from one hand to the other, murmuring, “Is he?”

“Indeed. Although if his father had been a bit more…buoyant, we’d not be in this mess, would we?”

Grace choked on air. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I should have chosen my words more carefully.”

The dowager did not bother to acknowledge the apology. “His levity is much like his father. My John was never one to allow a serious moment to pass him by. He had the most cutting wit.”

“I would not say that Mr. Audley is cutting,” Grace said. His humor was far too sly.

“His name is not Mr. Audley, and of course he is,” the dowager said sharply. “You’re too besotted to see it.”

“I am not besotted,” Grace protested.

“Of course you are. Any girl would be. He is most handsome. Pity about the eyes, though.”