The two people waiting in tight-lipped silence weren’t happy. His bringing a woman into the house was unusual. His accommodating her in his private quarters was eyebrow-raising. Her pregnancy, well, there was a reason his mother had wanted to speak to him upon his arrival. She was always the first to smell scandal and in spite of her personal history, maybe because of it, she was always the first to try smothering any flames that threatened to disgrace the family again.
His grandfather sat in his favorite wingback chair. He wore a dark suit that set off the gold chain of his pocket watch. Zafir’s mother wore a long black velvet skirt and a starched white blouse. The flouncy ribbon at her throat was the only bit of softness in her elegantly aged demeanor. She had not broken when Zafir’s father died. She’d hardened like carbon placed under extreme pressure.
His grandfather betrayed no surprise at seeing either of them, even though Zafir’s arrival at the house had been as unannounced as his guest’s.
“What is that infamous quote by that American ballplayer?” his grandfather asked rhetorically. “Something about déjà vu all over again?”
Zafir’s mother snapped a look to her father and brought it round to her son, keeping it as sharp as an ice pick. “It would be nice if I could learn certain news directly from you, rather than through the servants,” she stated.
“They told you I was engaged? How did they know when Fern only accepted my proposal a few minutes ago? Grandfather, Mother—my fiancée, Fern Davenport.”
Zafir provided their titles, but as his mother offered her hand for a reserved handshake, she said stiffly, “William and Patricia, please,” and found her Lady-of-the-Manor smile. “I see my daughter has replied to my call with a message after all. I was told she was indisposed.” Her gaze slid down the dress Fern was wearing. “I remember now where I heard the name Davenport,” she added condescendingly.
“Your granddaughters spoke of me?” Fern said, pink beneath the layer of powder on her skin, but earnest, which was appealing in its particular way. “I’ve missed them. I hope they’re well?”
His mother’s expression flickered with indecision, as she tried to determine if she should soften or not. “I didn’t talk to them long. I was distracted, but yes, they’re quite well. Taking some sort of dance lessons.”
“You know the girls?” his grandfather asked. “Forgive me for not rising. Gout.”
“Fern,” Zafir offered as he turned a chair from its place near the fire so she could sit.
She thanked him with a smile and lowered into it, then answered his grandfather. “Amineh hired me last year to tutor the girls in English. I lived with them for about six months.”
“Really, Zafir,” Patricia said in an undertone meant only for him. “The governess?”
“It’s a bit late for snobbery about who we make our children with, isn’t it, Mother?” Zafir replied in a conversational tone loud enough to make Fern pinch her lips together.
“Are we speaking openly then?” his mother asked, metaphorically dropping her gloves. “Because I have to wonder if you did make this one.”
“Don’t take offense to that, Fern,” Zafir said without breaking eye contact with his mother. “It’s a family tradition. My grandfather said the same thing to my father.”
Fern might have gasped. His mother definitely did.