Edith stared out at the couple on the dancefloor; her aunt was clearly interrogating Michael.
"You think Gregson will be able to match wits with Rosamund?"
She swung around at Tom's dryly-put question. "He's an editor of a highly regarded newspaper. You don't think he can hold his own?"
"I know I can't. Against any Crawley woman." He peered thoughtfully at the couple dancing as he removed a battered looking paper pack of cigarettes from his pocket and held it out towards her. "Tell me about his wife."
Edith, faintly surprised by the sudden change of subject, primly refused a cigarette. "His wife?"
"There's lunatics and there's lunatics. My aunt Biddy had a tic that would shake her cheek every few minutes, plus she would take to swearing at the most inappropriate times." He laughed. "No one ever wanted her in church, even though it wouldn't be God's way to suggest she stay away. Yet underneath it all, she was a harmless old girl. Lived quite independently in a cottage on my uncle's, her brother's, farm until the ripe old age of 72."
He lit a cigarette before going on. "Then there's the type of lunatics that scare even the bravest man; ones so feral they need to be chained to their beds in case they should kill their own kin."
Edith paled, images from too many a gothic novel flitting through her mind.
"And there's many in between as well. What sort of behaviour was she displaying?"
"I'm not sure," she confessed quietly.
Tom blew a plume of smoke over her head. "But surely you've asked."
"It's not something one could politely ask."
Tom flashed her a disbelieving look before stubbing out his only-half-smoked cigarette. Immediately she knew he was going to have more to say on the subject.