Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

And anyway, she’d be learning the truth soon enough. Too late for regrets or apologies-the crisis would be averted, everyone (including her and Morrice) would understand the danger the nation’s magistrates had faced down.

(And if he had any doubts about the rebellion-if he’d once wondered about those London Committees, or questioned the Home Office’s certainties-well, he didn’t any longer; he hadn’t the time or energy for it. One couldn’t know everything. The truth would unfold as it would.)

After which he’d return to London. His family didn’t need him anymore: yesterday Wat had taken a few unsteady steps with a cane in each hand. The dowager marchioness would be back when the spirit moved her. Even that rapscallion Gerry ought to be showing his face eventually.

A tedious Sunday, for according to the schedule he’d worked out, it was her turn to make an appearance at church. Too bad. There were those parish records he’d been wanting to have a look at. Tomorrow, then; he could ride over to church in the morning and satisfy his curiosity.

He’d go over the plans for drilling the militia with Colonel Halsey tomorrow night, at the Cauthorn assembly, after dancing a turn or two with Susanna.

“Do you suppose the girls have had a falling-out?” Jessica spoke in a whisper, though she and Mary were quite private in her sitting room.

Mary shrugged. “Perhaps they’re simply too busy primping and preparing for the assembly tomorrow night. Or they’ve confided everything they possibly can confide to one another and need a bit of a respite. I know I should, if I’d been chattering so incessantly.”

“I expect so,” Jessie said. “Well, I hope they enjoy the dancing. We’ll have just enough time to ask them about it and they’ll be off to spend a few days at the Halseys’. So good of Colonel Halsey’s daughter to think of them, and to invite Fred and Lord Ayres as well.”

“It’ll be nice to get some quiet,” Mary murmured rather absently.

“Well, you’ve had a lot of quiet already, I should think, walking about as you have in the forest.” Jessica’s eyes shone with unasked questions.

But Mary had armed herself for such a moment. “Miss Halsey seems a pleasant girl,” she observed. “Do you suppose she’s setting her cap for Fred?”

The tactic worked as well as it needed to. For Fred, in Jessie’s estimation, was in no position to tie himself down with any young lady until he got his degree, and if he imagined that he was, well, then he was in dire need of some maternal counsel; she’d be sure to speak to him before the lot of them set out tomorrow for Cauthorn.

Forgive me, Fred, Mary thought. And forgive me, Jessie, for keeping the truth from you. Not that it mattered very much, when so many things had come around to their natural conclusions.

“We have enough ham and game in the meat larder,” she said now. “I think it’s time to be planning for the pies and puddings, the syllabubs and trifles. Mrs. Ottinger has suggested a few variations. And I believe we may finally breathe easy about the plumbing.

“Oh, and by the way,” she added, “have you checked on the local young people we’ve engaged to help? I mean, are they working out as they should? No problems there, I trust.”

Jessica hadn’t been apprised of any.

Elizabeth’s reflection returned a sweetly wistful smile, floating as though out of darkness between the tall tapers on either side of her dressing room mirror. The little coronet of braids her maid had done up looked quite well, she thought, with the rest of her hair sweeping back over her shoulders. Better for when she went riding anyway.

And Lord Ayres really wasn’t so bad either. Rather gallant, and a bit melancholy looking, which was agreeable in its way. She hadn’t really noticed his good qualities before Fannie had pointed them out. Or perhaps she’d simply been a bit abashed to have a young gentleman flirting with her. It seemed one could get used to it, though, and (she scanned her silvery reflection thoughtfully) could it really be that she’d become as pretty as people seemed to think?

How strange that she hadn’t noticed the changes. Hadn’t noticed much of anything, it seemed to her, during these last months spent riding, escaping the house to chatter with the young marchioness, mourning her papa and feeling so furious at her mama-for such a long list of transgressions that sometimes Elizabeth wasn’t sure what she was actually so furious about.

But surely Fannie was wrong about Lord Ayres liking Aunt Mary.

And what was wrong with Fannie anyway, that she’d suddenly become so closemouthed?

Not, Elizabeth hastened to assure herself, that Lord Ayres could compare to Lord Christopher. Still, it was agreeable to be paid compliments. And perhaps tomorrow night at Cauthorn, well, it couldn’t hurt to have him gazing so steadfastly at her as he had at dinner; hadn’t Fannie explained that one gentleman’s attention tended to gather and concentrate a roomful of other gentlemen’s glances? Fannie’s example had been taken from optics or astronomy; Elizabeth had lost the thread of the argument, but the general idea was clear enough.

Just as long as she were asked to dance. Of course she wanted Lord Christopher to ask her, but in truth she was more worried that no one might. She thought she might die if that happened, though she also worried that she wasn’t as graceful a dancer as Fannie, whose mama (unlike Elizabeth’s) had been wise enough to employ the best teacher in London.

“Yes, Miss Kimball, I am aware that my bronze-hued sarcenet was intended for the Midsummer Night ball.” Fannie hadn’t meant to be so sharp with the poor old thing, but it was irksome to have one’s thoughts so consistently interrupted.

“Well, I hope,” she continued, “that I may be permitted occasionally to change my mind. We’ll save the lilac muslin for midsummer-no one here at Beechwood Knolls really cares what one looks like…”

She smiled and shrugged in an effort to share an ironic pleasantry with the tedious millstone of a chaperone her mama had tied around her neck.

“But I’m quite determined to wear the bronze gown tomorrow night.” It was by far the most expensive thing she owned, its brilliant color and simple cut making a vivid contrast to Elizabeth’s sweet but rather girlish and flouncy pale blue lawn.

But she must be fair to Miss Kimball-for whatever her deficiencies, she hadn’t really proven an encumbrance. The pathetic old thing must be horribly poor, to judge by all the pleasure she derived from the meals provided for her; Miss Kimball was so intent on simple comforts that Fannie guessed her life hadn’t included a lot of them.

I should be kinder, she resolved. Half-blind and rather deaf as she is, she’s absolutely the ideal chaperone, and I shan’t want to lose her. Thank heaven Mama had been so distracted by Phila and her awkward season so as not to pay closer attention to the old lady’s limitations. In a newly sweet voice, Fannie called out her thanks.

But Miss Kimball had already stumped off to relay the changed plans to Fannie’s maid, that the bronze gown must be aired and a tiny stain seen to, not to speak of getting up the matching ribbons and slippers and amber necklace, leaving Fannie free to turn her attention back to the great Capability Brown’s sketches for the landscape at Rowen.

What clever designs, she thought, and particularly the quaint arrangement of footpaths that lead in all sorts of unexpected directions. Fascinating, Fannie thought, the contrivances that go into improving an estate. What a splendid vocation, to be a landscape gardener.