Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

But he’d phrased it so absurdly, Mary thought.

If I go to Wakefield, will you go with me? As though she could turn around all her plans on a whim-and a whim, moreover, entirely his.

As though it would be a small matter for Peggy to pack her things for the journey-without even knowing how long they’d be gone-and yes, as usual, the day before laundry day.

Not to speak of having to drop everything she was doing, party and cistern committee- just on the slender possibility that he might decide to go down to Wakefield.

Absurd. Inconsiderate. Thoughtless and really rather childish.

And yet, when he’d asked her, she hadn’t hesitated an instant. “Yes, of course I’ll go with you. You know I will, Kit. You can tell me on Tuesday morning, and I’ll be ready.”

He’d tell her his decision when they met at the large oak tree, at the beginning of the woods, past the broken stile.

At least Jessie wouldn’t be alone for too many days, for the MacNeills would be arriving on Friday.

The important question was whether Kit would be willing to face Richard Morrice after all these years. Well, in truth the important questions concerned the incipient rebellion and the Home Office’s perplexing response to it. But the personal aspect of a situation always trumped the more general, didn’t it? And if that made her a silly, trivial person… and she expected it did make her exactly that… well, then so be it.

Ah yes, and then there would be the little matter of the long coach ride to Wakefield.

The newspaper didn’t mention rain coming from the north. The weather would be mild-perfectly fine for a maid to ride outside, with Kit’s valet.

“I think you should pack enough for three days, Peggy, and then, of course, there’s a day of travel on either side of it. I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying.” Or even where-she knew very little about the inns in Wakefield. “I think I’ll wear the green chambray to travel.” (It’s very pretty on you.) “But you can pack the white muslin with the black dots… Yes, and the pink is very lovely too, and that one too… What excellent choices you’re making for me…” Peggy had a far better eye for clothing than she herself did. Though the girl seemed a bit down-but that was probably due to the condition that she didn’t feel ready to own.

“You’re not feeling… ill, are you, Peggy? Ah, good, I’m happy to hear it. But remember that if you do take bad, with a… a cold or with anything at all, well, you needn’t be a martyr. I and my family will help.”

But Peggy was quite well, thank you, Lady Christopher, for your consideration. And what time did her ladyship think they’d be leaving tomorrow?

“I’m… not quite sure yet, dear, but best to be ready early. I’ll have a little walk in the forest right after breakfast, and then we’ll see.”

Explaining it to Jessica was a bit more complicated.

“So you’re going to be seen in public with him? But won’t that appear as though you two are back together… And interfere with things when it comes to Matthew Bakewell?”

“It would indeed, if I hadn’t already broken off my connection with Matthew.”

Jessica’s silence was as eloquent as her raised eyebrows.

“Since yesterday,” Mary said. “Well, in a letter I posted yesterday. It… I decided, given the state of my affections, that it wouldn’t be fair to Matthew.”

“Hmmm. It took you long enough.”

Mary returned her sister’s gaze. “Yes, I expect it did.”

“And as for Kit?”

“You’d have to ask Kit. I don’t know how any of this will end. Not necessarily well, I should think. But at least I’m not deceiving myself any longer.”

She was happy to be enfolded in a long, silent, and equally eloquent hug.

Pulling herself away finally, to share a smile with her sister, she continued, “Now let’s go over the list of what we were supposed to accomplish in the next few days, and figure out what tasks we can assign to Julia. If he and I do actually go.”

Which passed the evening quite entertainingly, until Mary found herself yawning and gaping over the voluminous list they’d compiled-for Julia liked to have her responsibilities made most explicit.

But even with every chore painstakingly noted, Jessica would insist upon lighting another set of candles, in wait for the carriage from Cauthorn.

“Well, it’s her first real dance party, and even if, as is more than likely, she’ll simply curl her lip and roll her eyes when I dare ask how it went…”

“Of course,” Mary replied, “but you won’t mind, will you, if I go on up to bed?”

Jessie shook her head, and the sisters kissed good night, the younger one rather in awe at how one could still love so ungrateful a wretch as a daughter, and a beautiful one at that, whom Kit may or may not have danced with this evening, not, of course, that it mattered one way or another.

The Dowager Lady Rowen was still asleep, Thomas told Kit, when he’d stopped at the dower house the next morning.

Well, it was still awfully early. Kit hadn’t waited to be shaved nor to eat breakfast. His head was still swirling with a night of dreams. Spicy, sugared ones, and some odd, confusing ones as well-the London delegate had even appeared in one of them.

But the impeccable Thomas looked a bit less composed than usual as well, his words still polite but a bit uncharacteristically short. Not only that: Kit could have sworn that the footman had quickly stuck a pamphlet into a pocket of his mulberry velvet coat.

Et tu, Thomas? Certainly you’re not also planning sedition.

One never knew. Still, he hated to feel himself suspicious of so loyal a servant. Thomas had retrieved a few items that Kit had left behind in Calais; his mother had given them to him yesterday when she’d arrived.

“Ah, well, tell her ladyship that I’m off to Wakefield for a few days, on magistrate’s business,” he replied. “Oh yes, and here,” he added, “this is for you, with all my thanks.” Whatever swill he might be poisoning his thoughts with, Thomas deserved a reward for finding what had been lost. “No, please, it’s the least I can do.”

He turned away and started down the path, stopping suddenly, to call back a final piece of information.

“Wait, Thomas. I didn’t word my message quite correctly. You can tell her, if you please, that Lady Christopher and I are off to Wakefield.”

Why not?

And, for that matter (for there she was, waiting by the oak tree), why not sweep her into his arms for a happy morning kiss? His dreams of her had been of a more exotic genre, but she looked so pretty and natural there in the clearing in her green dress, that it was randy pleasure enough just to peer into her sunlit face, just to draw her to him, curve his hand around her arse, and then to imagine…

Drawers? No, I don’t.

Of course not. Drawers would be an absurdity in a carriage, not to speak of an assault upon common sense. While without them… delightful to think how little it would take-just a few buttons of his pantaloon… with the moist green fields slipping by on either side of them outside the windows.