She nodded, making his fingers dance accidentally across the back of her head, tingling her scalp so that she shivered. “It won’t be grand, but I can get it up in a tidy knot,” she said in a voice not quite steady.
“Looser than a knot, love, please. It is at best advantage with a few wisps about your cheeks.”
She nodded again, to cover the fact that she shivered yet again, and he slipped from the room. She snatched up her brush, which she applied with hurried vigor to her hair, and it was not until she was fastening an inexpert chignon, complete with wisps, that she realized her fingers were trembling.
When she cracked open the door to her bedroom, she gave a little sigh of relief, for John was not there. His absence gave her that much longer to compose herself. It was, she told herself, only natural she should be flustered at the kind of personal attentions he had given her. She should have insisted he ring for the chamber maid, that the girl could serve her well enough. Why hadn’t she done that? Yes, it would have taken longer and made her especially late, but that was the way of things. Oh, he had overridden her, as usual! It was his way. Yes, it was his way, she told herself as she clenched her hands into her skirts, trying to steady them there.
Her color was a little high when she joined the others in the dining room, lending her a certain dramatic presence, if only she had known it.
The decorous way she moved, the way her head was held high, they were all the marks of a true lady, Edmund thought to himself, underscoring yet again his decision to like this female.
Timothy had no thought as to why he was pleased to be seated on Lady Mary’s right, but he was, and Aaron was quick to get a lively conversation started with the lady concerning the use of tigers versus ostlers.
After a few moments of quiet, refined conversation, the veneer of polite society fell away, and the usual hubbub of the Rothayne household resumed. The two eldest nieces, Ann and Karen, sixteen and fifteen years of age respectively, had been invited to the table. They looked charming in their white, ruffled dresses, pleased to find they were not to be counted among all the remaining cousins who were confined to the nursery to partake of their suppers there. That meant there were fifteen people seated at table, with Georgette and her husband, Kevin, not attending as she was still taking her meals in their room following the birth.
“Vulgar lot, aren’t they?” John said loudly toward Mary, who was five chairs away from where he sat at the head of the long mahogany table.
“Homey, I should say,” Mary responded with a warm smile for everyone’s benefit.
“You are too kind,” John said with emphasis. No one bothered to be the slightest bit quieter, though it was clear they listened with relish to whatever conversation they could when they themselves were not speaking. “I swear I shall never be seen in public with the lot of them.”
Mary, quite unused to a meal being such an unstructured occasion, began to smile, having to hide the act behind her napkin. Finally she was able to recover her poise, although a grin lingered in her eyes.
“Mary!” Aaron shouted at her. “Just wanted you to know it’s not this way at our home,” he cried, pointing from himself to his wife, Sofie. “Just seems to happen here. No one tries to fight against it. Lost cause, and all that!”
“I see!” she called back.
Just then John raised a silver fork and rapped his water goblet with ringing effect. The table fell silent as all eyes turned his way. He looked down both lengths of the table, and toward his mother at the far end, and said with a look of satisfaction, “Just wanted to see if it still worked.”
“Oh, John,” his mother scolded mildly, and then the din rose swiftly again to its previous level.
Mary found herself partaking of the most amusing meal she had ever had. The food itself was delicious, the conversation fascinating, and the experience of dining ala Rothayne (as John put it) uniquely charming. There was no pretense, and the laughter was genuine, not polite. It was deemed appropriate to tease lightly, including even, quite apparently, guests. After several shocked blushes, Mary found herself giving as good as she got. At one point all the gentlemen engaged in a lengthy discourse on how inappropriate the name ‘Mary’--which means ‘bitterness’--was for their guest. This led to a spirited discussion of which of the local bitters was to be preferred, and hence to Aaron’s tale of a misspent night in a pub, cleverly told until John was shaking so hard with laughter that he actually laid his head on his arm on the table, thumping the surface with his other hand in time to his gales of laughter. Mary laughed with him, and the whole table, until she had to hold her side and her mouth actually hurt from being so long upturned. Oh, it was so vulgar, so unrefined, this raucous gathering, and she adored every minute of it. She did not want to leave the table, even after the last possible crumb of marzipan had been tucked within the last willing pair of lips, even after the last sip of wine had been drained from the last cup. She could have sat there the whole night through, soaking up the goodwill and companionship these people so freely offered her, an outsider. It was enough for them that John had named her “friend”. It was enough for her that they found her worthy of the title.
Finally, though, as is the way of the world, the gaiety fell away, replaced by the more normal conversational bits about who needed to go where the next day, and who was to make their departures soon; did the grey mare need to be shoed again; how was that new footman working out, and the like. The hubbub died down to a moderate level, and people began to trade chairs, so that the women gravitated down to one end of the table, and the men to the other. Mary lifted a quiet eyebrow at this, accustomed as she was to the removal of the gentlemen to their port, usually in a room far removed from their womenfolk. She herself made no move, but she turned in the direction of the men, trying to catch snatches of their conversations without looking too forward, while at the same time having one ear pointed toward the sometimes intriguing comments of the women.
She heard tell of a rodent problem at the mill that had increased with the floodings, and she heard Lady Rothayne--Cornelia--discussing when Georgette might again attend church services. She heard the war department was rebuilding their ranks, and she learned Eugenia had detested the daughter of the near neighbors ever since her fifth birthday party. When John spoke of revisiting the vicar to have his opinion on how the poorer lot were getting on and what might be done for them, she nodded approvingly to herself, and when she heard Cornelia say the same thing, she ventured to speak up and point out that plans were being laid at both ends of the table on the matter.
“Would you call upon Father Manning, John? I daresay he appreciates your concern,” Cornelia nodded approvingly at her son.
“We must do something for those families, for I very much fear there will be no local harvesting this fall, no employment for them,” he responded soberly.
Mary gazed upon her friend, unused to seeing him in the role of landowner and therefore without the light of amusement dancing in his eyes. The somber expression on his face took not one whit away from his beauty, and in fact only served to point up his similarity to the carved angels that one admired so in the cathedrals, their faces beautiful with the gravity of their love for God and what could only be their disappointment with erring man. She gathered her hands together in her lap, for of a sudden she wished nothing so much as to cross to his side and soothe the solemnity from his brow with her hands. She wished to whisper something in his ear to make him smile, to somehow, even for the space of a few minutes, spare him the worries of the world, this world, his home and income, his people and his family.
But then that impulse faded, gone as swiftly as it had been born, and she wanted nothing so much as to weep, for she found her heart was swelling with joy, the joy of finding something of precious value in a deep, dark well. It was not that it was unexpected, not at all, for she had liked him from the moment they had met, and she knew she could never like a total scoundrel. No, it was not unexpected, but still it took her breath away,
and filled her with pride, to see so clearly written upon his extraordinary face that he cared. He cared for these women of his family--even if they nearly drove him mad--and he cared for the people who relied on him for their income, even for the roofs over their heads. He was concerned people might go hungry. He cared that he had yet another niece to claim as family. He worried that the soil held under his titled name be worked properly and made productive. The ennui, the blatant disregard of societal rules, the ways and means of the town man were not the total of the whole man. He had more than one side to him, and as amusing as the town man was, it was this farm fellow who would stand steady when the need arose. Yes, he was still the sleek, pleasure-seeking cat, but like the cat he would defend what was his, would prowl his territory relentlessly, staving off whatever dangers might stalk him and his.
Mary was so moved by the not-quite-unexpected discovery of her friend’s depth that she could not raise her eyes, staring down at her empty plate and blinking furiously, willing away the tears she could never explain were they to fall. Gradually she became aware of the dialogue going back and forth around her, and forced her ears to listen, to concentrate on something other than the lump in her throat.
“Mama, I don’t believe this is quite the thing to discuss at the table,” she heard John say. Although he still had the sober mien about him, there was a pinched look about him now too, perhaps a sign of embarrassment or annoyance.
“John, she is the prettiest thing. She is educated, clever, well thought of in these parts. No one can fault her in the slightest. I have seen for myself that you were not indifferent to the girl. I have tried to fathom, very indirectly of course, whether or not the girl and her family are receptive, and I believe I can truly say that not only are they receptive, but possibly even eager,” Cornelia said.
Eugenia nodded sagely. “Although she has not had to run a household herself yet, I am sure her mother is the kind to train her daughter--”
“And have you seen her embroidery work? She stitches like a dream!” Hortense interrupted, her sisters nodding around her.
Mary glanced at John’s face, which seemed to be composed, but she saw the blue lightning in his eyes, and wondered that the others did not. Perhaps they chose to ignore it.
“And she can paint. Have you seen the large canvas in their front hall? The study of an urn? She painted that! Oh, I’ll grant it’s not a Rembrandt, but one has to admit it’s rather finely done,” Penelope called across the table.
Angela threw in, “And she plays the pianoforte quite charmingly. Recall that musical evening, oh, about two months ago? I thought to myself, well, goodness, the girl has a touch of talent--”
“That’s quite enough,” John growled, suddenly pushing back his chair. His face was finally touched with two dull spots of red as he tugged down his waistcoat in a gesture of finality. “Gentlemen,” he said to the room, but he did not wait for any response from them as he strode purposefully from the room, apparently in search of an after-dinner drink.
The ladies fell to exchanging comments, except for Hortense, who caught Mary’s eye over the table. She rose smoothly and came to Mary’s side. “Have you a shawl?” she asked quietly.
Mary nodded.
“Then let us fetch it, and go for a walk in the gardens, shall we?” Hortense said, with something in her attitude that suggested a wish to talk.
“Of course,” Mary agreed, intrigued.
They went to her room, found a shawl, took one for Hortense as well, and proceeded out the library doors into the garden.
“It is more chill than I had thought,” Hortense said, frowning up at the dark clouds over their heads.
“At least it’s not raining.”
“It shall be doing so again, soon,” Hortense sighed.
“I’m afraid you’re correct.”
“I’m sorry about the way we are,” the older woman said suddenly.
Mary shook her head, even as she asked, “You mean the enthusiasm at table? In truth, I cannot fault it. Who is there to offend? Personally I abhor stuffy dinners.”
“Mary, it is quite evident to all of us why John has taken you to his heart. You are a truly good person. There are not many who would gloss over our very countrified ways, and instead turn them into some kind of virtue,” Hortense said with gravity, though one corner of her mouth quirked upward.
“Perhaps I am not so much kind as uncouth,” Mary grinned.
“Touché!” Hortense laughed. But it was not for amusing banter that she had brought them to the gardens. She added without further preamble, “You sensed that I wanted to talk to you?”
Mary nodded.
“About John, of course. About that little scene at table.” She paused, glancing again at the clouds over their heads. “I’ll speak simply, as I expect the rain to start again any moment.”
“Please do.”
“Mama spoke of a young lady--Miss Yardley, by name--whom we have decided is the perfect wife for John.”
Mary’s heart suddenly contracted painfully. She had not thought of John marrying anytime soon, as he was ever so vehemently opposed to the idea. But, of course, he must eventually, for the sake of the estate. It was near impossible to imagine his will being overridden by anyone else’s--but it was with sharpened ears that she listened to the rest of Hortense’s statements.
“You must understand something of our family to understand why it is John has not already settled down. You see, our father, as fortune would have it, was the sort of man who truly enjoyed the company of women. He was, therefore, the happiest of men to be surrounded by what he affectionately termed his ‘harem.’ I cannot overemphasize this love for the company of females. John decries the fact he was an only son, but I, for one, am glad there were no others. I believe it was only John’s singularity that made him stand out to our father at all, besides the simple fact that a man must declare an heir, and it is preferred a man’s heir be his son. Had he had them, I believe Father would have let any number of sons go willy-nilly, preferring the company of his daughters. And what kind of life would that have been? No, it was fortunate John was born the last and only male.”
“How extraordinary,” Mary said, not sure she could believe Hortense’s claims.
“It is not surprising, therefore,” that lady went on, “that John grew up in his father’s shadow, learning to enjoy, admire, cherish, and seek our feminine company by virtue of it being his only choice, and his only example. I feel safe in saying that to him we were all just a little shy of goddesses, for we were older, we were overbearing, and we were catered to in all our whims by Papa, and Mama rather followed his lead. John could have grown up full of self-importance, but I tell you true, he did not know to think himself singular or special. He had no vanity.”
Mary lifted an eyebrow. “Well, he can be vain enough now.”
Hortense gave a tight smile. “And that is what comes of going out into the larger world, of course.” She sighed. “Out there, our dear boy learned he was handsome, and erudite, and a valued commodity. Men praised his athleticism, teachers lauded his mind. Where Papa had occasionally chucked him under the chin, now men of importance and their sons heaped praise upon him. I’m sure it was all very heady.”
Mary walked quietly, trying to imagine John as a young innocent. John? Naïve? It was nearly impossible to imagine.
“He met females who were not like his loving, if dominating, sisters. These women loved his beauty--but not his soul. They led him astray, and they played with his heart.
“If but one had wounded him,” Hortense said sadly enough that Mary’s doubt wavered, “he might have rallied and been satisfied to keep the majority of womankind on the pedestals Papa had so effectively erected for us, but there were a series of cruelties and broken promises, and I am afraid the goddesses were proved to have feet of clay. Frankly, they broke his heart.”
“It is hard to imagine John with a broken heart,” Mary said her thought aloud, her own heart beginning to ache painf
ully in sympathy.
“Oh, I must speak fair and say he is recovered, in most respects. At least…well enough that we think the time has come. We think because he is who he is, and because he is not exactly a lad of tender years anymore, it is time a woman who would satisfy us all be found and a marriage arranged. We must make our John happy, even if he can never again be the largely carefree lad we sent out into the world.”
Mary pursed her lips, even as she nodded agreement.
“As you must know, our John is a clever fellow. At first, when the pain of knowledge was new, his tongue was sharp to keep people away, to not let them see his vulnerability. It earned him that atrocious nickname, ‘the Blade’, although even I must admit at the time it was not unwarranted, for he could cut you easily with that quick wit of his. But, like most of us, what had once been needed is now perhaps ready to be discarded. We think, finally, that the opportunity and the time are right. The bitterness has softened, the acid tongue now comes to the fore only to take on the occasional oaf or blackguard.”
Mary considered. She did not know John’s past as his sisters did, but she knew his strength of personality. “I daresay there is little that is frail about the John I know.”
Hortense smiled. “I don’t know how he handles himself in London, so I am pleased to hear you say as much. Tell me, do you ever find him cruel or unkind?”
The very idea surprised Mary. She hedged, “He is a terrible tease.”
“True.”
“And sometimes very cutting.” Mary considered some more. “But, as you say, only to those who have earned his reproach. Such as a cheater, or a man who uses foul language before ladies. On the other hand, I have seen him be most kind to a befuddled old woman, or engage a young lady in conversation whom everyone else has neglected.” Am I not proof of that?
Hortense nodded, keeping pace with Mary as they walked. “I like seeing his regard for women, though dented, still lives. Too, that his humor is returned, even if half the time I could pinch his ear, naughty lad. Still, in his homecoming this time, we all noticed he has changed, turning further from distemper and disappointment.”
The Marriage Mart Page 9