From his estimation, there was little he could do that would prove his sincerity. Then, to whom did he need to prove it? Her or himself? To marry Abbie, to love her, was a lifetime commitment that came with more than half-lidded looks and kisses in churchyards. It meant responsibility to her, the community, tenants and farmers, even himself.
He knew the answer.
All his examinations of ifs, but he already knew the answer, though he remained uncertain if he was willing or ready to face it. It was the greatest gamble of his life. To woo her, he could not seduce her. To woo her, he had to prove himself man enough to support her and accept the responsibilities of life. If he gambled, and she did not fall in love with him….
Well, at least he would have found a place in the world, a place he had never known he needed until now.
In time, anything could happen, even love.
Chapter 14
Three days later, the first Monday in November, Percy sat in a drawing room chair at Leigh Hall. Several windows stood open, airing out the stale musk. Upon closer inspection, Percy and Mr. Wynde had discovered a pinhole leak in the roof. Thankfully, no damage had been done aside from a damp smell and a repairable water stain. Mr. Wynde would arrange for the repairs.
For much of the morning, Percy had been at the hall. Lengthy conversations with the steward had helped him to better understand the running of the estate, something he confessed to the man that he knew nothing about. While Percy would prefer to trust the family solicitor with the numbers, he believed what Mr. Wynde told him and felt confident all would resume smoothly if the steward remained employed at the hall. A long talk with his father was in order before he could purchase the property. Oxford education or not, he knew nothing about managing an estate, much less purchasing one. More importantly, his father served as gatekeeper to the finances.
Before he could write to his father, he needed to decide a course of action. He was not yet convinced he wanted to purchase Leigh Hall. It was still a gamble in terms of Abbie, and it was still a commitment of responsibility. The more he explored the manor and its grounds, however, the more at home he felt—a novel concept for him, feeling at home—and the more in love he fell with the life it offered.
The views were not half bad either.
The drawing room was fast becoming his favorite room. Hardly a rational reason to like the house. And yet… Time and again his eyes fell to the desk with its empty ink pot. The steward had not replaced the sheet Abbie had removed when they visited. The vision of her sitting there, gazing out of the window, her hand poised to write, charmed the desk. That desk was hers. It waited for her. And Percy longed to see her at home there. He could feel her presence in the room, joking with him about the fictional Mr. Pendergast. With eyes open, he imagined them together, sharing a life in the house.
Sometime later, he met Mr. Wynde in the study.
“Would you consider removing the sheets?” he asked the steward. “All of them. I’d like to come tomorrow and see the place more fully.”
“Yes, yes, my pleasure. I’ve already arranged for a housekeeper. Be good to have the place dusted if it’s to sell. Not that the owner has to keep her on staff once purchased, but she has impeccable characters.”
“Friend of the family?” Percy winked.
Chagrined, the steward countered, “Well, I say, we’re all close around here. Not many people don’t know each other or everyone for that matter. Can’t go a quarter mile without running into someone you know. We’re all friends and family in that way.”
“She sounds charming. Would you care to show me the farms tomorrow, as well?”
Soon after leaving the hall, Percy joined Mr. Polkinghorn in the study at the Core Copse Mill. The man genuinely liked Percy’s ideas, and Percy likewise genuinely liked the mill and owner. As repugnant as industry was to his society, he could not give a fig what anyone beyond Sidvale thought of it. If he wanted to ally himself with a textile mill, why should he not? He was growing fond of the idea of feeling useful.
After leaving Mr. Polkinghorn to his work, Percy spent the remainder of the afternoon in the coffeehouse of The Tangled Fleece, the private parlor having become a familiar haunt. He rejoiced at the time spent with new friends, capital fellows he found far better company than the lot at White’s. No offense to his old friends but talking politics and philosophy and even poetry over a mug of coffee was superior to the drunken gossip he was accustomed to in London.
That night, his favorite pair of tawny owls hooted a duet of symphonic proportions, the sound reverberating in the silence of the country. Percy was none the wiser. He slept the night through, content with his lumpy bedding and the future he envisioned with perfect clarity.
The following afternoon held a rescheduled literary meeting to meet Miss Clint’s needs only to be sans Miss Clint after all. Again. She had not been home when Abbie called on her, and both Misses Lambeth and Owen were as concerned as the vicar’s daughter. Percival was not concerned. It made the meeting cozier, offering more opportunity for Abbie to read and for him to admire her profile, which was becoming a habit he hoped no one else noticed.
What struck him about this literary meeting was not the absence of Miss Clint with her book of manners but Abbie’s startling change of appearance. When she walked into the inn, his breath caught.
She was still Abigail. Still understated. Still unadorned by jewels and rouge other than her natural blushes when she caught him staring. Yet today, she was different. Her hair, typically pulled back into a severe knot, was swept up and pinned, chin-length tendrils curled about her face. What made her hair so charming was not the style so much as the slight lopsidedness to the pinning and the curls that did not hold, unraveling and straightening as she read to the group. If this was what he could expect from her hair styling without a lady’s maid, may she never want one, for he found the imperfection sensual and perfect.
Her hair was not the only aspect different. Rather than her usual, shapeless sack of a dress, she wore a high-waisted round gown of periwinkle blue, topped with a modest fichu tucked into her bosom. The dress hugged her frame deliciously, revealing promises it had no intention of keeping. The figure it displayed took him by surprise. He had always assumed her figureless, flat in the chest, narrow in the hips, but this dress showed otherwise. There was nothing voluptuous about her. She remained petite and slender. But there was undeniably a curve to the hips and an invitation of the bosom, an invitation he had no business hoping to receive, despite wanting to flatter himself that she might have dressed for him.
Percy counted the minutes until the end of the meeting so he could have her alone, selfish rogue that he was. He vied for the privilege to walk her home, those handful of insignificant minutes when he would have her undivided attention.
With a reverent bow to Misses Lambeth and Owen, Percy watched them walk together down the road in the opposite direction, each looking back thrice at Percy and Abbie before he led her away from the inn. Her hand on his arm, they proceeded to the vicarage at a stately pace, his walking stick tapping the rhythm of their walk.
“Will you stay for tea?” she asked not fifteen feet from the inn.
“Ah, the lady invites me in for a drink, does she? I’m sensing a trap.”
“Percival!” she shrieked, unable to hide her grin or her blush. “That is inappropriate, and if you’re going to say such things, we can’t be friends.” Her laughter gave her away.
“It’s a good thing we’re betrothed, then.” He waggled his brows. “Now, is my memory faulty, or did we not just take tea at the inn?”
“Oh, you’re spoiling my invitation. I’m hoping to trick you into picking up where we left off in the book.”
“The lady is a trickster! Even knowing a ploy is afoot, I can’t resist your wiles.” He teased though speaking the truth.
A sharp wind cut through the center of the village, sending Percy
burrowing into his greatcoat. Abbie tugged the corners of her cloak tighter around her. She stepped closer to him. He started to remove his coat to offer it to her when her hair unraveled, coming unpinned in a disheveled disarray. She reached up, but the wind would not be outdone. It whipped her hair about her face, tangling the pins. She screeched, trying to pin it all back up. No use. By the time the wind died down, only one thin lock of hair remained pinned in the delicate styling; all the rest frizzed about her face.
He worried she might not see the humor of the moment and dissolve into tears as most women of his acquaintance would do, but no, not Abbie. Even with hair covering her face and sticking out at awkward angles with hairpins hanging on for life, she laughed.
Tucking his walking stick under his arm, he parted the hair curtaining her face and tucked the strands behind her ears. She was a mess.
“Shall we make a run for it before anyone sees you in such a state of undress?” He chuckled as she continued to shove strands beneath hopeless pins.
“Yes. Let’s.”
She grabbed his hand and tugged him to follow. They raced the remaining short distance to the vicarage door, only rousing the suspicions of a distant sheep and one old tabby in the last cottage, spying between the wisps of curtains. By the time they stepped inside, they were winded from laughing while running, cheeks pink from the wind.
“If you’ll excuse me. I’ll meet you in the parlor.” Yet again, she did not wait for his response but raced upstairs, her dress hem raised as she ascended. Slender, stockinged ankles peeked in tease.
The Walsley footman helped Percival with his coat, hat, walking stick, and gloves, then showed him to the parlor. Mr. Walsley, the footman informed him, was in the study, recently returned from his rounds, and would join them presently.
Abbie arrived before her father, her hair pulled into the familiar knot. To his delight, the periwinkle dress had not changed.
Taking a seat after she waved an invitation, Percy said, “You’re lovely, even with that lone pin poking behind your ear.”
Her hand flew to her hair, wide eyes meeting his as she discovered the forgotten pin. With a nervous laugh, she said, “I’m hopeless.”
“Lovely, as I said. You were a beauty with the new style, but I prefer you as you are now. This suits you. A simple look for an extraordinary woman.”
Rather than reply, she tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth, fighting against a determined smile.
“I was promised a story, remember?” He raised his brows in mock seriousness. “Don’t tell me you brought me here under false pretenses.”
The parlor door opened to the vicar carrying in a tea tray. “After seeing me walk the hall with the tray, Martin, our footman, may worry I expect him to take my job in exchange,” he chided, setting the tray on the low table between the chairs. “Cook forced me to accept three slices of cake. If no one is hungry, I’ll eat all three. Can’t have her feelings hurt.”
“There’s no fooling me, sir,” Percy said. “I’ve sampled enough of her baking to know heaven awaits me on that plate.”
Abbie busied herself as hostess by preparing the tea and passing the cakes.
Mr. Walsley said after a sumptuous bite of his cake, “Couldn’t resist my daughter’s temptation, I see.”
The fork paused inches from Percival’s mouth as he gaped at the vicar. Heart in his throat, he stuttered a laugh. “I beg your pardon?”
“Abigail was in a twitter this morning about tempting you with the story. And here you are. She’s a clever girl. Did she ply you with promises of tea and cake?”
Relief swept through Percy. Silly of him to worry her father suspected him of being attracted to his own betrothed. “Indeed she did. Tea, but no mention of cake. I anticipated arriving to a broken promise about the tea once she had tricked me into the parlor, but here I am being rewarded for my loyalty.” He savored a bite, closing his eyes and sighing in exaggerated contentment, though not too exaggerated. The cake truly was sinful.
Abbie made a quick dash to the escritoire to collect her papers. Percival wondered what her father thought of the story so far. The man had not heard much of it, given his propensity for dozing off, but he had been present for most of Percy’s calls over the past couple of days, and thus had heard a fair few chapters. If he were wise, and Percy knew him to be just that, he would recognize his daughter’s talent.
“Shall we?” she asked, looking to the two gentlemen with a rustle of paper. “Ahem. Chapter eighteen. ‘The sun shone overhead as Sir Bartholomew rode through town.’”
Percival sat back in the chair, saucer held at his waist, his ankles crossed. He listened, interrupting only if prompted or if a scene fell askew of the arc. Mr. Walsley spoke only twice, both times to offer advice on the conviction of the chapter’s moral and its contribution to the overarching moral of the story. By the time she finished reading, over an hour had passed, but Percival wanted more. He was not ready to leave.
Alas.
Abbie saw him to the door and stepped out to bid him adieu. Greatcoat taut about his shoulders, walking stick in hand, he touched a finger to his hat and gave a little bow.
As he turned to leave, her hand touched his arm. “Have you given more thought to your future?”
His brow knitted.
“When we visited Leigh Hall,” she continued, “you had remarked on your future. You were toying with the idea of buying the estate. Have you thought more about what you want?”
Her. He wanted her.
All the what ifs circulated. He could not scare her away. He could not say what he felt. Not yet.
“I have, yes. I believe I’d make a debonair landowner.” With a shake of his head, he mocked, “Can you imagine anything more ridiculous? Percival Randall the estate owner, calling on his tenants and seeing to his farms, observing the world from his first-floor drawing room, welcoming neighbors for tea and biscuits. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
Abbie shook her head. It did not escape his notice that her hand remained on his coat sleeve.
“Not at all ridiculous. The life would suit you. I apologize if I seemed to laugh at your idea before. I thought you jested. I thought—well, I thought you would be eager to return to London and all the diversions it offered.”
“If you think London could ever compete with you, then you’re dashed mistaken.”
Capturing the hand on his sleeve, he lifted it to kiss the air above her knuckles before heading back to the inn, his mind made up to write to his father.
The wind howled, blustering and blowing with the threat of a storm. Early Wednesday morning, Percival stood at the front door of the vicarage, his shoulders hiked to his ears. He had offered to see Abbie from house to house this morning. Not the best day for charity rounds, but had he not volunteered, he would have fretted about her blowing away in the wind or being caught by rain.
His favorite footman answered the door.
“Mr. Walsley will see you in his study, sir.”
“Ah, will he? Good of him. And where’s my charitable intended? I thought she’d be ready when I arrived.” He stood still as the man removed his greatcoat and took his gloves and hat.
“Mr. Walsley will see you first, sir. If you’ll follow me.”
Something about the moment wiped the smile from Percy’s lips. It reminded him too much of his final visit to the Merriweathers. Heaven forbid someone else claim to be betrothed to him. He could handle only one of these situations per lifetime.
But then, what if something had happened with Abbie? What if she had cried off without telling him? Or told her father the truth? None of these thoughts would have worried him before, but now that he was on a mission to woo her, he feared the opportunity ripped away, without even a chance to prove to her he was a man of responsibility, a man of commitment, a man besotted.
The walk down the hall to the study must feel l
ike the long walk to the gallows, Percival thought as he swallowed twice and rewetted his lips. The hall narrowed. The sounds of shoes against floor echoed.
“Percival. Come in, please.”
Across from the study door stood the Reverend Leland Walsley, a desk serving as barrier between suitor and father, the scene all too familiar. Behind Percy, the door shuddered close.
Opening a drawer, the vicar pulled out a cigar. “Would you care to join me for a smoke? We have time before she’s ready for her rounds. Abbie paid an early call to Mrs. Bradley this morning. False alarm, as it were. The baby wasn’t ready to make an appearance. Mrs. Bradley wants Abbie nearby when it happens. She overstayed, as she does, and hasn’t had time to change or eat. Cigar?”
Percy nodded, letting the information wash over him. So, nothing was amiss? Abbie merely needed time to dress and have a cup of tea. Relief relaxed tense shoulders. Why he had thought this moment was the end, he could not say. A funny feeling. An intuition. A premonition. A fear he would lose love now that he had found her.
The vicar walked around to the other side of the desk, readied both cigars, and waved Percival to join him at the mirroring chairs in front of the hearth. He crossed one leg over the other and handed Percy the cigar.
His smile returned, Percy sorted himself into a comfortable position and puffed.
“It’s good we have this time to talk alone,” the vicar said. “You’ve been here a month, dancing attention on my daughter. I’ve humored you both because the betrothal is now public, and I know how young love can be. But I put to you this question: when am I to read the banns?”
Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Percy clenched his jaw.
“You’ll have three months to marry,” the vicar continued, “after the reading of the banns, so I see no point in delaying them. You do plan to marry Abigail within the next few months, don’t you? Or is this a long-term betrothal?”
A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1) Page 13