Joining them was Percival’s older brother, Lord Monkworth, his wife Lady Monkworth, to whom Abbie did not warm although everyone else was amiable, and also Percival’s half-siblings Mr. Samuel Randall and Miss Sally Randall. The two younger siblings were treasures with nothing but kindness to share. The elder brother looked strikingly like Percival with the same hazel eyes, golden brown hair, and dimples, but without the youthful exuberance. The slight peppering of his hair made him appear older than his years. None save Lady Monkworth acted high in the instep.
“Have you always lived in Sidvale, Mr. Walsley?” asked Lady Camforth.
“My family is from Northbourne. The church needed me in Sidvale. I’ve long since made my home here, my wife—God rest her soul—being the rector’s daughter, born and raised in Sidvale. Our daughters have grown up here, although only my youngest remains in residence. It’s peaceful here. Good people.”
“You’re a writer?” Miss Sally Randall asked Abbie, drawing her attention away from the current conversation.
A tad prissy but without airs and bearing a quiet beauty she would grow into in a few years the girl could not be more than fifteen. Abbie liked her straight away.
Miss Randall prodded, “Your sister mentioned it during the drive here.”
Glancing around the room, Abbie tried to gauge the reaction of the family, all of whom had turned their attention to her. The only negative response came from Lady Monkworth who gave an audible sniff at the question.
“Yes, I am. I’ve only just finished my first novel.”
“How diverting.” Miss Randall giggled. “Is it a tale of horror and murder?”
“Sally!” Lord Monkworth hissed.
“Papa doesn’t disapprove of my reading Radcliffe, so neither should you,” Miss Randall said with a scolding glare at her brother.
For the first time, Lady Monkworth spoke. “I can see why my brother-in-law favors you.” She looked Abbie up and down with a sneer. “He’s always been the fanciful sort. Prefers fantasy to reality.”
With a warning look to his wife, Lord Monkworth said to Abbie, “What my wife means to say is my brother is a dreamer and a visionary. I believe he could accomplish anything if only he set his mind to it.”
“And this is why it’s fortunate he’s the second son,” said Lady Monkworth. “He would set his mind to naught if it weren’t forced. There are visionaries, and then there are dreamers. You must make the distinction.” Another sharp look at Abbie, she added, “You do know which sort he is, yes? It would be unfortunate for you to find out after the wedding.”
The room shuddered into silence, all eyes moving from Abbie to Lady Monkworth and back.
Abbie gave her best vicar’s daughter’s smile. “It has taken some time to get to know him, my lady, but yes, I believe I do know which sort he is. He is nothing if not honest. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Her ladyship gave a tight smile and a titter. “On that point, we can agree. No artifice about him. He’s a proud Lothario.”
If Abbie bristled, she did not let it show. The words were not hurtful so much as the realization that they reflected Abbie’s own thoughts of him. Here she sat with a loving and kind family, and her views had been more in keeping with Lady Monkworth’s than theirs—a humbling and frightening thought. The riposte on the tip of her tongue was to doggedly defend Percival, however hypocritical given her recent words of rejection. She thought carefully of her response, not wanting to appear impolite.
After a moment’s reflection, she said, “Mark my words not of naivety, my lady, when I say I believe him more of his namesake than either of us would have suspected on first acquaintance.”
She felt her father’s arched brow before she saw it in her peripheral. Lady Monkworth mirrored the expression but said no more, looking into her teacup, either chastised or self-righteous.
Miss Randall, in her infinite sweetness, said with a teasing look to her brothers and a conspiratorial tone, “Don’t tell Freddie or Sammy, but Percy’s my favorite brother. I hope you’ll convince him to call on us more often.”
They stayed no longer than half an hour, but in that half an hour, the Walsleys were made to feel as family. The Randalls asked more about Leland’s work with the church, another question from Miss Randall about Abbie’s writing, and one not quite impertinent question from Mr. Samuel Randall as to what Abbie’s impression of Percival was on their first meeting, which resulted in her father relaying the fictionalized tale of the fall into Hacca’s Brook and Percy’s gallant rescue. The blushes sealed Abbie in their good graces.
The kindled hope flared within her breast. She hoped it was not too late to rectify her mistake.
Chapter 17
The Dunley estate was grand and stately to be sure, but an odd combination of Tudor and modern architecture and décor. With some ceilings of wooden beams and others of gilded scenes, sashed windows in one room and casement windows in others, and even stone fireplaces here and ornate marble there, the house revealed the history of ownership and changing tastes of the time.
Hands clasped behind his back, Percival stood in Lord Dunley’s drawing room, thinking not of splendor or history but of his preference for his new home. He owned a home! The thought appeared at random moments, striking a silent tremor of elation. Should he eye his father across the room, the thought appeared. Should he catch a glimpse of Lord Dunley’s boredom, the thought appeared. Should his gaze rest on the back of Abigail’s coiffure, the thought appeared.
Especially when his eyes alighted on her. The home was meant for the two of them, after all. If she would reconsider.
Several groups occupied the drawing room, conversing before dinner. Lord Dunley, Lady Dunley, Miss Clint and her family on one side of the room entertained Percy’s stepmother Evie, Freddie, and Freddie’s harridan of a wife Margaret. On the other side, Mr. Leland Walsley chatted with Sammy and Sally, who were enthralled by the man, while the Walsley sisters chatted with their husbands and Mr. and Mrs. Diggeby about the Dunleys, or so Percy guessed from their glances across the room.
In the middle of the madness sat Abbie with Percival’s father. It did not take a genius to see his father was engrossed in the conversation and infatuated by the novelist disguised as Percy’s betrothed.
Percival did his devil best to blend in with the wallpaper. His motivation was two-fold: admire Abigail, since it may be his last opportunity to do so and fret in silence regarding how the evening would progress. Her reaction to seeing him when she entered the manor, her first time to see him since the previous Sunday, had been indecipherable. She wore her charity expression: a polite smile that reached her eyes but gave away nothing of her heart.
All his plans to talk to her again before the dinner had failed. Each time he called on the vicarage, she had been calling on the Bradleys or the Owens or the whoevers, or she had taken her sisters for a walk to who-knew-where. The one time she and her father had returned Ronald’s invitation to call on the family at the Dunley manor, he and his father had been in a law office in Sidbury. Fate mocked him. Fate shook her fist at him and laughed. This will be one woman you cannot woo, said that wicked temptress.
Not knowing if Abigail liked flowers or if such a gift would be too bold given she planned to publicly spurn him today, he had taken the risk. After all, what did he have to lose other than his pride? With the help of the innkeeper—no surprise there since the man knew everything, or so it seemed to Percy—he was able to send from a hothouse to the vicarage an embarrassing number of flowers. An unsigned note accompanied:
Dreams become reality with sincerity and love.
If the flowers were not ostentatious enough, then the new set of writing implements and paper would be, a gift he hoped would demonstrate his serious interest in her endeavors. And if she remained determined to end this, at least she would have a useful gift even after the flowers died.
There was so much to say to her,
so much he should have said before. Now, it was too late. The time of the dinner approached. The casement clock ticked to his doom. No excuse could draw her away for a private talk, not without appearing conspicuous and violating at least ten rules of decorum.
Should Percy face his death, be it by sword, pistol, or illness, his last thought would be not of regret or longing, but of the state of Miss Walsley’s coiffure.
Her hair was styled again, ringlets framing her face, the back swept atop her head and wound with a turban, exposing a kissable neck. He memorized each strand, the fallen ones providing him a lifeline. His heart skipped beats each time she tilted her head. Her dress teased him with that delicate figure he had spied only once before. She wore another round gown, this one with a silk open robe of basil green.
Lost in thought, he missed the butler announcing dinner. When guests stood, voices rose, and a queue formed, Percival snapped to attention. Good heavens! It was time for dinner! The rush of blood in his veins roared in his ears until he could hear nothing but the end of days. Panicked, he rushed forward to Abbie. All around him assumed he would offer his arm. This was, after all, a betrothal dinner partly in their honor. He did not, however, offer his arm.
He darted forward as she took a step with his father. His shoe met the train of her robe.
It was not cataclysmic. Dresses were not harmed, and no one fell. But it was enough.
Abigail made the slightest stumble, the Earl of Camforth offering his arm to steady her while one of her relations joked about her clumsiness. There should have been a smoother way to hold her back, a subtler way, a more gentlemanly way, but panicked men do panicked things, and Percival panicked.
Abigail blushed and apologized to the earl but had the wherewithal to stab a sharp look at Percival.
He rushed to her side. “Wait, darling. It was my fault, not any clumsiness of yours. Allow me to ascertain if your dress has survived unscathed.” A quick look to his father and the other guests, he said, “Go on, please, we’ll be but a moment.”
No one protested. No one lingered or gave them a second glance.
He knelt at her feet, fiddling with the hem of the green, until they were alone in the room. The door to the dining room remained open for all to see their exchange. Not ideal, but it would have to do. It was all he had.
When he stood, she looked up at him with eyes of uncertainty.
“You’re looking at the proud owner of Leigh Hall,” he blurted.
She gaped. Too stunned to speak?
“I purchased it not to trap you or guilt you into not crying off. I purchased it because I’ve found a place where I belong. It’s here that I’ve found love. I’m in love with… Sidvale… and… the villagers… and everything here, really. I want to make a home here, not in London. I… We don’t have time to talk now, but I have more to say. Please, give me a chance to say it all. If you choose to cry off now, I’ll understand, but I only ask for a chance.”
Lord Dunley, devil take the man, returned to the drawing room, interrupting before she could reply. “Is aught wrong? Does Miss Amy require a maid?”
Percival gave Abbie a pleading look before he escorted her into the dining room.
How curious to be seated with Mrs. Sullivan to one side and Mrs. Rockford on the other rather than his betrothed. Lord Dunley, he noticed, sat next to Miss Clint on one side and his mother the other. Impertinent man. Abigail sat on the opposite end of the table from Percival between her brothers-in-law. Assigned seating at a betrothal dinner was a ridiculous notion, but every host had their preference, and so it would appear Lord Dunley had his. Not that the man should care where Percival or Abbie sat when he had no real interest in either of them. A glance to Lady Dunley revealed no malice either, as she was deep in conversation with the Clint family, her face animated and enraptured by whatever Mr. Clint posited.
To keep sane and stop himself from watching Abigail’s every move, Percy made conversation with his dinner companions, asking after their children, their lives, the weather, their bonnets, anything, everything, whatever would keep them talking and prevent his head from swiveling to the woman who was about to cry off the engagement he wanted to keep.
A clink of glass. A clearing of a throat. A scrape of a chair.
Percival’s eyes widened. His teeth gnashed. His gaze moved from one guest to the next to halt the passage of time before his eyes came to rest on the person standing to make an announcement.
Lord Dunley.
Percy closed his eyes and exhaled. Thank heavens it was not Abbie.
“I propose a toast to all of the guests here today to celebrate two auspicious betrothals. May every gentleman in such a position be as happy as I am.” His tone as bored as ever, Lord Dunley raised his glass. “Allow me to say a few words and invite Mr. Randall to do the same. It is not every man who can boast a friendship between his betrothed and his mother, for is it not true that many men of our time marry women their mothers detest?”
The table remained silent. Percy tried not to smirk, for that had been Dunley’s attempt to make a joke.
The speech continued, overlong and overdull, until at last everyone raised their glass.
Dunley cleared his throat again. “You have a few words to share, yes, Mr. Randall?”
Dratted man.
Pushing his chair back and tossing his napkin in the seat, Percy stood, his eyes meeting no one’s but Abbie’s. Her expression mirrored his inner turmoil.
“If I may ask Miss Walsley to stand with me, in the event she too would like to say a few words?” He nodded to her, offering her the opportunity to crumble his world.
She stood, cheeks pinkening.
Eyes unwavering, locked with hers, he said the truest words he knew that would enable her to decide their fate and come out the victor no matter the outcome. “I want everyone here to know that from the moment I met Miss Walsley, I knew she was too good for me. With each passing day of her acquaintance, my esteem for her rises by leaps and bounds. I’m certain now she’s the noblest woman I’ve ever met. I wish her the greatest happiness. For those who know me well, you can attest that I don’t often make good choices. Lord Monkworth can speak for the time I thought it would be fun to outrun a bull. Lady Camforth can tell of the time I swapped the hair powder from her dressing room with the pearl ash from Cook’s pantry. The stories are numerous, and my reputation sorrier for it.”
He paused for the chuckles and chortles to die down.
“I made myself a promise recently to bring only pride to my family from this point forward. Should Miss Walsley come to her senses and realize she can have far better than the likes of me, I will forever be grateful she gave me this opportunity to know her. And should she choose to do so, who could blame her for sending me back to London?” He raised his glass to his betrothed. “Abbie?”
Her bottom lip was tucked between her teeth in that way that made his heart flip-flop. He hoped his words gave her an out, an option, but also enough hope to give him a chance, at least to explain himself and his feelings.
“It’s, um, funny you, uh, should mention returning to London,” she stuttered in response, sending his world reeling, “because we always said that, um, well, if there were a reason for me to send you back to London, it would be because of our different opinions on the, um, curtains. You see…” She trailed off, her face reddening. “Would you like to make the announcement, or shall I?”
All blood drained from his face. He stood still, unresponsive.
“I suppose I shall,” she continued. “Percival has purchased Leigh Hall.”
The dinner guests applauded; a few gasped; a few offered congratulations. Percival remained still, watching Abbie’s expressions, waiting for the hammer to fall. Or was that it?
“I’m as shocked as you all must be,” she said. “And I’m as proud of him as his family must be. Thank you all for a lovely dinner.”
With a hasty nod, she sat down.
Percival heaved a sigh of relief. When he returned to his chair, he shivered from the beads of sweat that trickled down his back. Of all the high-tension moments he had experienced in his life, that was the tensest. He had no illusions about the state of their engagement or that she would not cry off, but he had been given a reprieve, a second chance, an opportunity to explain himself. So help him, he would make the most of it. His glance to Abbie was rewarded with a heart-pounding hint of a shy smile.
The day after the dinner, the church was full to bursting with both Abbie’s family and Percival’s. The villagers were in awe of their grand guests. An earl, they kept whispering behind their hands. Despite the devotion he showed to his wife, there were more than a few young girls in near swoons over the Earl of Camforth—wealth, title, chivalry, and good looks. Only the greying at his temples gave away his age. That and the presence of his adult children. The girls ogled him all the same. A few tried to eye the heir, Baron Monkworth, but one look from his wife sent them cowering into a corner of their pew, not bound to make the same mistake twice.
Abbie had eyes only for the middle son, Percival. He glanced at her frequently. She knew because she watched him throughout the sermon.
Yesterday was to be the cry off. They were to have done it together, a united front, two incompatible people. At first, she had planned to make the announcement in the drawing room before last night’s dinner, but she decided against that when she realized how awkward dinner would be afterwards. No, that was actually not true at all. She had procrastinated the announcement because she was enjoying the company of his family too much to break the spell. Falling in love with his family was as natural as falling in love with him.
More to the point, the hope burning steadily in her heart held her tongue.
His pleas for a chance, his announcement about the hall, it all sent her head spinning. Was he serious? Did he feel the same way about her? It seemed so impossible. And yet the letter…
A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1) Page 17