by CE Murphy
“Very little is flawless, Mr Archer,” Elsabeth replied with an absent-minded asperity, “and given the inevitable clink of glass and tableware, I can hardly imagine how dinner might be conducted in such an enviable quiet.”
“Perhaps we must try,” Archer said, and proceeded to eat with such soundless perfection that it was only in the final course that Elsabeth, whose own idle commentary had achieved not a single response from Archer, finally realised she was being mocked. Of the three Bodton ladies, then, she was the only one to retire from the evening meal less than wholly pleased with it: Rosamund had been sweetly courted by Webber the entire time, and Sophia had never before been so animated as she was in conversation with Miss Webber. It would not trouble her, Elsabeth decided, to quit Newsbury Manor as soon as Rosamund was well enough; had she not sent the carriage home already, she might even have pressed to leave that very evening.
But it was not to be; Rosamund, though stronger, was still prepared to retire early, and Sophia, though reluctant, felt that she must return home once Rosamund had said her good-nights.
Archer, finally breaking his silence on Sophia’s behalf, said, “Not at all, Miss Enton. Did you not say your mother hoped to call on Newsbury Manor tomorrow if Miss Dover was well enough? Surely, she would never demand you leave us so early, when you are within the very arms of those she most wishes to acquaint you with. Tell me, Miss Elsabeth, do you play the pianoforte?”
Elsabeth, looking longingly toward a book, replied, “Poorly, Mr Archer, but my singing voice is worse,” before wishing she was not quite so prone to honesty.
“We shall look elsewhere for the evening’s entertainment, then,” he said with no hint of his own amusement. “Miss Enton? I know Miss Webber is most accomplished”—a phrase rolled out so drily that even Elsabeth suspected him of drollness—“but no doubt she would prefer an evening’s rest herself, so often do we call on her for music of one kind or another.”
As Miss Webber had neither sung nor played anything but cards in the nights Elsabeth had been at Newsbury Manor, she found this remark unlikely, but, reminding herself of her intentions for Archer and Sophia, put forth, “Sophia is too shy to confess to it, but her voice is quite beautiful. She is often singled out as the richest voice in our choir.”
“Then she must sing, if she will,” Archer said, and before Sophia could protest, Miss Webber sat at the pianoforte, crying out, “And I shall play! What shall we have, Miss Enton? Surely we must have a piece or two in common.”
“I believe that leaves us obliged to dance,” Archer said to Elsabeth, a comment she did not deign worthy of noticing, much less replying to, until he said, “Or do you not enjoy dancing, Miss Elsabeth?”
Astonished that he should pursue the topic, Elsabeth turned a gaze she knew to be cool upon him. “I believe you have made it quite plain that you do not, Mr Archer, and I should never wish to put out my host in such a dreadful fashion as to engage him in activities he does not care for. We will be quite sufficiently entertained by Sophia’s singing and Miss Webber’s playing, I am sure.” She sat and gathered her book, though she had no intention of reading it, and from then on paid steadfast attention to the musicians.
She could not, therefore, be aware that Archer’s gaze lingered on her rather more than on the performers; nor could she know that in the recesses of his heart, he recognised that he had quite deserved her dismissal. It was, nonetheless, an unaccustomed recognition, and beneath it began to bloom the slow realisation that he was increasingly inclined to admire Miss Elsabeth, which sentiment could lead nowhere suitable. Determined to put it out of his mind, he turned his attention to Miss Enton, who was, of course, only barely more suitable than Miss Elsabeth, and then finally to Miss Webber, whose suitability was without question.
He did not notice the gradual sinking of his enthusiasm as he looked upon Miss Webber, nor, in time, that his attention drifted back to Miss Elsabeth, upon whom he gazed, unmolested by a return of awareness, for the remainder of the evening.
(18)
“I believe Miss Dover and Miss Elsabeth ought to stay another few days,” Webber proclaimed over breakfast the following morning. Neither Dover sister had joined them; Elsa had sent down a note stating that Rosamund had been taxed by the previous evening’s festivities and required more rest, and that she, Elsabeth, was not hungry and would therefore remain with her sister. Moreover, Miss Webber, never an early riser, had not yet joined them, and it was therefore with impunity that Webber made his observation to Archer.
“If Miss Dover is well enough to dine with us, certainly she will be well enough to travel home in a carriage this afternoon,” Archer replied thoughtlessly, then lowered his tea to examine his friend. “Or are you less concerned with her welfare and more with your own, Robert?”
“Oh, both, I’m sure,” Webber replied cheerfully. He was not entirely insensible to the attention Archer had paid to Miss Elsabeth the night before, and rather thought that with a few more days in close quarters with her, Archer might be in real danger of falling in love with the second Dover sister. Nothing, from Webber’s besotted viewpoint, could possibly be better: the two sisters were clearly dear to one another, and would make certain that they should all be best friends to the grave, if they married so closely.
“You’re rash, Webber. You overheard my inquiries regarding the youngest Miss Dover’s health yesterday evening, but you do not share the further knowledge on the topic that I possess.”
“Well, out with it, man. You can hardly leave me with bated breath when this very excellent marmalade awaits.”
“Miss Leopoldina was rescued by David Hartnell.”
This piece of intelligence broke the journey of marmalade-laden toast to Webber’s eager lips; after a moment, he went so far as to replace the bread on his breakfast plate. “You cannot possibly mean your Hartnell, Archer. What on earth would he be doing here?”
“I mean the very one. He has a commission in the army and his regiment is stationed in Bodton; I investigated promptly upon hearing his name.”
“Blast it all. Does Persephone know?”
“How could she, when I have only learned it last night? No, and neither shall your sister be given to know, else she might be inspired to write Persephone after all, and I do not wish to distress her any further. But you can see that if Hartnell is the sort the Dovers consider appropriate, they must be looked on questionably in all matters.”
“Here, now, Archer, is that fair? The man dove into a river to save a drowning girl. Her family should certainly look highly upon him, and perhaps it is a measure of the man, that he has changed for the better. Besides, if you have not shared your wisdom with them, how might they possibly know to be wary of him? Have you?”
“Of course not. What could I say that they would not regard as suspect?”
Webber, in the process of taking up his toast a second time, paused again and gave Archer an uncharacteristically shrewd look. “Perhaps nothing, although you might then be obliged to consider why it is that they should receive any information from you as instantly suspicious. Perhaps the parents are too much in need of marriageable husbands for so many daughters to hear you; perhaps the daughter in most danger is too silly to heed, and perhaps Miss Elsabeth is naturally unlikely to listen to a warning from your lips. But Miss Dover is not one to form biases, and would, I think, take any commentary from you most seriously.”
“First, I agree that Miss Dover is not one to form biases, which suggests that she is no more likely to heed me than any of the others, though her refusal would be out of the goodness of her heart. Second,” Archer said, ticking the numbers off on his fingers, “you share that goodwill toward people, else you should not consider the possibility that Hartnell has reformed, a sentiment I do not share. Third, I can say nothing without compromising my own dear sister, which I will not do.”
“Instead, you may allow someone else’s sister to be compromised,” Webber replied, and bit into his toast as if in defiance.
“Either speak up, man, or do not condemn Miss Dover’s family for what they cannot know.”
Archer’s eyebrows rose. “I believe affection has made you bold, Robert.”
“I should think you found it high past time.” Webber finished his toast placidly, and Archer, unable to argue, frowned a long silence at his cooling tea. Once satisfied that his friend could find no answers to be read in its leaves, Webber spoke again. “So, they shall stay a few days longer. Perhaps, in that time, you will find a way to broach the topic of Hartnell. I say, Archer, did you notice how very well my sister got on with that lovely Miss Enton? I do believe I had been introduced to the lady before, but I had not noticed her in nearly such a fine light as she appeared in last night. I hope she will attend the Dovers’ ball, and I will be glad to see her stand up with some of the officers, as we had far too few dancers at our own ball.”
“She looked very well indeed.” Archer downed the last of his cold tea and stood. “The white suited her. Good morning, Robert. I believe I shall take some exercise this morning. It will clear my head.”
“Of course,” Webber said obligingly, and only after Archer departed did he observe, aloud and with pleasure, “but it was Miss Elsabeth in white last night, old chap, not Miss Enton. Not Miss Enton at all.”
Archer was not insensible to this; his mistake came upon him after he had left the room. Peters, the butler, was the only one to observe how the brooding young lord of Streyfield came to an abrupt halt in the entryway, or how his single sharp, short curse echoed from the entry’s high ceilings and hard floors. Discreet as his kind often were, Peters remained nestled in a shadow until the hard clip of Archer’s heels clicked across the floor and out the door.
Shortly thereafter, a lady’s maid suggested to Miss Elsabeth that the morning was especially fine, and that she could look after Miss Dover a little while if Miss Elsabeth should like to take some air. Rosamund, who was really much recovered, encouraged Elsabeth to go, and in a fit of gladness, Elsa excused herself from the manor with the half-formed intention of walking home and fetching the carriage for Rosa all by herself.
It was something of an unexpected encounter on the parts of both parties, then, when two persons both bent on a healthy excursion rounded opposite corners in the fine Newsbury gardens and nearly stalked headlong into one another. Both stopped with the precision of urgency; Archer put forth a hand to steady Miss Elsabeth, who snatched her own arm away as if he had offered an adder instead. “Mr Archer,” she said breathlessly, when she had recovered herself a little. “Forgive me. I did not see you approach.”
“Around this hedge? I should think not. Are you well? I thought I might have impacted you.”
“I should be flattened on the earth if you had, and I suppose you would only wish that a ballroom full of dancers might be on hand to observe my ignominy if I was.”
It seemed very likely that only a handful of days ago, that might have been true, and yet, in the moment, Archer could only say, “Do you think so little of me, Miss Elsabeth?”
“In truth, Mr Archer, when you are out of my sight, I do not think of you at all, which is perhaps a little more often than I might imagine you are inclined to think of me. We each have our pride to attend to, after all.”
“I have recently considered that I may attend to mine too greatly.”
“Yes,” Elsabeth said with a sudden bright smile, “I have considered that you may, as well. But I cannot fault you for that, Mr Archer, for I am sure you have considered the same about me. Our faults lie too closely in alignment for comfort. It is as well that we are soon to be quitted of one another, for my sister is well and I am quite determined that we should return home rather than impose on Mr Webber’s goodwill another night.”
“Surely, you have only been here a little while,” Archer protested. “You cannot leave so soon. Miss Webber would be distressed at the departure of her dear friend Rosamund.”
“You need not be so polite, Mr Archer. Miss Webber will go on without us, though I like to think that Mr Webber might be bereft at Rosamund’s absence, and I myself have no wish to tax you with my presence any longer. If we remain at Newsbury another night, I might be obliged to sing, and it is better for all that no one is subjected to that disturbance. I will walk home now and return with our carriage—”
“I insist that if you must leave, you will use Webber’s carriage, and not wear yourself out with the journey to and fro.” Determined and somewhat alarmed at his own determination, Archer offered Miss Elsabeth his arm, and felt a sudden shard of concern pierce him when she examined it in mild surprise rather than taking it immediately.
“I believe you know the strength of my constitution and my fondness for walking,” she replied, but finally put her hand into the crook of his elbow. “It may be easier to convince Mr Webber for the use of his carriage, though, than to convince my mother, who—” Elsabeth cleared her throat gently, and though she spoke again without hesitation, it still seemed to Archer that she had changed the direction of her words—“who is inclined they can, and prefers not to lend us the coach unless she herself expects to be in it as well.”
Archer murmured, “Is that how it is?” and thought of what she might have said had she been less discreet. “I had wondered why Miss Dover had arrived on foot, with the weather threatening so badly.”
“I believe my mother also expects the weather to behave as she wishes it to,” Elsabeth said drily, and herself thought that for Rosamund’s walk, the weather had, and also that Mrs Dover was unusually fortunate in that the sky at Oakden often did behave in just the manner she most wanted.
“We should all be so fortunate,” Archer said. “I think, though, that it did not behave in Miss Leopoldina’s favour yesterday. Did you meet Captain Hartnell, Miss Elsabeth?”
“A very charming and handsome young man,” Elsa replied warmly. “Dina was very lucky that someone with such strong swimming skills was on hand in her moment of need. It is very unusual, is it not? So few people swim well, and I do not imagine a captain in the army has much call to.”
“As it happens,” Archer began, somewhat less warmly, but before he could continue, Webber appeared on the manor steps to wave vigourously.
“Come along! Miss Dover is convinced that Miss Elsabeth has gone home to fetch the carriage, and I must prove her wrong! Furthermore, I positively insist that they stay at least one more night, as we have not yet truly had the pleasure of Miss Dover’s company for the course of a full evening, for fear of tiring her! Three nights,” he proclaimed as Archer and Elsabeth climbed the steps. “Three nights would be better.”
Elsabeth, thinking longingly of avoiding Miss Webber’s prickly presence, and thinking equally of Rosamund’s future, smiled prettily and acquiesced with “Two nights, Mr Webber. Two nights, and then we shall be away.”
(19)
Two nights were not enough for Mrs Dover’s tastes; she would have had her daughters at Newsbury a full two weeks if she could. A week could suffice in a pinch, but to return home after two more nights added up to only six. Hardly enough, even if Rosamund was the prettiest girl in the county; it would take a week to be positive of Mr Webber’s affections.
Had Captain Hartnell not attended the Dover family every day the older girls were absent, Mrs Dover would have found the mere six nights to be entirely unbearable. But attend he did, and paid polite, gentlemanly court to all of them, even thin-lipped Ruth, whilst still giving no impression of having a special favourite. After his second visit, Mrs Dover began to harbour a certain suspicion, and if she did not welcome her oldest daughters home with absolutely open arms on the day they finally arrived, neither was she dismayed when Captain Hartnell’s handsome face lit in genuine delight at Elsabeth’s return.
Elsabeth, having nothing to compare it to, did not see the additional pleasure he shone with; Leopoldina, having several visits for comparison, did. “It is not fair,” she said to Tildy as they climbed into bed together that night. “He saved me, Ti
ldy. He ought to smile so at me.”
“He will at the ball,” Tildy promised sleepily, and, satisfied, Dina went to sleep and dreamed of dancing.
Those dreams were entirely dashed with dawn’s advent, for it was not dancing but bustle that Mrs Dover had in mind. The day had come: it was Sunday at last, and the odious Mr Cox would arrive before supper. The servants had already cleaned, but nothing would do save the house should gleam: Mrs Dover was determined it should be presented in its best light, and only glowered forbiddingly at Elsabeth when she murmured, “Perhaps we ought to be spreading pig muck about, Mamma, in hopes that Mr Cox will be repulsed and give up his inheritance.”
Dina laughed, and for her audacity was obliged to whisk a breeze over every surface of the house, carrying speckles of dust out wide-open windows. The servants had, of course, done their job: there was little left for magic to accomplish, but whatever could be done was eked out of the daughters three; Ruth, of course, got down on her knees and scrubbed the floor with soap and a brush, and looked disapproving when Tildy gently swept the water out with a word and Dina dried the flagstones with a gesture. Rosamund was not, in Mrs Dover’s opinion, enough recovered to risk herself on magic. Elsabeth, pleasantly grateful for any excuse to work with magic, gathered flowers and cleaned the stoop with a whistle as she worked, until Ruth could bear it no more and stood to lecture her equally on the evils of magic and of whistling.
“You are correct,” Elsabeth said cheerfully. “With each note that leaves my lips, I no doubt render myself increasingly ineligible for marriage, for which our mamma would not thank me. Unless she would, for my remaining unwed would assure her of someone to care for her in her dotage”—and she lifted her voice enough to make certain both Dover parents would hear her teasing remark.