Mr. Farwell met her at the door to the drawing room. He bowed over the hand she held to him, but instead of releasing it, he lifted it to his lips. Turning it over, he pressed a kiss on her palm.
Heat exploded up her arm. Startled, she pulled her hand away. "Don't do that!" She forgot her resolve to keep her temper with him, no matter what he did. "Must you act the suitor with me? Can we not just go on as we have?"
"I have only a fortnight to show you my sterling qualities, Phaedra. If I am to be on my good behavior all the time, I shall be thoroughly distraught by the time we return to Town. Surely you can allow me an occasional lapse of decorum."
"I would have thought your lapses would have been more on the order of losing your patience with me or giving me a scold," she countered. "Or going to sleep while I am speaking to you."
"No, all those are my normal behavior. It is other behavior you tempt me into, my love," he said, as he led her across the room to where her mama and papa sat with the Duchess.
Phaedra thought it best to ignore the intimate appellation. "Oh, Your Grace, thank you so much for inviting me here. I had never dreamed that such a magnificent mansion could be comfortable as well as beautiful."
"No need to be uncomfortable, just because you live in a pile like this. I won't have cold bedrooms or draughts about my feet. You are welcome, gel. Now, take that lanky fellow away and entertain him. I want to visit with your parents."
Phaedra was thrown into Mr. Farwell's company the entire evening. He took her in to dinner and was seated on her right. After the men had drunk their port and rejoined the ladies, Lady Mary and Mr. Martin joined Mama and the Duchess in a game of whist, while Papa buried his nose in a book, saying he'd been wanting to read it for an age. Even Cousin Louisa deserted her, saying that she had the headache from the rocking of the coach and wished to retire early.
So Phaedra had to entertain her suitor alone until the tea cart was brought in. She seated herself on a sofa near the fireplace. He promptly sat beside her, his knees nearly touching hers.
Remembering her mother's advice on how to converse with a gentleman, she first asked him about his interests.
"I pay visits to my friends, drive in the park, and visit my tailor and my bootmaker. Occasionally I visit Tat's with friends, but not often." His ubiquitous lace-edged handkerchief came into play. "The odor of horse is quite unbearable."
"Tell me of your estate. You said it is near Oxford. What crops do you grow?"
"Oh, dear me, I have no idea. Green ones, I suppose."
Gritting her teeth, she said, "Yes, I imagine so. Most plants are green. Do you have an agent who manages it for you?"
"Of course. Do you think it will rain tomorrow? I thought I saw clouds gathering as I came down for dinner."
"I saw no sign of clouds. What does it matter, anyway? If we waited for clear weather, we would never go outdoors. This is England, you know." What an exasperating man. Just when she had decided there was some substance to him, he blighted her hopes. He was, without a doubt, a silly fop, without a thought in his head for aught but frivolities.
"It is now your turn to suggest a subject of conversation, Mr. Farwell. I have quite exhausted all of mine."
He rose and paced to the fireplace and back, moving with a restless energy that was completely foreign to her previous impression of him. When he reseated himself, it was in a chair at right angles to the sofa. "Are you familiar with Sir Francis Beaufort's research on wind, Phaedra?"
Astounded, she let her jaw drop open.
He smiled at her, a twinkle in his gray eyes, and slowly wafted the handkerchief back and forth before him.
Finally she recovered enough from her astonishment to say, "I have only read a little on the subject and understood less. I do remember reading that he developed some sort of scale whereby wind speed can be accurately measured. Do tell me more."
What followed was the most amazing experience of her life. Reginald Farwell, the fop, expounded knowledgeably and at some length on scientific research concerning weather prediction. She found the information he imparted to be fascinating, and asked a number of questions. The subject kept them occupied until they were interrupted by Lady Mary who offered them tea.
Later Phaedra thought back over the evening. Who was the real Reginald Farwell? The man who had so learnedly spoken to her of weather research? Or the London fop?
Chapter Nineteen
The clouds Mr. Farwell had seen the evening before did indeed bring rain during the night. The inhabitants of Verbain woke to grey skies and a drizzle that promised to continue indefinitely. Despite the depressing weather, Phaedra went down to breakfast feeling that the day promised to be a very good one. A footman guided her to a bright, cheerful room with white wainscoting below wallpaper of green and gold stripes. Numerous green plants were on stands against two of its walls. The third wall was almost entirely of windows, and the many panes, in their white painted frames, looked out upon a colorful vista. Phaedra had to look a second time to see that the wall of windows showed not the outdoors, but a painted background of a sunny garden. Lady Mary, who was seated behind a silver coffee urn, an emptied plate before her, laughed at her expression of surprise.
"Do you like it? I so hate to awake to rain or grey skies, and so I persuaded Grandmama to let me decorate this room. The craftsmen who did the work thought I was out of my senses, but they followed my instructions."
"I love it. An eternal springtime."
Lady Mary looked beyond Phaedra, greeting Mr. Farwell and Lord Gifford as they entered, bringing the scent of rain with them. Both men were dressed for riding and their hair was damp.
"Good morning, my love." Papa bent to kiss Mama's cheek. "Too bad it's so wet. I know how you detest riding in the rain. There's a little chestnut that I'd like to see you try. Phaedra, did you bring your riding clothes?"
"Of course I did, Papa. Have you ever known me to go anywhere without them?"
"Good. You can come out with us after breakfast. Never let a little rain stop you from riding, have you?" He took his plate to the sideboard, where he proceeded to fill it with an assortment of meats and hot breads. "Farwell has promised to show me around the estate. Young Martin has already gone out, and we're to meet him later."
"Thank you, Papa, but I do not think I will ride this morning. I want to improvise some presses and prepare for an expedition to the home wood this afternoon." She followed her father to the sideboard. "Mary told me last night that there are usually quite a number of plants in flower at this time of year. Mr. Farwell, would you care to accompany me?"
He paused, a server in his hand. "If I have the strength, after leading your father about the fields this morning, Phaedra, I would enjoy exploring the woods with you. But what are presses?"
When he smiled at her, Phaedra experienced a glow of inner warmth. "Real presses are bundles of paper and thin boards, held tightly together with straps, into which I place plants to flatten and dry them. The drying preserves the plants so they may be examined later," she explained. "Mama did not allow me to bring mine to Town, so I will contrive substitutes from newspapers and heavy books. Mary has offered a warm closet off the kitchens for my use, and I intend to fill it with plant specimens." She said the last with a hint of challenge to all and sundry.
Her mama, whom she had expected to object to her planned activities, merely said, "I hope that you will not become too wet while you are collecting your plants, my dear."
"I will not collect if they are wet, Mama, but I do intend to see where they might be, so I may return later to collect them." She glanced at his highly polished boots. "Mr. Farwell, those boots will be ruined if you come with me. Perhaps you can borrow some stout shoes. The paths in the wood are bound to be muddy."
"I shall be appropriately dressed, I assure you," he answered, smiling.
Phaedra finished her breakfast and departed the breakfast room. After the door closed behind her, Reggie said to Lady Gifford, "Where is your companion this
morning, ma'am? Does she still have the headache?"
"She never did, and you know it, sir. We were doing all we could to ensure that Phaedra had to converse with you last evening." Lady Gifford eyed him, quizzically. "Did you not appreciate our efforts?"
"I most assuredly did; but I do not need your efforts in my behalf, my lady. If Phaedra does not herself choose to be with me, your machinations will do nothing to advance my suit."
"Shall we not conspire against my daughter, then?"
"No, please do not. I believe I can keep her attention upon myself as much as is necessary. If I cannot, perhaps I would not be the husband for her after all." He gazed through the false windows, his cup held against his chin. Last night he had retreated into his Town persona without thinking, and had seen Phaedra's disgust writ plain on her face. Today he was determined to be himself, no matter how strange it felt after so many years of living a lie.
"Phaedra must wish to be me of her own accord. If she does not care enough to give me a chance, I must assume she feels not the slightest attraction for me." He held up a hand when Lady Mary would have argued. "No, Mary, do not offer me false coin. Phaedra must find me interesting enough to be with, or there is no hope."
"I believe she is quite interested, Mr. Farwell," Lady Gifford assured him.
"Perhaps. I can only hope. I certainly intend to do my utmost encourage any attraction to grow into love. But I must do it myself, don't you see?" Yes, and you may be the greatest fool in England, to refuse their help. What if she does turn you down?
He shook his head, unwilling to contemplate such an occurrence.
"Aye, Isabella, let the man do it his way. Got a cool head on his shoulders, he does," Lord Gifford said. Reggie set his cup down and rose. He bowed to the ladies and promised to meet the other gentlemen at the stables in a half-hour.
"Do you really think he will be able to convince Phaedra to love him, George?" Isabella said, when he was safely gone. "If I know her, she will avoid being alone with him whenever she can. She is interested, but extremely uncertain of her own emotions."
"Taking him out into the woods this afternoon isn't she? Stop fretting, my love," he said, patting her hand. "Leave Farwell to his schemes. He's the man for our girl and he knows just how to bring her around. Talked about it on the way here. I'll wager that he'll have a yes from her before the week is out."
"What will you wager, my lord?"
"A new bonnet for you against a game of chess?"
She smiled fondly at her husband. "Done. And much as I would delight in a new bonnet, I hope I will lose." Since their daughters had become young ladies, she and her husband had formed the habit of engaging them in conversation of an evening at home, to give them practice for their Season. This left them with fewer opportunities to indulge in the board game which both of them enjoyed. Some months had passed since she and her husband had fought a game to the last pawn. "Do you know, George, I think I am as eager to have Phaedra married so that we can return to country life as I am for her own sake."
"I admit I'll be glad when we can go home. I believe I've lost more hair since we went to London than I had in the past year."
"And I have gained more white ones," she said, rising from the table and leaning to kiss him. "The Duchess has asked me to come to her after breakfast, so that we may plan some activities for the young people. I think she wants to give a small ball while we are here. Enjoy your ride, my love."
* * * *
While the gentlemen explored Verbain's extensive acres and the older ladies planned all sorts of entertainments, Phaedra happily arranged her closet and prepared her improvised plant presses. She was pleased to find the closet quite warm, backing as it did upon the kitchen chimney. Her plant specimens would dry quickly and not mold.
As she worked, she found herself, as usual these days, thinking of Reginald Farwell. Why had he asked her to marry him? He was accepted everywhere, was an intimate of the famous Beau Brummel, was a favorite of the Season's hopeful mamas. To be noticed by Mr. Farwell, she had discovered, was to become an instant favorite among the young men who populated balls and soirees and hops. Both she and Chloe had benefited by his notice, and for that she was grateful. She had enjoyed her Season far more for being moderately popular.
"Why me?" It was a question she had asked herself too often. She smoothed several more sheets of newspaper and added them to the pile. Perhaps she should ask herself why she had asked for time to consider his offer. She certainly had no intention of accepting. How could she ever live the life he led, a constant round of parties and balls, a frivolous life with no time for serious pursuits?
And yet...
He had studied the results of weather experiments well enough to explain them.
He cuts such a ridiculous figure. His waistcoats...his collars. I am surprised he hasn't scars on his face from their sharp points.
But...
This morning he had entered the breakfast room clad in sensible garments, beautifully tailored for his unusual height. His boots had shone, but she had noticed an old scratch on one, evidence of hard use.
He was a denizen of the ballroom and the salon, both places she delighted in visiting on a rare occasion. She could not imagine spending the rest of her life flitting from one to the next.
Still...
He was showing Papa and Mr. Martin around Verbain, so he must have considerable familiarity with it. In the rain. Without bemoaning the damage to his clothing or his boots, as most town tulips would.
Baffled, curious, and uncertain, she decided she must spend as much as possible of her time in his company while here at Verbain.
How else can I learn who he really is?
* * * *
Phaedra was ready to go into the home wood, seeking flowers that grew beneath the thick canopy of beeches and oaks, but Mr. Farwell was nowhere to be found. She waited for nearly a half hour, before deciding he had fallen asleep somewhere. "If Mr. Farwell asks where I am," she told Lady Mary, "please remind him that we had an appointment at two."
"I'm sure there is a good reason for his tardiness."
"Oh, so am I. 'Twould be a shame if he missed his afternoon nap." Without waiting for a reply, she picked up her trowel and a hessian bag for carrying her specimens and went on her way.
Why am I surprised? Never say the elegant Mr. Farwell would be found grubbing in the dirt in a dark wood. Why he might get his precious, primrose trousers stained.
She was nearing the woods when she heard her name called. Turning, she saw him striding toward her. For just a moment, she considered ignoring him and going her own way, but good manners got the best of her. She waited.
"I apologize for my tardiness, Miss Phaedra. I was visiting His Grace and he tricked me into a game of chess. I would be there yet if I hadn't let him win."
"Let him win, Mr. Farwell? I have heard that His Grace is a superb chess player. Papa learned from him, and my papa rarely loses to anyone." She smiled her understanding of his need to preen.
His lips parted to show his teeth, but there was no smile in his eyes. "Of course. How could I have expected you to believe me a worthy opponent at chess. Never mind. I am at your disposal for the rest of the day. May I carry something?"
"Thank you, but no. I am entirely capable of carrying my own equipment." She turned again toward the woods, leaving him to trail behind.
Phaedra had to admit she was both surprised and pleased to see him dressed in an old and frayed tweed jacket and stained buckskins, with heavy woolen stockings inside wooden clogs such as were worn by the poorest peasants. She herself had found the wooden shoes to be most practical for use in wet weather, for the mud did not stick to them as it did to leather shoes or boots. As the afternoon wore on and her serviceable boots picked up an ever heavier load of sticky mud, she wished she had her own, but they, like her presses, had been left at Gifford Court.
She happily added several mosses, a small buttercup, and a particularly fine specimen of Chrysosplenum alte
rnifolium, a species she had only collected once before, to her bag. He followed her in silence for the most part, only occasionally asking the name of a plant. After an hour or so, her skirts were wet, her boots heavy with mud, and her fingers numb from digging in the cold soil. She straightened and attempted to brush plant fragments and streaks of soil from her skirt.
"It seems to me that you would be far better off in trousers," he observed. "Skirts have always seemed to me particularly impractical garments"
"I rarely wear skirts when I am collecting at home," she confessed, surprised at his comment. She would never have expected him to approve of trousers on any female, no matter what the circumstances. "They are so unmanageable when I am forever kneeling or crawling in the shrubbery. Trousers are much more practical, though Mama refuses to allow me to wear them into the house and I must change in the dairy barn."
"Why are you in skirts today, then?"
She grimaced. "Mama would not let me bring my trousers to London with me, for she said that she feared that I would not be able to resist wearing them. Chloe supported her, too, for she was certain I would steal out in them to look at plants and be seen by someone, to my complete ruin."
"I would like to see you in trousers, Phaedra. You would be quite fetching, I imagine."
"I am quite disreputable looking, sir, and you will not see me in trousers. They are outgrown ones of my brothers' and they fit like a second skin."
"Then I would definitely like to see you in trousers," he said, grinning at her blush when she caught his meaning. "Come," he continued, holding out his hand, "you can see that it is getting too dark and damp to find flowers. Let us walk down to the lake. It is particularly attractive in the rain. Or are you too cold? It is fully a mile to the vantage point."
She took his hand and let him pull her to his feet. Although he did not release it when she was standing beside him, she did not attempt to disengage it. His clasp seemed...comforting.
A Sisterly Regard Page 24