Warrick noted increasingly husky voices. Quintilla’s posture at the pianoforte became straighter and straighter the later it grew. “With reluctance, I propose we end the evening.” The Ice Baron’s deep voice was warm and relaxed; it was unusual for him to participate instead of merely observing. “Come sir, let us leave before everyone falls asleep in midsong.” Warrick soundly slapped Mr. Pomfret-Page on his back and the two began to make their farewells.
As the widower pressed his fervent farewell on Kitty, Sir Ian accompanied Warrick to the door. “We go through this same thing tomorrow night, stuffing another widower for our Quintilla. Must see her happy, you know. Why not join us again? We will feed you well—and we like your flute.” The gruff voice indicated no opposition was expected. “Dr. Jenner needs your flute—and our cheer. Whether or not the Grosvenor heir survives, passage of the vaccination bill this year is, I fear, impossible.”
Warrick nodded his acceptance, “A pleasure, Sir Ian,” then paused. “Not for a goodly length of time have I been part of such an obliging troop. I commend you on your family.”
The others walked Mr. Pomfret-Page across the pale pink marble of the entry hall floor to bid him good-bye, and the two guests left together.
“Do you think me too old for her, Dhever?” entreated Mr. Pomfret-Page plaintively.
“Absolutely,” Warrick advised. He knew to whom the fellow referred, but the baron’s thoughts were on the evening’s original objective. I will not see her in his home—in his bed, Warrick resolved. We will find someone who can appreciate—who can cope with—that wild imagination, and settle her in an excellent... spawning ground.
“I think I look far younger than my years,” the aging swain begged for confirmation from the now-empty street. The little bluestocking intruded into his thoughts. It simply would not do to be seen strolling in Hyde Park with a lame wife.
Sir Ian worked on his research notes until midnight, sitting comfortably in his long quilted evening robe printed with red cherries. Lady Guthrie, at her dressing table, removed and undid all that had been applied and donned at the beginning of the day. She regretted the evening’s outcome, not at all as she had planned. Of course, Pomfret-Page would be an acceptable husband for Kitty, though in marrying her he would really only be adding another occupant to his nursery rather than taking a wife, at least at the present. She shuddered at the near-disaster at table.
As for her niece Quintilla, the family’s imperfect beauty ... If only she stuttered—so much more surmountable a handicap as far as finding a husband. Well, tomorrow brings Mr. Blumpton. He might do very well.
Kitty, her wrinkled nightgown sliding off one shoulder, perched cross-legged on Quintilla’s bed. “Did you enjoy your excursion to that musty old Tower? You do have the queerest idea of an entertaining day, Tilla!”
“It was entertaining, and I believe Mr. Dhever enjoyed it, too.” Quintilla could not remember a better day in her life. What fun to be so close, enjoying together a sense of the ridiculous! He was never more appealing than when he affected his contemptuous drawl, thinking to conceal his idealism, his concern.
She sighed contentedly. It had been a long day, and she was drowsy, but too excited to sleep. Propped against feather pillows, Quintilla looked as young as her cousin, and much more vulnerable. The front of her ruffled nightdress was unbuttoned, revealing the sweet curve of her breasts.
“He is terrifyingly elegant.” Kitty persisted. “What kind of carriage and horses did he have?”
“I did not notice.”
“How could you not notice a carriage and horses!” Kitty bounced on the bed in agitation.
“Oh—the horses were black. I noticed that.”
“To read as much as you do, Tilla Davenant, you certainly know little about important details in courtship.”
“At least I know enough not to discuss spawning.” Quintilla raised up from her pillows to point a finger at her country cousin, whereby the two exchanged grins. Quintilla, on hands and knees, reached over to kiss Kitty’s cheek. “Besides, it is not courtship with Mr. Dhever.”
“How do you know?” Kitty would ferret out the details. “Was there a crest on his carriage?”
Sleepily, Quintilla shrugged and wriggled deeper back into her pillows. “Why would he have a crest? He is Mr. Dhever.”
“He could have noble connections.”
Quintilla covered her mouth as she yawned. “What was Mr. Pomfret-Page talking about so earnestly to you? He looked as if he was offering for you.”
“Umh, some anniversary dinner for—for prosecuting felons, at the Crown and Anchor tavern in the Strand. He was very angry.”
“At the felons?” Quintilla’s voice slurred.
“No, at the members of the society. They would not appoint him—to the board, I think. He wants to become a prominent citizen, and I guess the felons’ society will not let him.” Kitty leaned against the bedpost. “Tilla, I tried to direct him to you.”
“I know.” Quintilla had turned on her side, her face resting on one hand. “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not have stayed Mr. Pomfret-Page. He was instantly smitten. I think it rather romantic. You are dear and kind. What more could he want?”
“You are beautiful and kind, Tilla. It is just, well, you try to engage their minds, and that simply will not do. You must let the men do the talking.” She covered her bare feet with the skirt of her nightgown. “I do not want you to marry him anyway. I could never remember whether to call you Mrs. Pomfret-Page or Mrs. Page-Pomfret. Do you care that he paid attention to me instead of you? ... Tilla? Tilla?”
Quintilla was asleep. Kitty scrambled off the bed and pattered away to her own room. Oh, please, Lord, she thought. Please let Mr. Blumpton pay attention to Tilla and not me!
7
“Mr. Blumpton. How pleased we are to have you join us.” Lady Guthrie welcomed their guest to the rose room.
Chiswell Blumpton, attired in suit of sober brown highlighted by white cravat and a small expanse of shirtfront creeping out from beneath his brown striped waistcoat, resembled nothing so much as a serving of treacle pudding—with milk. He nodded curtly and mumbled a reply assumed to be an appropriate response to comparable pleasure at being in attendance.
His eyes studied the floor, making it impossible to determine their colour, but beautifully thick lashes paradoxically promised sensual inclinations. Rosy cheeks bulging in a face unusually bland for one who had witnessed forty-three years indicated those inclinations bent towards the dining table.
“Lord Clough speaks highly of your work in bringing order to their muniments, and says you have become quite an authority on the history of their family’s church.” Lady Guthrie smoothly exercised her proficiency as hostess, while the whisper of her grey-figured silk evening dress quite possibly deadened the clang of warning bells in her brain. She suspected a long and difficult evening looming ahead. Before conversation had a chance to languish amidst the drawing room’s rose brocades and bouquets, Sir Ian and Quintilla were spurred to escort Lord Clough’s protégé across the garden to the library.
This room’s interesting contents had never failed to intrigue Guthrie guests—until now. Dutifully, Quintilla brought out the herbals and the incunabula, the carved wooden boxes holding remnants from Arab libraries in Spain and the delicate watercolours depicting the pox in China in the previous century. Chiswell Blumpton, hands clasped behind his back, regarded all the wonders without comment, causing Sir Ian a rare disappointment, since much of the pleasure in book collecting lay in the appreciative remarks of others.
Only when the bronze monk appeared from out the Leroi et fils timepiece did Mr. Blumpton quit his examination of the floor to monitor the religious figure’s performance. He wiped the top of the clock with his fingers and then checked them, seeming to be disappointed when they proved clean. With the monk’s return to the clock’s interior, the widower shambled back to the library worktable to endure more of Quintilla’s exposition.
Chiswell Blumpton seemed utterly miserable in company, and Quintilla sympathised, remembering her social discomfort when first she discovered the camaraderie of childhood was not transferable to the ballrooms of adult social intercourse. She applauded the courage it must have taken for him to appear tonight and wondered how he had found the boldness to propose to the now-deceased Mrs. Blumpton. Did he miss her sheltering arms? If only he could muster enough additional courage to talk!
Quintilla resolved to work harder at catching his interest. Daringly she took his arm. “Now, sir, you will see the most beautiful sight of all.”
She pulled him to the window that faced south, in the direction of the Thames. Sir Ian followed, piqued by this departure from Quintilla’s usually enthusiastic presentation of his collection.
“See! Have you ever viewed a more glowing sky?” she enthused. The dusk’s pale afterglow was of a colour with her pink muslin gown, where tiny covered buttons across the shoulders and around the high waist accented her attractive form.
The three stood quietly watching the fading sky as slowly Mr. Blumpton withdrew his arm from Quintilla’s light clasp. She plumbed the recesses of her mind for her next ploy.
Her calculations were interrupted by Lady Guthrie’s trill of laughter in response to some remark delivered in the low voice of Warrick Dhever. “What is so interesting it keeps the three of you standing entranced at the window?” Lady Guthrie enquired as the duo entered.
Quintilla turned in welcome, feeling her cheeks grow warm with the joy surging through her. The relief at being rescued from Mr. Blumpton’s dejection was the greater for being rescued by Warrick Dhever.
Sir Ian explained, “We mark the day’s end.” He shook Warrick’s hand. “I am happy to see you—and look forward to the tootle of your flute once more.”
“Thank you, Sir Ian.” Warrick inclined his head.
Quintilla extended her hand to Warrick. “We thank you for the music you sent us today, but I detect so many sharps and sixteenth notes, I doubt we can master it without rehearsal.”
“I have no doubt, Miss Davenant, that you—we all—will meet the challenge successfully.” He pulled her slender fingers to rest in his palm and covered them with his other hand. He sensed her excitement in his presence, and surprised himself at his own heightened awareness of her soft hand, the flushed cheeks matching the coral necklace at her throat, the beat of her pulse there. The day ended well, he realised, when she was a part of it.
Mr. Blumpton, introduced with additional acclaim for his efficient organisation of church records, bowed.
“Does another instrumentalist swell our ranks?” Warrick asked.
Mr. Blumpton shook his head.
“Then, sir, I hope your ear has not been trained to appreciate only the most polished performances.” Warrick spoke with the easy familiarity of a long-accepted family friend.
During the impertinent remarks that followed his slight against the musical ability of the rose room habitués, Warrick tempered his anticipation of what was to have been an evening of unalloyed pleasure. The Ice Baron scanned Chiswell Blumpton’s amorphous figure and thought, This unprepossessing ... clod ... for the shining Quintilla? Never! “Not while I have any say in the matter!” he vowed under his breath.
That he had no say in the matter never entered his mind, filled as it was with misgivings over the evening’s direction. Well, perhaps the gentleman’s conversation would begin to flow with his digestive juices.
During the meander back through the garden, Sir Ian made certain he and Warrick walked apart from the ladies and their marital candidate. Sir Ian spoke earnestly. “Our modest entertainment of you has brought us much pleasure, Mr. Dhever. You have reciprocated with a gift, delivered earlier this day, of inestimable worth. We thank you, but we beg you to reclaim it. Lady Guthrie is particularly delighted with its appropriateness in her rose drawing room, but she joins me in declaring we cannot accept it, most generous sir.”
“The music stand to which you refer, Sir Ian, gathered dust in a dark corner of my family’s home. It once held music in the centre of happy gatherings and I would like to see it again occupy such a place in the midst of your loving family. Your acceptance of it means much.”
“If that is your wish.” Sir Ian bowed his head.
“I would not have it any other way.”
Sir Ian ended their garden trek with an account of his initiation into the joys of book collecting, at a dusty bookstore in Edinburgh. Quintilla and Lady Guthrie, flanking Mr. Blumpton, enlightened him with the scientific names of much of the flora they passed on the way back to the beckoning candlelight beyond the French doors of the Georgian house.
“Do you enjoy gardening, Mr. Blumpton?” Lady Guthrie ventured. Mr. Blumpton shook his head as the ladies exchanged a brief look of frustration behind the quiet gentleman’s back.
He resisted all efforts to be drawn into conversation, probably the only citizen of the city without a comment on the coming Regency Fete. Neither Dr. Jenner’s reminiscences of Gloucester as a nature lover’s paradise, nor Kitty’s descriptions of pleasurable horseback rides drew Mr. Blumpton’s eyes from their count of the mushrooms in his fish pie. Warrick prepared for sacrifice when he asked the widower for his opinion of the man most qualified to lead the Whig party. Startled, Quintilla stared across the table and raised her eyebrows at Warrick, who raised his in return before sampling the stuffed lettuce and fricassee of chicken on the Coalport china plate in front of him.
Warrick’s was the only score in what became an almost unacknowledged game when he managed to elicit a response from the silent guest of honour upon enquiring as to the number of children there were in his home.
Mr. Blumpton’s distinct reply was heard by all. “Three.”
Then Quintilla effectively dammed the Blumpton conversational flow when she thoughtlessly asked him if Rousseau’s theories of child care had influenced the education of his brood. Mr. Blumpton retreated to a careful observation of the loin of lamb garnished with mint leaves and stewed peas with carrots. Applying his knife to a brandied peach, Mr. Blumpton sent it sliding across the Coalport and the tabletop to knock over a small silver swan, scattering the salt it held over the table’s shining surface. The wayward fruit came gently to rest against Dr. Jenner’s wineglass.
“Do you play cricket, Mr. Blumpton?” Warrick dryly questioned as a Guthrie servant quickly removed all traces of the havoc wrought by the slippery golden orb.
Sir Ian complained courteously if inaccurately, “Anatomy lessons are necessary if one is to properly dissect those things, Blumpton!”
“Tell us about your work at the church. How old is the building?” Quintilla smiled as she encouraged her dinner partner.
Either the mumble was improving or all were becoming accustomed to Mr. Blumpton’s mode of speech, for everyone understood him to say, “The twelfth century.” Having established this fact, Mr. Blumpton attacked his lamb with zest and the whipped-cream cake drizzled with strawberry sauce that followed, and helped himself to three cinnamon tartlets.
Under the rustle of music sheets being distributed and the squeak of violins being tuned, Quintilla expressed to Warrick her admiration for the mahogany music stand inset with a Sevres plaque on which violin and lute were painted against a background of roses. “How perfect for this room, Mr. Dhever. Your kindness will never be forgotten—to say nothing of your command of the flute.” Her eyes held his as he put his lips to his instrument and expertly executed a cadenza.
Lady Guthrie broke their moment of intimacy. Smiling graciously, she directed Quintilla to sit with Mr. Blumpton. “I have exhausted what I thought an endless store of conversational gambits.”
So it was Quintilla who sat on the rose velvet Queen Anne settee with the evening’s raison d’etre. Beside her, Mr. Blumpton perched motionless. Head bowed, hands loosely hanging between plump thighs, he projected an abject despair which gradually crippled the musicians’ energetic struggle to master mus
ical odes to joy.
Quintilla, quicksilver by contrast, tapped her foot or waved her hand to the music’s demands. Finally, she rebelled. “Do you dance, Mr. Blumpton?”
At his negative nod, she rose from the settee. “Oh, I do!” Clasping Mr. Blumpton’s limp hand, she chassed with her right foot and then with her left in front of him before dragging him to his feet. Hopping in circles around him, she led him to the pianoforte as a melodious piece ended.
“What shall we do with a drunken sailor, what shall we do with a drunken sailor...?” Quintilla began the lively sea chantey.
All the musicians chimed in—even Lady Guthrie. Desperate times called for desperate measures. “What shall we do with a drunken sailor, early in the morning?” After the fourth or fifth raucous verse, when enthusiasm waned, given the lack of ropes to pull and sails to haul, Chiswell Blumpton cleared his throat and enunciated perfectly, “I must be going.”
“So soon?” Sir Ian rested his violin and escorted the honoured guest through the drawing room doorway into the marbled hall before any of the others could murmur one platitude of farewell.
Quintilla followed behind, weary disappointment further distorting her walk. In her mind, she lamented: Oh, the poor, pitiful thing—and we could do nothing to allay his fears of society.
“Uncle Guthrie, how sad,” said Quintilla as the front door closed behind Mr. Chiswell Blumpton. There were tears in her eyes. “To be so ill at ease with people who only wish him well.”
“No excuse for it,” replied her uncle forthrightly. “Do not waste your sympathy.” He patted her shoulder.
“Maybe it was the thought of marriage with me.”
“Nonsense!” her uncle snorted. “That is not like you, Quintilla.”
Waltz with a Stranger Page 8