The Slightest Provocation

by Pam Rosenthal

  But what was she canting about now? Probably complaining that he was pulling the laces too tightly. As no doubt he was (he gave an extra, spiteful little tug, but she didn’t seem to notice).

  “You do understand, don’t you,” she was saying,

  “that I fully accept the Grefford part of the evidence. I think there will be men marching in the direction of Nottingham. It’s the London part I’m having difficulty with.”

  Oh, Lord, she wasn’t going to suggest…?

  “Is this really necessary, Mary? You’ve already said your piece. Thanks for your… attention, but…”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, she told herself.

  She turned to face him.

  “No, listen to me. I would have said it more readily, but I knew how you’d respond-and I was a bit… intimidated, I expect. The London Committees-well, Richard told me…”

  His mouth was contorted, eyes distended. For a moment she imagined that she’d be turned to stone if she continued to stare back at him while he was so angry.

  She chose a spot on the wall and trained her gaze upon it.

  “… that he ceased attending his London Hampden Club meetings because the entire reform society apparatus had become so distressingly defunct. Just a few nice old gentlemen in attendance, and they all think it’s still 1789. They have no connections with the workingmen in the country; most times they get together, they nod off to sleep over their port, reading Thomas Paine to one another. Of course, they might dream of summoning seventy thousand men, just as well as they might dream of seven men actually showing up for one of their suppers.”

  His voice was flat. “Well, one way or another, and even without the assistance of one R. R. Morrice, your old gentlemen have managed to connect themselves to an awful lot of workingmen throughout the countryside. Or would you deny that, Mary, on the basis of the evidence I’ve shown you?”

  “I didn’t say there aren’t a lot of angry workingmen.”

  “Then what are you trying to say?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d rather want to ask Richard’s opinion on the matter.”

  Well, she hadn’t turned to stone, and she’d said what she’d needed to. She congratulated herself that she’d stayed calm. And would continue so, even if she did feel herself a bit fearful of the way his hands had clenched and his jaw trembled. But although she’d slapped him once or twice over the years, he’d never struck her and she knew he never would.

  “I don’t want you to tell Morrice about this,” he said quietly.

  “Of course I shan’t. I wasn’t proposing to do so. I think you should tell him. Find out what he thinks. Listen, Kit. He’s the only person you or I know who can shed some light on this business of the London Committees. And he’s nearby, in Wakefield, staying with his aunts.”

  “How do you know he’s not in favor of this insurrection?”

  “Because he believes in reform, which is quite a different thing. Yes, he has a few romantic fancies. But you haven’t seen him in a decade. He lives a comfortable life with a good wine cellar. He…”

  “No. Absolutely not. I’m charged with obeying orders. I shouldn’t have told you any of this.”

  It was a very solidly built cottage (as one would expect, it being constructed according to the designs of the great Capability Brown). And so nothing broke or shattered or was even knocked from its place, when he quit the room and gave the door a great thundering slam behind him.

  Nothing to do, she thought, but take the path home to Beechwood Knolls.

  Odd, how calm she felt, to be parting like this. Or maybe it wasn’t odd at all; maybe it made perfect sense. After all, they weren’t parting. Well, that was her problem, wasn’t it, to keep forgetting that they were already parted-separated and soon to be more than that; this just-ended interlude merely a long final farewell, an indulgence, a very long kiss good-bye.

  Nothing had changed between them. The letter brought along with her could be sent without her having to show it to him.

  If it weren’t that she were also right, dammit. There was something singular about the elusive Mr. Oliver, about the whole unfolding situation. Surely, when he thought more soberly on it-tomorrow, perhaps…

  Not a chance. Tomorrow he’d be just as unwilling to talk to Richard as he was today. A pity that the only person they knew who might be able to explicate the situation was the person Kit would be least able to face.

  It wasn’t her concern any longer. She’d done what she could to help him. She was tired of the whole affair. And certainly of plots and informers.

  Listen to the birds, she told herself. Fill your head with the rustle of trees. Or with someone else’s words-stray phrases from a play she loved, about lovers and madmen, their “seething brains… shaping fantasies that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends.”

  A comfort to take distraction from such wit and beauty in words.

  Or so it might have been, if she hadn’t just now caught sight of Lord Ayres waving delightedly at her as she made her way over the stile.

  Had he really chosen this most inopportune of moments for a poetic tête-à-tête?

  Worse, it seemed. He’d chosen exactly this moment, on this oppressive afternoon, to protest that he adored her, that he’d never met such a woman as she, that she was driving him mad with passionate desire.

  But, but… this is so unexpected, sir. Her voice was faint, though he wouldn’t notice that. The words were right, anyway; so unexpected was just the sort of flirtatious, encouraging banality he would have been hoping for.

  Ah yes, he burbled, precisely so-he couldn’t have said it better himself; how unexpected, how astonishing and delightful. How magical in a word, wouldn’t she agree-that notwithstanding the disparities in their ages (she couldn’t help noting that his passion was not so great as to ignore this disparity) their spirits had come together as from a higher etc., etc., etc. (but she always lost track of a man’s words when his spirit entered into the proceedings).

  “And to learn, my dearest, beautiful Mary, that you can feel it too…” (If she remained so distressingly tongue-tied, she thought, she might simply have to slap him.) He seemed to have grasped both her hands during that last effusively delivered phrase of his as he began pouring out his longings and sufferings of the past few days, when his extraordinary respect for her had caused him to refrain (thank heaven for small favors anyway) from following her into the forest.

  But certainly (he cleared his throat here), she wouldn’t take it amiss if he were to visit her late tonight.

  Which, she realized-upon blessedly solitary reconsideration later in her bedchamber-would have been the perfect moment for her to slap him in a fit of outraged propriety.

  Instead of continuing to blink in stunned disbelief at this poor sprig with his violet eyes, hyacinthine curls, and dreadful ear for language.

  If she had her wits about her, she would have realized that a slap was exactly what he wanted. At least in lieu of the kiss he wasn’t going to get, a slap would have been rather a mark of honor for this ardent ninny of a would-be lover, all grasping hands and raging amourpropre. But she hadn’t had her wits about her, and so she’d done something infinitely worse.

  She’d laughed at him.

  Well, not merely at him, though of course he wouldn’t be able to see that. She’d laughed at him and herself and even at Kit, in all their tragically vulnerable pride and absurd comic egoism. She’d laughed helplessly and rather hysterically, her eyes first brimming and then overflowing with tears, nose and cheeks growing red and raw as she wrested her hands from his to cast about for the handkerchief that, needless to say, was nowhere to be found. Things tended to get so moist between her and Kit-her handkerchief was doubtless somewhere among the tumbled bed linen at the cottage.

  She’d laughed so long and hard that poor Lord Ayres must have wondered if he’d driven her to a lunatic, apoplectic, or even an epileptic fit. But as she got hold of herself, sighing and dabbing at her eyes wit
h the handkerchief he’d finally thought to lend her, she could see his growing assurance that she was perfectly and regrettably all right. Though considerably less attractive, with her red eyes and roughened, tearstained cheeks, than he’d imagined she might be in a state of heightened emotion-the disparity between their ages was considerably harder to ignore than he’d previously supposed.

  And so he’d scowled, turned away, swung into his saddle, and spurred his horse toward Beechwood Knolls-no chance, she thought, of an offer today, to lead her homeward on horseback.

  He’d appeared quite calm at dinner, however, and paid Elizabeth such modest and agreeable compliments that the girl couldn’t help but respond-rather to Mary’s surprise. But all in all it was an unusually quiet meal, except for Fred’s chatter about the fireworks he’d bought. Even Fannie Grandin seemed lacking in vivacity and oddly drained and abstracted, causing Mary to wonder if she too were suffering from the disagreeable effects of the day’s humidity.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was settled, then; their forest trysts were over. It had been fun, Kit told himself, or even more than fun. His eyes softened here, perhaps at some memory, caught in his mind like a silvery fish in a net. But he had his duties to uphold-to nation, family, public order, and the man he’d been struggling to become.

  And anyway, she’d be learning the truth soon enough. Too late for regrets or apologies-the crisis would be averted, everyone (including her and Morrice) would understand the danger the nation’s magistrates had faced down.

  (And if he had any doubts about the rebellion-if he’d once wondered about those London Committees, or questioned the Home Office’s certainties-well, he didn’t any longer; he hadn’t the time or energy for it. One couldn’t know everything. The truth would unfold as it would.)

  After which he’d return to London. His family didn’t need him anymore: yesterday Wat had taken a few unsteady steps with a cane in each hand. The dowager marchioness would be back when the spirit moved her. Even that rapscallion Gerry ought to be showing his face eventually.

  A tedious Sunday, for according to the schedule he’d worked out, it was her turn to make an appearance at church. Too bad. There were those parish records he’d been wanting to have a look at. Tomorrow, then; he could ride over to church in the morning and satisfy his curiosity.

  He’d go over the plans for drilling the militia with Colonel Halsey tomorrow night, at the Cauthorn assembly, after dancing a turn or two with Susanna.

  “Do you suppose the girls have had a falling-out?” Jessica spoke in a whisper, though she and Mary were quite private in her sitting room.

  Mary shrugged. “Perhaps they’re simply too busy primping and preparing for the assembly tomorrow night. Or they’ve confided everything they possibly can confide to one another and need a bit of a respite. I know I should, if I’d been chattering so incessantly.”

  “I expect so,” Jessie said. “Well, I hope they enjoy the dancing. We’ll have just enough time to ask them about it and they’ll be off to spend a few days at the Halseys’. So good of Colonel Halsey’s daughter to think of them, and to invite Fred and Lord Ayres as well.”

  “It’ll be nice to get some quiet,” Mary murmured rather absently.

  “Well, you’ve had a lot of quiet already, I should think, walking about as you have in the forest.” Jessica’s eyes shone with unasked questions.

  But Mary had armed herself for such a moment. “Miss Halsey seems a pleasant girl,” she observed. “Do you suppose she’s setting her cap for Fred?”

  The tactic worked as well as it needed to. For Fred, in Jessie’s estimation, was in no position to tie himself down with any young lady until he got his degree, and if he imagined that he was, well, then he was in dire need of some maternal counsel; she’d be sure to speak to him before the lot of them set out tomorrow for Cauthorn.

  Forgive me, Fred, Mary thought. And forgive me, Jessie, for keeping the truth from you. Not that it mattered very much, when so many things had come around to their natural conclusions.

  “We have enough ham and game in the meat larder,” she said now. “I think it’s time to be planning for the pies and puddings, the syllabubs and trifles. Mrs. Ottinger has suggested a few variations. And I believe we may finally breathe easy about the plumbing.

  “Oh, and by the way,” she added, “have you checked on the local young people we’ve engaged to help? I mean, are they working out as they should? No problems there, I trust.”

  Jessica hadn’t been apprised of any.

  Elizabeth’s reflection returned a sweetly wistful smile, floating as though out of darkness between the tall tapers on either side of her dressing room mirror. The little coronet of braids her maid had done up looked quite well, she thought, with the rest of her hair sweeping back over her shoulders. Better for when she went riding anyway.

  And Lord Ayres really wasn’t so bad either. Rather gallant, and a bit melancholy looking, which was agreeable in its way. She hadn’t really noticed his good qualities before Fannie had pointed them out. Or perhaps she’d simply been a bit abashed to have a young gentleman flirting with her. It seemed one could get used to it, though, and (she scanned her silvery reflection thoughtfully) could it really be that she’d become as pretty as people seemed to think?

  How strange that she hadn’t noticed the changes. Hadn’t noticed much of anything, it seemed to her, during these last months spent riding, escaping the house to chatter with the young marchioness, mourning her papa and feeling so furious at her mama-for such a long list of transgressions that sometimes Elizabeth wasn’t sure what she was actually so furious about.

  But surely Fannie was wrong about Lord Ayres liking Aunt Mary.

  And what was wrong with Fannie anyway, that she’d suddenly become so closemouthed?

  Not, Elizabeth hastened to assure herself, that Lord Ayres could compare to Lord Christopher. Still, it was agreeable to be paid compliments. And perhaps tomorrow night at Cauthorn, well, it couldn’t hurt to have him gazing so steadfastly at her as he had at dinner; hadn’t Fannie explained that one gentleman’s attention tended to gather and concentrate a roomful of other gentlemen’s glances? Fannie’s example had been taken from optics or astronomy; Elizabeth had lost the thread of the argument, but the general idea was clear enough.

  Just as long as she were asked to dance. Of course she wanted Lord Christopher to ask her, but in truth she was more worried that no one might. She thought she might die if that happened, though she also worried that she wasn’t as graceful a dancer as Fannie, whose mama (unlike Elizabeth’s) had been wise enough to employ the best teacher in London.

  “Yes, Miss Kimball, I am aware that my bronze-hued sarcenet was intended for the Midsummer Night ball.” Fannie hadn’t meant to be so sharp with the poor old thing, but it was irksome to have one’s thoughts so consistently interrupted.

  “Well, I hope,” she continued, “that I may be permitted occasionally to change my mind. We’ll save the lilac muslin for midsummer-no one here at Beechwood Knolls really cares what one looks like…”

  She smiled and shrugged in an effort to share an ironic pleasantry with the tedious millstone of a chaperone her mama had tied around her neck.

  “But I’m quite determined to wear the bronze gown tomorrow night.” It was by far the most expensive thing she owned, its brilliant color and simple cut making a vivid contrast to Elizabeth’s sweet but rather girlish and flouncy pale blue lawn.

  But she must be fair to Miss Kimball-for whatever her deficiencies, she hadn’t really proven an encumbrance. The pathetic old thing must be horribly poor, to judge by all the pleasure she derived from the meals provided for her; Miss Kimball was so intent on simple comforts that Fannie guessed her life hadn’t included a lot of them.

  I should be kinder, she resolved. Half-blind and rather deaf as she is, she’s absolutely the ideal chaperone, and I shan’t want to lose her. Thank heaven Mama had been so distracted by Phila and her awkward season so as not to pay cl
oser attention to the old lady’s limitations. In a newly sweet voice, Fannie called out her thanks.

  But Miss Kimball had already stumped off to relay the changed plans to Fannie’s maid, that the bronze gown must be aired and a tiny stain seen to, not to speak of getting up the matching ribbons and slippers and amber necklace, leaving Fannie free to turn her attention back to the great Capability Brown’s sketches for the landscape at Rowen.

  What clever designs, she thought, and particularly the quaint arrangement of footpaths that lead in all sorts of unexpected directions. Fascinating, Fannie thought, the contrivances that go into improving an estate. What a splendid vocation, to be a landscape gardener.

  Ignoring the lateness of the hour, she continued her perusal, all the while twisting a lock of her hair over her forehead in a pretty, absentminded way that might have led some people to believe she wasn’t extracting every possible atom of information from the pages spread out in front of her.

  “Will he ever come?”

  The servants’ rooms upstairs were particularly airless tonight, and Peggy had thrown off her coverlet in despair of getting to sleep at all. If only the rain would come and make things fresh again.

  She had an extra candle. Perhaps she could pass the time by doing some sewing. It might make her sleepy; the cloak Lady Christopher had told her she could have would need to be shortened, though Peggy was grateful that it was cut so full in the front.

  The only problem was that she’d forgotten to bring it upstairs with her. Still, Lady Christopher often stayed up to read or write in her journal. Peggy would be able to tell from the seam of light below the lady’s door. If she were still up, Peggy doubted her employer would mind the interruption. For even in the midst of her own complicated comings and goings these past days, Lady Christopher had been most unusually kind and understanding. Lighting a candle, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, Peggy padded out the door of her room to the staircase.