"Yes, well," Gillian interrupted, trying to save them from a lecture, "It doesn't matter, does it? Because she wouldn't have either of us, and now it's up to you."
Caught like that, in the middle of pontificating, it took John some time to assimilate Gillian's meaning. When he did, his brows rose and his face purpled alarmingly, while his jaw worked several moments before he could stutter out the words to ask, in effect, if his brothers had lost their minds.
"Not that you have one to lose, Gillian," he ended, glaring at his brother, "but I thought Peter had better sense. . ."
His gaze turned toward their youngest brother and Peter, with a sigh, said he thought it best that he tell John all about it. He started with the kidnapping—which, John said, his face austere, they should all try to forget about as soon as possible—and hit upon the engagement entered into by the earl to save Miss Tolliver from scandal. John told them that was the earl's business, and no one else's.
"But it isn't!" Peter cried. "It's Miss Tolliver's business, too, and she doesn't wish to marry Giles. She told me so. And I asked Grandmama one day if it would be such a terrible thing if Miss Tolliver and Giles didn't get married, and she—she was on her way to her bedchamber at the time, with a bottle of sherry—said it would be a very terrible thing indeed. Then I asked Aunt Caroline what would happen to a lady who spent a night at an inn with a gentleman, unchaperoned, and she blessed herself and said whatever was I thinking of to ask such a thing, but that such a lady would be ostracized—"
His voice trailed off as his brothers regarded him with amazement.
"You asked Aunt Caroline that?" Gillian said, his voice tinged with awe.
Peter said that he had, and Gillian clapped him on the back. "Peter, my boy, you're a braver man than I am, and that's a fact! It's a wonder she didn't faint dead away at the very thought! Lord, I'd have given a coachwheel to see her face!"
John reminded him that he was talking about his aunt and should keep a civil tongue in his head, but Peter grinned and whispered that she had been quite pink at the thought. Then it was John's turn to frown at Peter, too, and both of the younger brothers thought it best to hold their tongues while John, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his chair arm, sat pondering the conversation.
It was difficult for him to believe that Miss Tolliver did not wish to marry their brother Giles. She had spoken of a pretend engagement, but as her time at Willowdale lengthened, he had pushed the thought to the back of his mind, thinking that she and the earl had realized they would indeed suit and had come to an understanding between them. It was very probable, he told himself, that Peter had misunderstood, but if he had not. . . Well. . .
Like his brothers, John had come by insensible degrees to find Miss Tolliver a part of their world. Usually ill at ease with the ladies of his acquaintance, there was something about her that made it almost effortless for him to talk. She was an attentive listener, and she was informed on so many of the topics that turned other females of his acquaintance glassy-eyed at the mere mention. She played chess, too—in fact, they had gotten into the habit of playing almost nightly. He had mentioned once that Giles might not like his brother taking up so much of Miss Tolliver's time in the evening, but she had smiled and said it could be of no moment to the earl, and so. ..
In the wake of Peter's and Gillian's disclosure, those words took on new meaning, and John sighed heavily. He was so used to thinking that everyone wanted to marry his brother, that he could not believe there was a lady who did not. But perhaps. . .
Gillian's clearing his throat for the third time made John conscious of his brothers, who had stood forgotten before him for several minutes. He frowned heavily at them and said that although he did not credit their story, he would take it upon himself to ascertain the lady's leanings, and if she indeed did not wish to marry Giles—something he was in no way certain of—why then, he would see. . .
Peter and Gillian, realizing it was the best they could do, nodded and slipped quietly from the room, leaving John to his thoughts and his reading. It could not be said that in the rest of the afternoon he accomplished much of the latter.
It had occurred to Miss Tolliver at supper that something was heavy on John's mind. The earl was aware of it too, she knew, for she had seen him direct several sharp glances toward his brother who sat unmindful of the comedy between the aunts, Caroline so determined and so loud in her protests that tea would and could cure any and all of the many ills Cassandra was suffering, that Cassandra was at last moved to snap, "For goodness' sake, Caroline, I do not wish to be cured!"
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Cassandra knew what she had done. As her sister stared at her in astonishment and her mother cackled in glee, Cassandra, her face red and, for once, her posture not drooping, rose and offered a polite "excuse me" to the assembled company— of which, she noted, only the earl and Miss Tolliver, and John seemed to have retained their composure, while the others sat laughing or at least grinning at her faux pas. Indignant, she stalked to the door, only pausing there long enough to inform the group that she would be leaving on the morrow. She was further incensed by her mother's frank assertion that it was about time.
The earl told her politely that they would all be sorry to see her go—earning him an appalled glance from his grandmother—and offered the use of his coach to convey her to whatever destination she chose. She thanked him with dignity, saying she rather thought she would visit Cousin Elizabeth for a time. That drew a "poor Elizabeth" from her unrepentant mother, and with her shoulders back and her head high, Cassandra left the room. If she shut the door behind her with unnecessary violence, no one seemed to notice.
"Really, Grandmama—" the earl started, shaking his head at the dowager countess, but she, paying him no mind, turned to the puzzled Caroline and remarked pleasantly that she understood Cousin Elizabeth was becoming quite an aficionado of tea in her old age; some people even said that her storeroom rivaled that of Mr. Petersham's.
"In fact," she said mendaciously, watching her daughter's eyes light up, "I don't know how I came not to mention it to you before, Caroline. I was thinking just the other day that Cousin Elizabeth could surely benefit from your opinions and knowledge. Don't you agree?"
Caroline left off trying to understand what had provoked her sister to anger-—surely, she assured herself, it was not something she, Caroline, had said—and gazed at her mother in wonder.
"Why, really, Mama," she said in a soft complaining voice, "I do think you could have told me about it sooner."
The countess, meeting the eyes of no one else at the table, agreed that she could have, and lamented the loss of memory that comes with old age.
Caroline sighed. "Well, yes, I quite understand—you didn't mean to. But mama, if you had told me earlier, it could be I off to visit Cousin Elizabeth, and not Cassandra! It really is too bad of you!"
For the thousandth time the dowager countess wondered what she had done to deserve her daughters, and as she raised her eyes to heaven, she caught sight of the earl's face, and knew he was reading her thoughts exactly. She frowned at him for his impertinence, and with great patience suggested that perhaps Caroline could join Cassandra in the earl's coach the next morning. If she really wanted to. . .
That the idea had not occurred to her was apparent in the way Caroline brightened. She said it was a splendid notion, and only hesitated to leave her mother alone when she might need her.
Nobly the countess promised to bear up, and when Caroline still showed signs of protesting, she pointed out that Miss Tolliver and the earl could be depended upon to see to her needs if any should arise. Miss Tolliver, knowing what was asked for in the look the countess directed toward her, agreed, and Caroline was able to relinquish that worry. In a moment the second of the earl's aunts was on her feet, saying that she must go at once to tell Cassandra, for they would have such a good time, and must make their plans as to where they would stop on the road for tea. She heard the George served a goo
d cup. . .
With an abstract "excuse me," Caroline left the room. The earl gazed at his grandmother sternly.
"Really, Grandmama!" he said. "Does Cousin Elizabeth have a tea collection?"
The countess's voice was tranquil as she said she did not know. But, she added, she was sure that if she did not have one now, she certainly would in the near future.
The earl shook his head. "Do you think it kind to let my aunts descend on her in this way?"
The dowager sat for several moments, sipping her wine. "The last time I saw Elizabeth," she said at last to the room at large, "she wore a puce gown. I detest puce. And," she continued, as her grandson was about to argue, "she told me I was looking quite old. Aged, even." She sipped her wine again and said no more. But everyone in the room— with the exception of Charles, who was too busy eating, and John, who had heard none of the evening's conversation— understood perfectly. Henrietta even offered to lend the countess her rooster.
Chapter 22
When the countess rose from the table and Miss Tolliver and Aunt Henrietta rose with her to withdraw, Miss Tolliver stopped for a moment beside John's chair to ask him if he wished to play chess that evening. Her question was low, and the earl could not hear it, but there was something about the anxious way she looked at his brother that troubled him, and he raised his voice to ask if she would care to join him for a game of piquet that evening.
Sir Charles, whose thoughts had gone from the earl's excellent dinner to the earl's excellent port, which the butler was now placing on the table, started at that, and eyed the earl with misgivings.
"Better not," he said, his face earnest. "Doesn't do to play piquet with Margaret. I should know."
The earl smiled at him, but raised the question again. "Miss Tolliver?"
Margaret, who had bent to hear Johns' answer that he would join her in the library directly, returned an abstract "perhaps later" to the earl and, ignorant of his frown, walked out of the room with a smiling "thank you" for the footman who held the door for her. The earl, wondering why everyone in his household was capable of winning the lady's smiles but himself, picked up the port and poured it. Liberally.
He poured another round several minutes later when his brother John excused himself to join Miss Tolliver in the library, so far forgetting himself and considerably surprising his brother Gillian when he filled Gillian's glass yet again. Not given to deep cogitation, Gillian did not long wonder why; he just thanked his lucky stars and drank deeply.
Miss Tolliver had the chessboard ready when John walked into the library, and had the gentleman for whom she waited been in a less serious mood, he might have better appreciated the charming picture before him.
The lady had set the chessboard in front of the fireplace, and the flames therein crackled and snapped cheerfully, their blues, oranges, and yellows ably aided by several candelabras as together they cast a cozy glow over the area. Two large leather wing chairs were drawn up to the small mahogany table on which the chessboard sat, and in one of them a smiling Miss Tolliver awaited him. He took his place in the other chair without comment and stared at the board, while Miss Tolliver watched him. It was clear his abstraction had not lifted; if anything, it had deepened. He appeared nervous; in fact, her quiet "Would you like to begin?" made him start, and after a fleeting look up, which made him gulp and look hastily down again, he did not meet her eyes as the game progressed.
Usually the most deliberate of chess players, tonight John moved his pieces very much at random, and when at last Miss Tolliver deliberately put her king in danger, only to have him miss the correct move for one in favor of an insignificant pawn, she reached out her hand to cover his as it rested on the chess piece, and said, "My dear John, whatever is the matter? Can I help?"
He looked first at her hand and then into her concerned face before sitting back as if her touch burned him. Both bewildered and alarmed, Miss Tolliver watched as he tugged hastily at his cravat and rose to pour himself a glass of the brandy that sat on the library table before one of the room's large windows. He drained the glass quickly, and poured out another before turning to face her. He seemed about to speak, changed his mind, and downed the second glass. Miss Tolliver watched in amazement.
"My dear sir!" she said. "Surely whatever is distressing you cannot be so bad that we cannot make it better if we put our heads together—"
She was interrupted by a strangled sound from John's throat, and words that sounded suspiciously like "That's it!"
"I beg your pardon?"
John picked up the decanter, changed his mind, and put it down again before returning to stand by his chair before the fire, twirling the empty glass in his hand, setting it on the mantlepiece and then picking it up again. "Thing is—I mean—want to talk to you—"
"And I want to talk to you!" Miss Tolliver assured him, rising to lay a hand on his arm. He gazed at her hand, and swallowed deeply. Hastily he took a step back, then moved to the other side of the chair, keeping it between them as if for protection.
"Miss Tolliver!" he said. Words failed him.
"Yes?" the lady questioned.
"Miss Tolliver!" His jaw worked several times. "Thing is. . ." His eyes turned wistfully to the brandy again, and a thought occurred to him. "May I offer you a drink?"
She brushed the offer aside with the information that she never drank brandy, and politely he said that he could have some sherry—or ratafia, if she wished—brought in, Miss Tolliver assured him she was not thirsty.
"Oh. Well." There was a small table behind him, and John set the glass he held on it. "I seem to be making quite a mull. . ." Miss Tolliver, who wished to help him but had no idea what he was talking about, stood listening, her head to one side. She really was a good listener, he thought. . . Drawing a deep breath, he plunged in.
"Miss Tolliver," he said. "Do you wish to marry my brother? My brother Giles, that is," he added conscientiously, remembering too late that she had already been proposed to by his two youngest brothers.
"My dear sir!" Surprised, she stepped back a moment. "What on earth has that to do with what is troubling you?"
It had a great deal to do, she learned shortly, for when, upon his repeating the question and her answering firmly that she was convinced she and the earl would not suit, he took another of his deep breaths, picked up the glass behind him and put it to his lips, removing it without ever being aware that it was empty, and he had had nothing to drink, and said in strangled tones, but with a perfect bow, "Then, madam, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
"Becoming—your—" Miss Tolliver repeated the words slowly, tottering backward with each until she found herself in front of her chair, and sank into it gratefully. She gazed up at his flushed and anxious face, and passed a hand over her own in bewilderment. "But, John—"
Humbly he told her that he knew he would not be the best of husbands; that he realized he had a manner that was by many considered too stiff and formal; that he was aware he was not an exciting man, or one given to flattering speeches and conversant with all the little niceties so dear to the feminine heart.
But, he told her with real sincerity, he held her in high regard, and he would do his best to make her happy.
"Oh, John!" Miss Tolliver said the words softly, reaching out to take his hand between both of hers. "You do me a great honor. But truly. You do not wish to be married, either. And truth be told, you know we would not suit."
He sighed heavily. "But you must marry one of us. And if you don't wish to marry Giles, and you won't marry Peter or Gillian or me—"
"Ahhhh." Understanding came. "It is so dear of all of you to ask, but I do not wish to be married. In a short time I shall go away, and you can all be comfortable again—"
"But we don't wish to be comfortable without you!" John said. "In fact—"
He was interrupted as the door to the library opened and the earl walked in, frowning at the sight of Miss Tolliver clasping his brother's hand between her own.
Miss Tolliver, following his glance, hastily dropped her hands to her lap, unaware that her high color had led the earl to his own inaccurate conclusions.
"I believe you said we might have our game of piquet later, Miss Tolliver," he said, bowing in her direction while he watched his brother's face. John, his color also high, turned away and picked up the glass behind him before moving to the brandy to pour himself another splash.
"We are not finished—" Miss Tolliver began, but the earl, walking forward, moved one piece to put her king in check.
"Now I believe you are." His tone was pleasant, but there was something in it that made both the lady and John look at him sharply, and John took a step forward.
"Perhaps Miss Tolliver does not care to play—" he began, and the earl turned to stare at him in a way that made the lady rise hastily and say that yes, she thought it would be nice . . . The earl bowed again and presented his arm and she, after a moment's hesitation, put her hand on it and walked with him from the room.
Miss Tolliver had thought they would join the others in the drawing room, but that was not the case. Instead, the earl ushered her to the back salon—known in his family as the green room because it was hung with spring green draperies, and the chairs upholstered to match—and after he had seen her seated, and shut the door firmly behind them, took up a post with his back to that room's mantlepiece, and his arms folded before him.
"Now, Miss Tolliver," he said, "perhaps you would be good enough to tell me why you were holding my brother's hand."
"Oh, really!" Miss Tolliver had endured a trying time, and his question was not helping it. "That is between your brother and me—"
"Ah." The word was quiet, but it interrupted the lady abruptly. "How foolish of me! Of course it was! As your betrothed, I could have no reason to wonder why you were holding another man's hands—"
"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Miss Tolliver rose and took a hasty step away, turning to face him. "This has gone far enough! In fact, this has gone much too far! Here you are talking about our betrothal as if it is real, and there are you brothers, proposing—"
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