"Proposing?" The earl straightened suddenly. "John- proposed—to you?"
"Well, yes—"
"Of ail the—" The earl took several purposeful steps toward the door. "We shall see about that"
Miss Tolliver stared at him in amazement before crying out that if he planned to have words with one brother, he must have them with all three, because all three had proposed to her recently, and she was most tired of it.
"What?" Now it was the earl's turn to look amazed. Slowly he turned and walked back toward her.
"Miss Tolliver," he said. "Perhaps you had best tell me what this is all about."
In as few words as possible, she did. She told him that his brothers—with the best motives possible, and realizing that she was resolute in her promise not to hold the earl to their false engagement—had all proposed to marry her, "so that I won't be ruined in the sight of the world. It is most honorable of them. But I, too, have my honor, and I would no more force a man into marriage with me than—"
The earl was looking at her with a strange glint in his eye, and Miss Tolliver broke off to return his gaze inquiringly.
"Is that all—" he started. "Well, of all the—" With one quick movement he stepped forward and grasped her hand, raising it to his lips as he gazed down into her stunned face. "Margaret," he said, "will you marry me?"
Miss Tolliver, retrieving her hand to put it to her head, uttered a small sound of fury and, with a rustle of skirts and one short stop to glare in astonishment and say "Oh!" to him again, left the room.
Chapter 23
The earl stood stock-still for several moments, cursing himself for his heavy-handedness before, with a short, under-his-breath oath, he bounded after the lady. He did not think himself more than five seconds behind her, but as he rushed from the salon into the great hall, it was to collide with Sir Charles who was standing at the stairway watching his sister disappear up it with a melancholy sigh. At the sight of the earl's face, Miss Tolliver's brother sighed again.
"Told you you shouldn't play piquet with my sister," he said, and limped off toward the library in search of the earl's brandy.
"We didn't—" the earl snapped, but Sir Charles was no longer listening. That was not true of the earl's family, however. The doors to the drawing room stood open, and Giles turned to find his brothers' and his grandmother's very interested eyes upon him. Frowning, he advanced upon them.
"I would like a word with you—" he began, glaring at his brothers, but his word was brought up short at the sight of Aunt Henrietta, ensconced in a chair by the fire, doing her best to retrieve a bit of yarn from Lazaurus's interested beak. She seemed to feel Giles's eyes upon her at length, for she looked up and, finding all heads turned her way, smiled distractedly.
"He thinks it's a worm," she said, indicating the yarn and the belligerent rooster. "Poor boy. Perhaps he's hungry."
The ear! agreed that that must be the case, and suggested that the lady go immediately to feed him. Corn would be nice, he said.
Aunt Henrietta agreed, but hesitantly. "Perhaps. But it won't do if he is hungry for worms."
"I beg your pardon?" The earl was looking down at her, his brow knit, and she kindly explained it to him. "Lazaurus is very picky. If he's hungry for worms, corn won't do. I know just how it is—no matter how many vegetables I eat, they'll never substitute if what I really want is a sweet."
The dowager countess, appearing much struck, vowed it was true. She noted that all the tea Caroline had poured for her had never been one whit as satisfying as a bottle of her husband's best claret. She beamed at her grandson as he turned to frown at her.
"Don't encourage her," Giles hissed, but the countess did. She recalled times out of mind when she had wanted one thing but substituted another, only to find that it would not do. Aunt Henrietta nodded agreeably and the earl, much frustrated, paced the room. His suggestion that they might at least see if Lazaurus would accept corn was pooh-poohed by everyone, his brothers, not eager to face his wrath, joining their grandmother in her objections. At last he hit upon the very thing and, calling his butler into the room, left that worthy bereft of words when told he was to take a lantern, Aunt Henrietta, and the rooster and search the garden for worms.
"For—worms, my lord?" the butler repeated, sure he could not have heard right. When assured that he had, his entreaty was almost tearful. "For worms, my lord?"
The earl's ruthless repetition of the words left him wondering if it was time he sought employment elsewhere, but the earl's suggestion that if he was busy, he might have one of the underfootmen do it did much to restore his peace of mind, and with a bow of great dignity he said that it would be done, merely waiting for Aunt Henrietta and Laz to precede him out of the room before, with lofty pomp, he shut the doors behind him.
"Now," the earl, who had escorted Henrietta to the door said silkily as he turned to face the other occupants of the room. "Now, my dear family . . ."
His brothers, who had stood for some moments enjoying the scene before them, became suddenly busy. John bethought himself of some correspondence that required his immediate attention. Peter yawned and said he rather thought it was time for bed. And Gillian, usually the most casual of scholars, recalled a book that required his immediate attention in the library. All would have made good their escape but for the fact that their eldest brother stood in front of the door, and showed no disposition to move. On the contrary, he invited them—in a tone that brooked no argument—to take a seat because, he said, he wanted to talk to them. "All of you," he stressed, as his grandmother rose to leave. As she raised her eyebrows at him, he amended the statement to "If you would be so good, Grandmama."
Graciously the dowager countess said that she would.
"Now then." The earl advanced into the room, eyeing his brothers sternly. "I have had the most interesting conversation with Miss Tolliver."
The countess objected that Miss Tolliver could not have found it interesting, based on the way she had stormed from the salon and up the stairs. The earl ignored her.
"And I am given to understand," the earl continued, raising his quizzing glass and polishing it carefully on his sleeve before gazing at his brothers through it, reducing them to squirming silence as he did so, "that my brothers— each of my brothers—" and here he inspected each of them in turn, "has proposed to the lady."
"Really?" The announcement, which had John, Gillian, and Peter shifting uneasily in their chairs, intrigued the countess, who sat up straight and clapped her hands together. "By all that's famous! What fun!"
"Fun?" The earl repeated the word, his tone making it clear he did not agree with her. The countess ignored him.
"You, too, John?" she questioned. "And Peter?"
Neither of her named grandsons seemed to find her incredulity flattering, nor did they appreciate her wistful "I wish I could have seen it!"
The earl told her crushingly that he had had the misfortune to observe the end of John's proposal, and the sight of Miss Tolliver holding his brother's hand had not filled him with any great pleasure.
"Why, John!" The countess was approving. "You sly dog! Perhaps there's hope for you yet!"
John cleared his throat and said it was no such thing; Miss Tolliver had been comforting him, that was all—
The earl's brow darkened and he said with some asperity that he hoped his brother would not require such comforting again. Nor did he appreciate the way they—all of them, he said, favoring his grandmother with a black look, too—had interfered in his life. He started to tell them that he did not want to find them meddling in his affairs any longer when his grandmother, who made it a policy never to let anyone younger than she was talk to her in such a way (and, as she liked to tell her friends, there were few people older than she anymore to scold her), straightened and, with a declared "The best defense is a good offense," launched an attack.
In a few well-chosen and extremely pungent words, she gave her eldest grandson to understand that he was n
ot capable of handling his affairs; that they would be more than happy to refrain from "meddling," as he so rudely put it, and go on about their lives, if only he would get his affairs in order; and that if it hadn't been for their help—well, she said reflectively, gazing at her other three grandsons, for her help—Miss Tolliver would have left Willowdale several weeks earlier.
The earl had to admit that was true, but pointed out that if his brothers did not take up so much of Miss Tolliver's time—with Gillian capturing her morning rides, and Peter for afternoon talks, and John for interminable evenings of chess—he, Giles, might have more of an opportunity to fix his interest with her. His brothers stared at him in amazement.
"To what?" they echoed.
"To fix my interest," the earl returned. "It hasn't been easy; I can barely find a moment—"
"Then you want to marry Miss Tolliver?" Peter asked, eyeing his brother in surprise.
"Of course I want to marry Miss Tolliver!" the earl said impatiently. "I'm a Manfield of Willowdale, aren't I? From what she tells me, we all want to marry Miss Tolliver!"
"But she doesn't know you do!" Gillian objected. The earl stared at him.
"She—what?"
"She doesn't know you want to marry her."
"Well, of all the—" The earl ran his hand distractedly through his hair as he glared at his brothers. "Doing it a bit too brown. I proposed to her, didn't I?"
"No," the countess said, unexpectedly entering the fray. "You didn't."
All eyes turned toward her in surprise. "You announced to Chuffy Marletonthorpe that you and Margaret were betrothed. In so doing, you announced it to her. You announced it to her brother. You announced it to us. But you never—as far as I can tell—asked her."
"So she thinks," John said, "that Giles—" he was eyeing his grandmother, but transferred his gaze to his older brother—"that you—are only marrying her out of chivalry."
"And she," the countess continued, snatching the conversation back again, "having impeccable manners, is determined to prevent you from a course that she feels has been thrust upon you. If only you had asked her—"
"I did," the earl replied grimly, surprising them all. "I figured out what you're saying this evening, and asked her moments ago. With disastrous results."
His brothers seemed to take his announcement seriously, but the dowager countess eyed him with disgust. "Honestly, Giles!" she said, "you put me all out of patience with you. Asked her this evening, did you? After no doubt yelling at her about finding her in the library holding John's hands—"
The earl's dark flush proved her words true, and his brothers glared at him. "You—yelled—at Miss Tolliver?" Peter said, springing up. "Shame on you!"
Never before had Peter spoken so to his eldest and most adored brother, and the earl stepped back, surprised.
"Yes, shame on you!" John seconded. "For if you could really have thought that I would try to steal a march on you with the woman you loved . . . Not that you ever let us know before that you loved her, and I'm sure we all believed, as Miss Tolliver does, that you were continuing the engagement out of duty—"
"I didn't think so," Gillian said, surprising them all with his sudden entrance into the conversation. "Well, it stands to reason. She offered to cry off any number of times; Giles wouldn't have it." He noticed he momentarily had robbed John of speech, and nodded, satisfied. "I'm a lot smarter than you think I am—Johnny."
John was heard to say that if Gillian had any brain at all it would make him a lot smarter than John thought he was, and ended by asking why, if Gillian was so sure Giles cared for Miss Tolliver, he, too, had offered for her.
Gillian had an answer for that, too. "Thought she didn't want to marry Giles. Thought she ought to marry someone. Thought it might as well be me. After all, the whole kidnap confusion was a little bit my fault—"
"A little bit?" The words came from four mouths, and Gillian hunched a shoulder and subsided, muttering that all right, all right, he was the one responsible. . .
John seemed inclined to drive his responsibility home but the dowager countess interrupted him to say it was all water under the bridge, and they'd be wise now to turn their attention to what was the next best thing to do.
She had everyone's attention but the earl's; he was on his way to the door, saying over his shoulder that he intended to make a push that very night—
"And to lose," his grandmother called after him. "Really, Giles! Do try for a little sense! No doubt Margaret is upstairs right now packing—" The earl had turned at her first words, but at the last, started forward again—"and all she'll need to send her into the night will be you, pleading and storming at her, both at the same time, and swearing that you love her when all you've given her is reason to believe you're acting from honor. Do you think she's going to change her mind because you tell her differently?"
"But—" The earl was listening, and his grandmother's last sentence made him object. "But if she doesn't believe me when I tell her, what am I to do?" "Show her!" the countess responded. "But I can't do that if she leaves!"
"She won't leave."
"How can you be sure?"
The countess crossed her fingers behind her back. "I'll think of something."
Slowly the earl walked further into the room, his eyes narrowing as he scanned his grandmother's face.
"You will?"
She crossed her fingers again. "I always do."
With that the earl had to be content and, ignoring the sound of light rain on the windows, he and his brothers gathered close around the dowager countess who, with a wave of her hand, as if she were a magic sorceress, lowered her voice and said, "I have a plan."
Chapter 24
The countess lay awake most of the night, trying to hit upon a plan to keep Miss Tolliver from leaving the next day, and when she fell asleep in the early hours, nothing had yet occurred to her. She went down to breakfast that morning with a heavy heart, only to be met with the intelligence that Miss Tolliver's plans had indeed changed, and she and her family would be staying a while longer. Unable to take credit for this abrupt about-face, she asked her grandsons what had transpired, and was told that they all owed a debt of gratitude to Lazaurus, who was, at least indirectly, the cause of the Tollivers' postponement of departure.
"To the rooster?" the countess asked, pausing in mid- bite, a bit of egg hanging precariously from her fork as she frowned at the faces before her. "Don't try to gammon me, my boys! I'm too old for it! Now tell me truthfully—what happened?"
The earl told her—truthfully—that they really did have Lazaurus to thank. It seemed that Miss Tolliver had informed her brother of their imminent departure last night and, immune to both his threats and cajolings, had told him to pack or they would leave without him. But when she had visited her aunt's bedchamber, Henrietta had not been there and, Miss Tolliver thinking that the older lady was still below stairs, had determined on second thought to allow her aunt a good night's sleep before telling her that they were leaving.
To that end she had visited her aunt's room this morning, only to find that lady still in bed, a handkerchief to her nose and her voice husky as she informed her niece, with a great deal of dignity and a loud "achoo!" that Lazaurus had a cold.
One quick glance toward the supposedly ailing bird convinced Miss Tolliver that it was not he who was ill, and she hurried forward to place her hand on her aunt's forehead, and to exclaim with some concern that it was hot. Her aunt agreed, saying Lazaurus, too, had a temperature. Plus, she announced, he was achey and feeling chilled.
Miss Tolliver asked how that ever could have happened, and was told that it must have occurred last night when they were on their worm hunt.
In the process of tucking the blankets up around her aunt's shoulders, Miss Tolliver fell back a step to gaze at her in surprise.
"Worm hunt?" she echoed.
In a voice that was rapidly dwindling to a thread, Aunt Henrietta told her how Lazaurus, the underfootman
, and she had spent much of the night in the garden, gathering worms until Lazaurus positively refused to eat another of the tender morsels the footman so—or at least, Aunt Henrietta said— willingly fetched for him.
"But my dear!" Miss Tolliver said, patting her aunt's hand sympathetically. "It rained last night!"
With great dignity her aunt told her that made for a productive worm hunt. "Worms come out when it rains, you know."
Miss Tolliver shook her head in amazement. "How did you ever—" she started.
Aunt Henrietta explained that Lazaurus had been hungry for worms—he had made that known by refusing to give up her yarn, and the earl—"truly a gentleman, he understands a rooster's needs so nicely"—had recommended that they go in search of worms immediately.
"The earl!" Miss Tolliver said wrathfully. "I shall have something to say to him!"
Aunt Henrietta said she had something to say to him, too; she wanted to thank him. . . But it would have to be later, after she had napped. . . And with that and another "achoo!" she snuggled under her bed covers and left her angry niece to go in search of the earl.
"And the long and the short of it is, the doctor has come and pronounced Aunt Henrietta suffering a severe cold, and said that she must stay in bed at least a week. Which means the Tollivers will be with us until she is better."
"Wonderful!" his grandmother approved, delighted. "Nothing could be better!"
"Well." The earl swirled the coffee in his cup and watched it consideringly as he replied. "Perhaps they could be a little better. Miss Tolliver says that although my actions have forced her to stay in my home, there is no way I can force her to speak to me."
His grandmother waved her hand and said that was nothing.
Even though her resolution was firm, Miss Tolliver found she could not long refrain from speaking with the earl. When she softly entered her aunt's bedchamber that afternoon, it was to find the invalid propped up on her pillows, her eyes upon a bouquet of flowers thoughtfully presented by the earl, one hand stroking Lazaurus and the other holding her handkerchief in ever-readiness.
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