by Julia Parks
"Indeed yes," said the servant, hurrying across the
room and gathering the boots to his chest. "Is there anything else?"
"No, not now."
"Very good, sir," said Barton, backing out of the room.
Max removed his snugly fitted coat and waistcoat, throwing them over the small chair. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the mantel. He was frowning fiercely. With an effort, he relaxed his expression, but his image reflected his uneasiness.
"Bah!" he said, flopping down on the chair. "Kate, what the devil have you done to me? All I wanted was a light flirtation ..."
He groaned in frustration. A light flirtation with her while courting Philippa Beauchamp. It was working out just as he had planned. So why did he feel so bad?
Kate was hardly a child. She knew how things were between them, and he had made no secret of the fact that he planned to wed Philippa.
Ah, but the passion he had felt in that kiss! That was what troubled him. Max tore his cravat from his neck and cursed.
Women! They were more trouble than they were worth! No wonder he preferred horses!
"Max, that you?" asked Tristram, opening the door and poking his head through.
"Yes, it's me. What do you want?"
"Whoa. Nothing, brother. I just wondered if I should come in and wish you happy. You had mentioned last night, after the theater, that you thought you might speak to Philippa's father today."
"What? Oh, yes. Sorry, Tris. No, I haven't gotten around to that yet. I was just going to get cleaned up and change."
"I ... I see. Max, are you sure about this? I mean, do you really want to marry Miss Beauchamp?"
"Want to? What has that to say in the matter? I have no choice. One of us has to wed money, if not both, and I don't see you rushing about looking for a likely prospect."
"Well, no, I haven't. I have been a little preoccupied, finishing the next book and all. You're right. I shouldn't question you when I have done nothing to help out. Sorry."
Max rose and smiled at his brother, saying, "No, I shouldn't have spoken so. And you have helped out. You have spent hours telling Miss Beauchamp what a wonderful chap I am, have you not?"
"Uh, yes, that's true."
"Then do not worry about it, Tris. I shall marry the heiress, and you will reap the reward, too. That's how we Darbys handle things, right?"
"Precisely," said Tristram. He pushed his blond hair off his forehead and opened his mouth. Then he shook his head and said, "So you are going in a few minutes."
"Yes, as soon as I rid myself of the smell of the stables."
"Oh, that's where you have been," said Tristram. "Trying out Thunderlight with Miss O'Connor?"
"Yes. She is quite a horsewoman, you know. She rode the big gray and nearly kept up with us all around the park. I was very impressed."
"Funny, isn't it?"
"What?" said Max, removing his cambric shirt.
"Well, I mean, there you are with Miss O'Connor, who loves her horses as much as you do, and ..."
"What? Are you saying I should be asking for Kate instead of Philippa?"
"No, I.. ."
"Well, if, as Monsieur Pangloss told Candide, this were the best of all possible worlds, then perhaps that is how things would turn up, but this is .. . oh, blast! Barton! Where are my clean shirts?" shouted Max.
Tristram chuckled. "This is quite a day for you, Max. Here you are, quoting Voltaire, and I am advocating that you and the horse-mad Miss O'Connor are quite well suited. I believe we have had a shift in the universe. At the very least, our world is slipping on its axis."
"What are you talking about, Tristram? Ah, there you are, Barton. Where are my shirts?"
"I put them in the top drawer, Master Max. See, right where they always are. You must have looked in the wrong one. Let me," said the servant, taking out a shirt and helping Max put it on.
Max turned to his brother and said, "Look, Tristram. I am going to see Mr. Beauchamp, and hopefully by the end of the day, I will have secured my heiress. Why don't you get out of this house and see if you can manage to meet someone, too? Leave it, Barton. I can tie my own cravat, remember?"
"Very good, sir. Shall you be wearing the bottle green coat?"
"If you will just step this way, sir."
Max followed the butler along the wide marble hall, turning down a short corridor until he was ushered into a spacious library.
"Come in, Mr. Darby," said the little man behind the huge desk. "Won't you have a seat on the sofa? I will be with you in a moment. I am in the middle of something."
Max did as he was bid and sat down. All four walls were covered with books, from floor to ceiling. A huge rolling ladder was attached to one of these walls. Several narrow tables were scattered about the room, each containing stacks of books. Max thought to himself that this would be Tristram's idea of heaven.
The butler, who had followed him inside, said, "Would you care for something to drink, sir? Mr. Beauchamp has a very good port, and the brandy ..."
"Try the port, Mr. Darby. You can never go wrong with a stout port," said the figure behind the desk.
"The port will be fine," said Max.
After handing him the glass, the butler withdrew. Max sipped the ruby liquid and continued to watch his host surreptitiously.
Finally, with an audible sigh, the little man closed the ledger he was poring over and rose. Without speaking, he went to the table with the decanters and poured himself a large glass. He waved the decanter at Max in question.
Max shook his head and waited while the other man joined him on the sofa.
"Now, young man, what did you wish to see me about today?"
"I shall get straight to the point, sir. I am interested in your daughter."
"My daughter? I see. I find that rather amusing, sir. Last night at the theater, I would have guessed that you were interested in my wife."
This was delivered with a wheezing gasp that Max supposed passed for laughter.
"While I may admire your good wife, Mr. Beau-champ, it is your daughter who has gained my complete attention."
"Humph. I see. What color are her eyes?"
"Her eyes?" asked Max. "Why, they are as blue as the ocean."
"Actually, the ocean is usually more gray than blue, my boy, but you would not know that since you probably spend a great deal more time studying horses and women than you do books."
Max stiffened. "I assure you, sir, I have not been ..."
"There, there," soothed the small man. "I did not mean any insult. Very few people spend as much time with books as I do. So you want to marry my sweet Philippa. She is nothing like her mother, you know."
"I... I did guess that, sir."
"And you do not mind?"
Max thought privately that if Philippa were anything like her mother, he would not be where he was at that very moment. Philippa's being the direct opposite of her mother was the most pleasing of her attributes.
"Not at all," he said quickly.
"Good, that's good. Are you aware that Philippa has an inheritance of her own, deliverable on her marriage?"
"No, sir, I was not."
"So you only hoped that I would settle enough money on her to fix up that sad little bit of land."
"There is a house on the property," said Max, forgetting to question how Beauchamp could possibly know about his own prospects.
"A house? A shack, more like, but that is neither here nor there. No, you need not worry about that scrap of property. I will gladly settle a fine estate and ample funds on the man who weds my little girl. However, you must win not only my approval and my wife's, but also my daughter's. Come back next week after you have
done what you can to please my daughter. Then we will speak of this matter again."
"I ... I don't understand, Mr. Beauchamp," said Max.
"You must make Philippa want to marry you, Mr. Darby. It is as simple as that. If you succeed, then you shall have my blessing,
as well as my wife's."
He rose and returned to his vast desk. Max stood and walked to the door.
"I will do so, sir. May I take her driving this afternoon?"
"That is the trick, is it not? Managing to take Philippa for a drive without her mother's interference. I wish you luck, Mr. Darby."
"Thank you, sir," said Max, turning the handle.
"Oh, and Mr. Darby."
"Yes, sir?"
"Make no mistake about it. My wife may be as vulgar as everyone says, but she loves her daughter and will settle for nothing but the best for her. If you wish to marry Philippa, you must be the best. Good day."
"Good day, sir," said Max, frowning as he made his way back to the front hall. When he arrived there, he asked the starchy butler, "Is Miss Beauchamp at home?"
"I shall ascertain, sir."
Max stood there, slapping his leather gloves against his thigh. Suddenly, he heard a familiar laugh, and he shrank against the wall. The last person he wanted to see at that moment was Miss Beauchamp's ill-mannered mother.
"I'm telling you, my girl, that this is just the sort of man ... oh, Mr. Darby, how good of you to call," said Mrs. Beauchamp, dragging her daughter along and thrusting her forward. The scarlet-faced girl ducked her head.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Beauchamp and Miss Beauchamp. I had called to see if I might take Miss Beauchamp for a drive in the park. The day is a little chilly, but it is still dry."
"Of course Philippa would like to go for a drive with you, my dear young man!" She added coyly, "I know you would like for me to go with you, too, but I am afraid my husband has requested my help in a family matter."
"That is too bad," said Max, trying not to smile too brightly at this bit of news. "Another time."
"Oh yes, another time. Now, you two run along. And, Philippa, remember what I was saying."
The girl by his side emitted an incoherent sound, which he took for assent. Max offered his arm, leading her outside to the waiting carriage.
Max had chosen the marquess's phaeton. It was a sleek carriage pulled by a pair of matched bays with gaits as smooth as glass. They were a joy to drive, and Max knew how to drive to an inch. They leaped forward, causing the girl by his side to emit another little squeak.
"If you do not mind, Miss Beauchamp, I will keep my mind on my cattle until we arrive in the park." After this, Max was silent as he expertly guided his horses through the heavy afternoon traffic. As he passed a wagon carrying produce from the country, he found himself facing down a heavy traveling carriage. With a gentle tug, he had the phaeton out of harm's way, but not before the girl squeaked once more.
"Really, Miss Beauchamp, I am accounted a very competent whip. You need not fear that I will upset us," he reassured. When her grip on the side of the seat did not abate, he added testily, "Perhaps you would prefer to drive."
She lifted her head and fixed him with a wide-eyed stare of horror. Immediately, he felt contrite.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Beauchamp ... Philippa. I did not mean to frighten you." She resumed her previous position, looking at her lap.
Max shook his head. Well, he supposed he should have guessed that it would take some work before his intended learned to trust him. She was very shy, and he would have to give her time.
All at once, Max recalled riding in the carriage with Philippa and her mother. Tristram and Philippa had practically had their heads together, chatting easily with each other. It was difficult to reconcile this image with the silent girl by his side. Yes, he definitely had his work cut out for him.
He turned the phaeton into the park, which was teeming with people, some in carriages and some on horseback, as well as the occasional pedestrians. It was as if everyone knew the days of fair weather were numbered and wanted to take advantage of this ritual opportunity to see and be seen.
"It is very crowded today," he said.
"Yes," said Miss Beauchamp.
"It is very pleasant, however, to know that I am escorting the prettiest girl here." Instead of the expected smile, his comment earned him only a quick glance, followed by her tucking her chin against her chest so that he could not even see her profile. With a grimace, Max redoubled his efforts.
"That is the most fetching bonnet you are wearing, Miss Beauchamp."
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Of course, it cannot compare to your face."
No response.
"A face I would dearly love to see," said Max dryly.
She seemed to consider his words and lifted her face briefly before turning away.
Max frowned. He would very much have liked to ask her what game she was playing. Surely that was not fear he had read in her eyes. Or aversion, for that matter. The girl hardly knew him, except through what Tristram had told her about him. And he refused to believe Tristram would have betrayed him.
Just then, he heard his father calling his name, and he pulled up beside a passing landaulet which contained the gregarious Lady Anne and his father.
"Well met," said the viscount, detaching Lady Anne's arm from his. "Allow me to present you to Lady Anne Graves. This is my son Maxwell."
"How do you do, my lady? Are you acquainted with Miss Beauchamp?"
The introductions were followed by general pronouncements on the fine weather they were enjoying, and Max was ready to move along. His father, however, appeared loath to part.
"So, my boy, is this the young lady you cannot say enough about?"
"Really, Papa, you must not..."
"Oh, I'm sure Miss Beauchamp does not mind. Do you, my dear?"
The young lady at his side murmured something unintelligible, and Lady Anne responded, "It don't pay to be so missish, child. Otherwise, you'll end up like me, and money ain't everything."
"We really should move along. We are blocking too many people," said Max hastily. "A pleasure meeting you, Lady Anne." With a flick of his whip, he sent his team ahead.
After another fifteen minutes of silence, Max said, "Miss Beauchamp, have I done something to offend you?"
She shook her head.
'Then why have you taken me in dislike? I must tell you, I find your attitude very unsettling."
"I do . . . not. . . dislike you, Mr. Darby. I do not know you."
Max relaxed. Bashfulness was indeed a terrible thing, but he was confident that he would be able to win her over. She just needed a chance to get to know him better.
"I am very glad to hear it, Miss Beauchamp, because I must tell you that I have spoken to your father."
This time, her eyes fairly flew to his face, and he clearly read dismay. Controlling his impatience, he gave her one of his winning smiles—a smile that had won the heart of many a maid.
"But I told you that I do not know you, sir."
He chuckled and said, "But you will get to know me, my dear. That is what this is all about, is it not? You will get to know me, and then... but we have time, my dear Miss Beauchamp. We have plenty of time."
At this, she sagged against him, insensible to any more of his winning smiles or words.
"Blast!" said Max, transferring the ribbons to one hand and propping her up against him with the other. As he turned the carriage, the thought passed through his mind that she would have been very impressed with his driving had she only been conscious.
Six
"She did what?"
"She fainted," said Max.
"What the devil did you say to her?" demanded Tristram, leaping to his feet and striding the length of the room to stand in front of his brother, glaring ferociously.
"All I said was that I had spoken to her father."
"You must have said or done something else to alarm her, to frighten her!" exclaimed Tristram, marching back the way he had just come.
"I assure you, I said nothing upsetting. Oh, I complimented her bonnet and made some absurd comment about being with the prettiest girl in the park." While his brother continued his pacing, Max sat on the sofa with his arms crossed, a thoughtf
ul frown on his face. "I tell you, Tris, it is enough to make me doubt my abilities with the ladies."
Tristram stopped and said softly, "Perhaps you should—at least with this particular young lady."
Ignoring this, Max suddenly snapped his fingers. "No, I will view it as a challenge. I already know that the mother would not mind having me around, and the father did not turn me down completely. No, I must simply press my suit with Miss Beauchamp. I shall start by sending her flowers. Lilacs, I think."
"Not lilacs. It should be daisies," muttered Tris.
"Daisies? Very well. Barton!" roared Max, bringing the servant scurrying into the room.
"I want to send Miss Beauchamp some daisies. How does a fellow go about doing that?"
"I can take care of that for you, Master Max. If you will write a card, I will take it along with me."
"A card?" said Max, grimacing at the thought. "I am not the poet. You'll do it for me, won't you, Tris? Something sweet, but not too flowery, or Miss Beauchamp will never believe it was written by me."
Tristram looked mulish, but he sat down at the small desk and dipped his pen in the inkwell.
After a moment, Max asked impatiently, "Well, can't you think of anything?"
"Do not rush me, Max." With a bold stroke, he began. After five minutes, he sanded the paper and handed it to Max.
"Humph, a little flowery, but not too bad. Listen to this, Barton."
Your hair, those eyes, that smile and nose, Nothing can compare to the beauty each of these
possess. And yet the whole wins any contest In my heart.
"Yes, that should do. Thank you, Tris. Now, I'll just sign it, and Barton can be on his way." Taking the pen, Max frowned. Then, with a nod, he added: Your obedient servant, Max Darby
"That should do the trick."
"Very good, Master Max. Now, I shall just take this along with me."
"Don't forget, Barton. It has to be daisies," called Max.
Rubbing his hands together, Max turned to speak to his brother, but Tristram had disappeared. With a shrug, he moved to the tray of decanters and filled a large glass.