“Yes, indeed,” Harriet said, heading toward the drawing room, leaving the other ladies and Quentin to follow them.
The gentlemen were indeed on the terrace and soon the whole party was walking in a meandering line along the path to the village. To her surprise, Amelia found herself in conversation with Mr. Wilkes, whom she knew a bit from her time in London, and Mr. Carstairs, whom she knew not at all. Quentin, she noticed, had been commandeered by the Misses Hume, who were hanging on his every word.
“Tell me, Miss Snowe,” Mr. Wilkes asked as she gazed at Quentin’s back, “how on earth did you manage to become friends with the Ugly Ducklings? Especially given how much you both disliked one another. I seem to recall an incident at the Bewle ball where one of them seemed to deliberately spill punch down the front of your gown. It was quick outrageous.”
Amelia was startled by the question, though she supposed her feud with the cousins was common knowledge. Now that she had reconciled with them however, Amelia did not like to think about those years when she and her then-bosom friend Lady Felicia Downes made the cousins the target of scorn. “It took a great deal of apology on my part, Mr. Wilkes,” she said curtly. “Now, do tell me how your mama and sisters go on. I believe your eldest sister was recently married?”
The diversion managed to work for a little while, but soon enough Carstairs had picked up where his friend left off. “I was there that night at the ball when Lady Deveril’s secret was exposed,” he said with some relish. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a room fall so deadly silent as it did that night. I will never forget it. And poor Lady Deveril just continued dancing. I thought it was quite brave of her, actually.”
“It was quite brave,” Amelia agreed. “Lady Deveril is one of the bravest people I know. And that includes most gentlemen of my acquaintance.”
Quentin, who had fallen back to join them, caught her eye. Some silent communication passed between them before he said, “Spoken like a lady with her own brand of strength.”
“Well, I prefer it if ladies leave all the bravery bits to the gentlemen,” Carstairs said sullenly. “If they go about being brave on their own account, where does that leave us? We can hardly wave our handkerchiefs in the air and wait to be rescued.”
“I should like to see you try it,” Wilkes said with a laugh. “I can just imagine Miss Snowe charging into the castle like Joan of Arc with her sword blazing to rescue you from some ne’er do wells.”
It was an amusing image and they all laughed. Even a sheepish Mr. Carstairs.
“Even so,” Wilkes said once the laughter had died down, “it must have been difficult for the Ugly Ducklings to forgive you. I mean, you were the reigning beauty and you—”
“I think we’ve discussed the matter enough, Wilkes,” Quentin interrupted. “I don’t see what good it does to continue to discuss what is now ancient history.”
“I don’t mind talking about it,” Amelia said with a crooked smile. “It’s the least I can do now that we are friends. I owe it to them to tell the truth of the matter. Though I do not like it that you continue to paint them as victims, Wilkes. They would not thank you for it. And I must ask you to cease referring to them as the Ugly Ducklings. It was a foolish nickname that stuck. That’s all.”
“Well, I think it’s jolly good that you may count them as friends now. Though I wonder why none of them offered you a place with them when your mama died and left you without a home. I should think the duchess at the very least has room enough for you in one of her houses.”
Amelia was saved from answering by the group’s arrival at the edge of Little Inchmore. It really could not be called much more than a village given the high street consisted of four establishments on each side of the dirt track. They split into their scavenger hunt pairs and agreed to meet at the inn, the Fox & Geese, in a few hours.
“Well, it is an aptly named place,” Quentin said as they walked along the shop fronts. “Though I think the inch more must have been omitted from the description.”
Amelia laughed, but was stopped from replying when a pair of elegantly gowned ladies in mourning dress stepped out of the inn directly before them. She would have liked to duck her head and remain anonymous, but one of them, a dark-haired beauty, looked up and smiled.
“Lord Quentin Fortescue, upon my honor,” she said merrily. “I would never in a century have thought to find you here in Little Inchmore of all places.”
“Lady Isabella, what a pleasure to see you,” Quentin said, doffing his hat to both ladies. “And your lovely sister, the Duchess of Ormonde as well. What a surprise to see you both. Might I introduce my friend, Miss Amelia Snowe?”
There might have been a time when Amelia would have met the sisters with equanimity, but her travails of the past year had dimmed her confidence to such a degree that she merely curtsied to both ladies and declared herself pleased to make their acquaintance. Neither, as she had feared they might, seemed to know of her reputation from town.
“Delighted to meet you, Miss Snowe,” Lady Isabella said with an elegant nod of her head. “Now, you must tell me what brings you to Little Inchmore, my lord, for I’m afraid I am dying of curiosity. I thought you were still in America, to be honest.”
Quentin told them about his business dealings with Mr. Smithson and the impromptu invitation to remain for the house party. “We are now involved in seeking out items for a scavenger hunt,” he continued. “Though I have little doubt we’ll be routed by the other guests, for we’re quite the oldest couple among them.”
“Speak for yourself,” Amelia interjected, pushing at Quentin’s arm playfully. “I intend for us to win, even if you do not.”
“Well said, my dear,” Lady Isabella crowed. “It sometimes falls to us ladies to show the gentlemen the proper way to go about things. I have little doubt that you’ll soon have Lord Quentin trained up right and tight.”
“Isabella,” her sister chided. “You’ll give the girl a complex. Pray, pay no heed to my sister, Miss Snowe. She is quite a tartar when it comes to games.”
Turning to Quentin, she reached out her hand to take his. “I was so sorry to hear about your wife, Lord Quentin.”
“As was I to hear about Ormonde,” he responded. “I hope you are being treated well by the new duke. I admit that I’ve never even met the fellow.”
“No one has,” Lady Isabella said with a snort. “He refuses to come up to London and the dowager is having a fit over it. I don’t think my husband ever even met him. This is what comes of allowing distant cousins to inherit titles. One never knows what sort of person they’ll turn out to be.”
Amelia was surprised by the lady’s plain speaking, but on the other hand, she was glad not to be the object of her derision. She felt a pang of sympathy for the new duke, whoever he might be.
“Well,” the duchess said with a grimace, “I think we’ve charmed them with your opinions on the Ormonde dukedom for long enough, Isabella. Let’s leave Lord Quentin and Miss Snowe to their scavenger hunt.”
“Quite right, Perdita,” Lady Isabella said with a smile that wasn’t in the least apologetic. “It was a pleasure to see you, my lord, and to meet you, Miss Snowe. I wish you luck in your quest.”
Quentin and Amelia said their good-byes and continued down the street toward the Mercantile.
“I’m sorry for that,” he said, patting her hand where she held his arm. “I was acquainted with them as a child and Isabella has always been outspoken like that. I hadn’t realized that both of them were widowed now until I recalled reading of Ormonde’s death in the Times. It was a bad business, that.”
Curious despite herself, Amelia asked, “What happened?”
“No one knows for sure. Just that it was a bit … havey-cavey.”
“Interesting,” Amelia said as he opened the door and held it for her to pass through.
All thoughts of the sisters in black flew from her mind as she stepped into the shop and her nose was immediately assailed with the scent of feed
, tallow, candy, and oddly enough, the tang of lemon verbena.
A tidy little man approached them from the back of the shop carrying a stack of sheet music. “Good morning, my lord. May I help you find something?”
“Yes you may, Mr.…?” Quentin let his voice rise up in question.
“Johnson, my lord,” the man said with a smile. He gave a slight bow. “At your service. I have several new items just up from London. A very pretty new bolt of India muslin, my lady. A new blend of tobacco. And if you should like something for your children we’ve just received a shipment of sweetmeats.”
“Oh, we’re not…” Amelia blushed, not daring to look at Quentin, though she could hear him readily enough.
“I thank you, but we don’t…”
The man smiled brightly. “My apologies to you both, but you did have that look about you. My Nellie says I’m always after matching couples together. Even when they don’t wish it.”
Quentin cleared his throat. “Not a problem,” he said with a slight cough. “I think we will need to see your selection of grosgrain ribbons, however.”
The little man deflated a bit, but he didn’t stop smiling. “Of course, let me show you what we have. And you must remember that if there is a particular color or type, you must let me know and I can order it.”
He led them over to a rack, where length after length of ribbon lay stretched out to show the quality of the colors.
“This is perfect, Mr. Johnson,” Amelia told him, fingering a length of deep red ribbon, which was what the scavenger hunt requested. “We’ll take one yard of this.”
“That was easy enough,” Quentin said as the proprietor moved away to get the shears.
Amelia nodded in acknowledgement, though she couldn’t help admiring a particularly pretty blue ribbon. She’d love to have it so that she could trim her second best bonnet. It was becoming a bit ragged. But, she needed to save every penny if she were to finish paying Cecily back before too much more time passed. The debt pressed upon her, though she knew that her friend had told her not to worry about it.
With a sigh, she turned away, only to find Quentin perusing a display of brightly colored India fans. “I should think this one would go well with your eyes. And with that blue ribbon you fancy,” he said, turning to look at her. “It’s quite inexpensive for the amount of workmanship here. I paid quite a bit more for a similar one for my sister when we were shopping in Bath last month.”
Unable to stop herself, Amelia took the fan from him and opened it. The bright cerulean and crimson patterned fabric was lovely. And she could easily think of three of her gowns that would complement it. With a sigh, she put it back on the shelf from whence she’d retrieved it, and turned back as Mr. Johnson returned.
“One yard, did you say?” the little man asked. When Amelia agreed, he measured and snipped off the length of ribbon.
“We should also like three yards of the blue,” Quentin told him before he could wrap the red ribbon.
“For your sister?” Amelia guessed, thinking with a pang about some other woman enjoying her ribbon. She must desist these feelings of jealousy, she reminded herself. It always made her feel worse about her own situation, not better.
Quentin gave a little shrug, and placed the India fan on the counter beside the ribbons.
“An excellent choice, my lord,” Mr. Johnson said with a smile. “The fan is made with real ivory. It will go quite well with your lady’s eyes.”
“Mr. Johnson,” Amelia said, unable to stifle a laugh, “we are merely acquaintances. Nothing more. His lordship’s purchases are for his sister. And the red ribbon is something we both have to retrieve for a scavenger hunt.”
“Ah,” the man said, chastened, “you wouldn’t happen to be Lord Quentin Fortescue and Miss Amelia Snowe, would you?”
“Yes, we are,” Quentin said. “Let me guess. You have a clue for us?”
Johnson shuffled around behind his counter and retrieved a slip of paper, which he handed to Quentin. “I was told to give you this when you came for the red ribbon. I suppose you lot up at the Smithsons’ are having some sort of treasure hunt game?”
“We are indeed, Mr. Johnson,” Amelia said. “Thank you for doing this for us. I know it must be trying to deal with all of us traipsing in from the house only to buy a bit of ribbon.”
“And a fan,” the proprietor corrected. “Don’t forget that. And the blue ribbon. It doesn’t take much to get young people to buying little trinkets. Especially when it’s a young lady and a young gent together. The gents do like to impress the ladies, don’t they?”
“Wise man,” Quentin said, laying a finger alongside his nose. “I should think you’ve done quite well out of this arrangement.”
“What does the clue say?” Amelia said, leaning forward to look at the paper in Quentin’s hand.
“Next you must find a bouquet of bluebells,” Quentin read aloud. “Bring them to the drawing room for afternoon tea.”
Amelia frowned. “I don’t suppose, Mr. Johnson, you’d be able to tell us where we might find a bunch of wild bluebells?”
“Or better,” Quentin added, “a flower shop?”
The old man scratched his chin. “Hmm. We don’t have a flower shop in the village. And I can’t say that I…” Then he broke off and grinned. “I certainly can tell you where to find some wild ones! Just wait a minute and I’ll give you directions.”
* * *
The walk was farther than either of them had imagined it would be. The way Mr. Johnston described it, it was barely a half mile away, but in reality it was closer to three times that distance.
As they trekked, Quentin drew Amelia out a bit. “You don’t speak about your mother very much,” he said as he helped her over a gnarled tree root across the path. The warm sun had gone behind a cloud and he felt the loss immediately. “What part of the country did she hail from? We never really spoke of your life before you moved to your uncle’s house.”
“Oh,” she said, leaning on his arm as they moved back onto the path, “Mama was a London girl born and bred. Her father was a minor baronet and her mother was the daughter of a country vicar. I think she always wanted to have a home in the country—she would have been quite envious of the Smithsons’ home, I think—but Papa was never able to manage it on his allowance. His father was well-off, but Papa was wont to gamble it all away before half the month had passed.”
“That must have been difficult for you and your mother,” he said quietly, thinking miserably of how difficult such a situation must have been for the young Amelia.
“I barely remember him, really,” she said, taking off her bonnet and turning her face up to meet the sun, which had peeked out again. In this light he could see the tiny freckles dotting her cheeks and nose, no doubt the results of other hatless forays in the sun. “He died when I was three. I do recall Mama being very upset, but I had no idea what had caused it. I could just recall a jolly man who gave me sweetmeats and who tossed me into the air. But that was all. Nothing of substance.”
“What happened then?” he asked, following her through the widely spaced trees.
“We moved in with my maternal grandparents,” she said, swinging her bonnet by the ribbons. “Really, I feel on some level as if my grandparents raised me instead of my mama, though she did her best.”
“Did she have no wish to remarry?” Quentin asked, wishing he could remove his own hat as she had done. Ah well.
Turning to walk backward before him, Amelia shrugged. “I think she must have wished to marry someone, but I can’t recall her seriously considering anyone until I was fourteen. And that was a disaster.”
She turned back around and he watched with some degree of inner turmoil as her curvy hips swayed from side to side with each step she took. It was one thing to steal kisses in the dark, and to make plans in one’s head about a future for them, but openly ogling her in public—which this was despite the absence of another living being in their midst—seemed wrong.
Forcing himself to keep his mind on the subject at hand, Quentin asked, “How so? Who was the man?”
“Sir Jacob Everton,” she said, stepping over a small fallen tree. “Do you know him?”
Quentin combed his memory, finally coming up with a gangly fellow of middle years with a badly fashioned wig and a propensity for rough bed play if the rumors were to be believed. Of course he wasn’t going to reveal that to Amelia. “I know of him,” he said. “But only by reputation. Nothing concrete.”
“Well,” Amelia continued, not looking back at him. Quentin had no way of knowing for sure, but he suspected she kept her back turned to him so that she would not have to look at him as she discussed her mother’s erstwhile suitor. “Mama was quite ready to marry him. Unfortunately it became clear that he had a preference for someone else entirely. And of course I had to be the one to tell her. Which was not pretty, let me assure you.”
A sliver of ice cut through Quentin’s chest. He had a guess at where this was going. He asked anyway. “Why were you the one to tell her? Could she not have been told by someone else? This other woman, for instance?”
“Oh come now, my lord,” Amelia chided, turning to look at him, revealing only eyes that were carefully shuttered to hide her true feelings. “You know very well that the other woman was me. And do not think that it was something I was proud of. Let me assure you that at fourteen the last thing in the world I wished for was a middle-aged lover with a bad wig and a fondness for garlic.”
“What did she say?” he asked, desperate to know, yet dreading the answer.
Amelia’s mouth twisted. “What else could she say, really? She was not so foolish as to disbelieve me on the subject. I am grateful for that, at least. Imagine how difficult that would have been.”
He knew damned well that it had been difficult enough even without her mother’s disbelief.
“In the end she accepted the truth of it, and she agreed that we had to leave London. So we moved to the country with my uncle, and I met you. The rest, is, as they say, history.”
She turned back around and began to walk faster, and Quentin hurried to catch up to her. When he touched her on the shoulder she nearly leapt out of her skin.
The Perks of Being a Beauty Page 7