“But I really think you would enjoy yourself given the chance.”
Finally, Amy relented. After all, Hugh was merely attempting to draw her closer to the other gentlemen—the exact reason she’d enlisted his help. She must adhere to the plan. Besides, if she remained with the adults the entire time, she would have been put off the path of the other gentlemen and onto the path of Mr. Eastwood. Heavens, was she terrible at making decisions.
With an anxious flip of her stomach, she took her first step toward the others, not noticing until that moment that Mr. Eastwood watched her every move. Had he been listening to her conversation with Hugh?
“You don’t have to join in if you don’t wish to,” he whispered before she could pass him by.
Yes, he most certainly had been listening. But from where had these gentle words come? And where was his typical, snide comment to embarrass her?
“I-I do wish to,” she stammered.
He peered down at her disbelievingly, his height as tall as Father’s, but she moved past him before he could say another word.
“I would advise losing, Amy,” Hugh whispered as she reached his side and they retrieved the extra rackets on the grass.
Amy nodded, only half-listening as she observed Mr. Eastwood from over her shoulder. He spoke once more with his own party, not a glance in her direction.
“If you do not try as hard to strike the shuttlecock, you will not fall as the other woman did,” Hugh continued. “Do you understand?”
Amy pushed Mr. Eastwood from her mind one last time and focused on the task at hand. “Yes. I must lose.”
She set aside her pride at the idea of throwing the game on purpose. For the sake of not embarrassing herself in front of her new peers, it would be well worth the sacrifice.
Following closely at Hugh’s heels, they approached the group, who waved them over with broad smiles. Amy had never been so nervous. Typically, she could converse with others with relative ease, but after scaring away Mr. Roberts with her forward behavior, she feared doing the very same to another gentleman—to the point where she might never have the opportunity to marry.
She shook her head. She refused to lose hope. She might be two and twenty with a fair few Seasons in her reservoir, but negativity never helped anyone. She had Hugh’s help now, and she was going to trust him.
The young woman in blue came forward first. “You must be the Paxtons. I am Miss Booth. It’s such a pleasure to make your acquaintances.”
“And yours,” Amy returned.
Miss Booth then proceeded to introduce the others. Amy strived to remember their names, but with three new gentlemen and two women, she knew she was bound to make a mistake. As each of the gentlemen were introduced—Mr. Fisher, Mr. Payne, and Mr. Jones—Amy gave a subtle look to Hugh, who nodded just as furtively.
They’d discussed the process together earlier that morning. She would covertly inform Hugh as to the gentlemen who caught her fancy, and he would help her capture their attention. When she narrowed it down to one gentleman, Hugh would then serve as unofficial chaperone, mostly to ensure she did not humiliate herself and her family again.
Fortunately for her, there were three handsome gentlemen in the running with whom to start.
“Now we are all officially introduced.” The slim man from before, Mr. Fisher, motioned to the grassy area. “Shall we begin our game again?”
The small party formed a circle in the grass, and the shuttlecock was sent forth in the air. Amy held her racket with two hands in front of her, pointed down. She hoped her parents were enjoying their time more than she was going to be, losing. But losing hardly mattered when she was pursuing these gentlemen to be married and to avoid being a burden on her parents. She could lose a game for those worthy goals, surely.
She glanced to Mama and Papa, but instead of seeing them, she swiftly discovered a frowning Mr. Eastwood watching her. She tore her gaze away, only to observe him again a moment later from the corner of her eye.
His frown was not one of anger as he stared, but more contemplative. What was he attempting to discover?
“Miss Paxton?”
Amy turned to Mr. Payne, whose blond hair shone nearly white in the sunshine. “Pardon?”
He motioned to her feet, where lay the drooping shuttlecock. When had that been hit toward her?
“Oh, I do apologize.” She reached down, retrieving it by one of its pigeon feathers.
Hugh gave her an encouraging nod before she pelted the shuttlecock into the air. A few calls of, “I have this one,” “Oh, excellent shot,” and “Marvelous volley!” rounded the large circle as the toy flew back and forth in the sky.
Instinctively, Amy struck the shuttlecock with ease as it sailed toward her next, but Hugh caught her eye with a shake of his head.
“Play poorly,” he reminded her, mouthing out the words before flashing a grin at Miss Booth.
Right. Of course. Amy held the racket down, drawing in a deep breath until it came toward her once again. This time, she reached out apathetically, missing the shuttlecock by multiple feet.
“Oh, dear,” she said as Mr. Payne retrieved it instead. “I fear I am not so very good at this game.”
“Nonsense. You are playing wonderfully.” He nodded kindly at her then set the shuttlecock flying once again, only to look back at Amy with another pleasant smile.
Heavens, Hugh’s advice had actually worked. Feigning ineptitude at the game had endeared this gentleman to her.
Men were funny sorts of creatures.
Hugh gave her an “I told you so” look before directing the shuttlecock toward Miss Booth.
The game continued, and Amy took the time in between missing hits to observe the party around her—something Hugh told her was essential. Listening and watching how others act would tell her exactly how she ought to act.
A young woman with a bright yellow dress—Miss Cox, was it?—laughed as she swatted her racket through the air and missed the shuttlecock entirely.
“How silly I must look!” she cried out, flashing a grin at Hugh. “Perhaps you might give me a few suggestions, Mr. Paxton, on how to become better at the sport. As you appear to be quite adept.”
“Of course I would be more than happy to,” Hugh responded.
Amy pushed aside her concern over her brother paying attention to the woman. He’d promised to help her, and Amy would keep him to that promise.
“I will help you, too, Miss Cox,” offered Mr. Jones, a gentleman who seemed to have a frown even more perpetual than Mr. Eastwood’s. Even now, his brow creased down the middle as deep as Cheddar Gorge. “As you know, I’m just as talented in the sport.”
Miss Cox gave him the required nod then returned her attention back to Hugh.
Mr. Jones’s scowl grew, if that was possible, and his envious eyes remained on Miss Cox and Hugh.
Very well. Amy would not be pursuing three gentlemen after all, as Mr. Jones was clearly in love with Miss Cox.
Perhaps Amy ought to alert Hugh of their attachment so he might not pursue Miss Cox, either.
Amy turned to study the other two gentlemen—Mr. Payne, with hair blonder than hers, and Mr. Fisher, who seemed more interested in the trees nearby than the game. Both seemed to have easy temperaments and were quick to smile. They would do nicely as potential candidates for a match. Far more than Mr. Jones and Mr. Eastwood.
After missing yet another hit of the shuttlecock, Amy glanced over her shoulder again. Mr. Eastwood stood beside Mama’s chair, a small curve to his lips as he conversed. What did he speak of to engage his audience so fully?
With a shake of her head, Amy returned her attention to the men she actually cared about getting to know.
Chapter Eight
By the end of the game, Amy had made great progress in discovering more about them, including Mr. Payne’s keen ability as a hunter and Mr. Fisher’s aptitude for naming birds—which she’d realized he’d been staring at instead of the trees.
She followed the group as they r
eturned to the others, holding her head high after Hugh gave her an impressed nod.
Perhaps she could do this after all.
“I trust you enjoyed yourselves?” Mr. Eastwood asked upon their return.
Why did Amy feel as if the question was directed particularly at her? Either way, she said nothing as the others gave a collective sound of delight.
“And you, Miss Paxton?”
Amy started. So he was directing his question at her. But, why? Did he assume she did not enjoy it? Did he even care if she did not?
“Of course,” she replied. “I always do, even if I am not very talented at the sport.”
She’d added that last bit for good measure, earning another look of approval from Hugh.
Mr. Eastwood didn’t respond.
A lively conversation ensued around the gathered group until Mr. Eastwood proposed the next activity. “Are we ready for our walk, do you think?”
The younger half of the group answered in the affirmative, though one voice rose above the others.
“Oh, yes!” Miss Cox sprang up, her yellow dress bouncing up past her ankles with enthusiasm that equaled her own. She skittered toward Hugh and linked her arm through his. “You must join us, Mr. Paxton. It is certain to be invigorating. You will surely come, as well, Miss Paxton, will you not?”
All eyes fell on Amy as they awaited her reply. The last thing she wanted to do was join the group when she was exhausted from not playing Battledore and Shuttlecock. The thought of continuing her charade of dull, unopinionated conversation was far too taxing. Especially when she was trying to avoid the very gentleman directing the journey—the gentleman with eyes as green as the emeralds in her mother’s fine jewelry.
“Thank you, but I think I would like to rest here with the others.”
“Come now, sister,” Hugh said. “You will finally know what the Old Man is if you come with us.”
He winked, and Amy was reminded once again of her folly. Well, two follies. One, thinking the fell had been a person. And two, imagining her brother might be kind to her for once in his life.
She had a mind to berate him for his teasing, but Mr. Fisher’s approach stopped her.
“I do hope you will reconsider, Miss Paxton. It would be delightful to speak with you further. And the view truly is unmatched.”
Amy swallowed a sigh. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Attention from a gentleman?
With another encouraging nod from Hugh, she finally relented. “I suppose I ought to join you, then.”
“You needn’t come, Miss Paxton,” Mr. Eastwood said abruptly as Mr. Fisher helped her to stand.
She paused. Her eyes, as well as all the others, shifted to Mr. Eastwood. Was he disinviting her? Telling her not to come because he did not want her there?
A heavy tension nudged its way through the party, painting Amy’s cheeks a bright red. Finally, the gentleman was revealing his cruelty in front of others.
However, all too swiftly, he recanted his words. “I only meant that, as your host, I would not wish for you to partake in any activity that makes you uncomfortable. Of course, we would all be very pleased to have you join us on the excursion.”
The friction amidst the group instantly evaporated, but Amy’s mortification over the encounter refused to dissipate. Even as their smaller party formed and set forth across the grass, her blush continued to burn.
Naturally, with Mr. Eastwood at the front of the group, Amy fell behind alone, contemplating slipping back to the others without notice, but Miss Booth soon joined her.
“I do hope you’re enjoying your stay in Coniston, Miss Paxton.”
“Thank you, I am.”
Well, for the most part she was. If she could somehow find it in her power to keep herself from staring at a square-shouldered gentleman from his Hessian boots to his tight breeches and—
“Coniston is such a beautiful place,” she said, interrupting her own thoughts. “I quite enjoy the peace and solitude it offers.”
“Mmm, yes. You must enjoy the lake, as well. Especially from Flitfield Cottage. Your family is fortunate to stay there.”
No doubt due to their being the tenants of the wonderful and admirable Mr. Eastwood. Amy would die if this conversation shifted into another praising session of the gentleman. Perhaps she could steer their discussion another direction.
“Yes, we heard the cottage had been in a dismal state of repair, much like Corcliffe Manor. That certainly was a shock, pulling up to see such a beautiful property treated so terribly.”
“Oh, indeed. The manor had been beautiful in its prime. All of Coniston was thrilled when Mr. Eastwood was finally allowed control. We know he shall do wonders with the manor, just as he has done with the cottage.”
Allowed control? Had he no say in the matter of the estates beforehand?
“Surely he had control when it came to Birchwick Hall,” she said with a little laugh, hoping to sound indifferent. “Why else would it be so flawless in appearance?”
Miss Booth looked away. “Well, no. His grandfather made the decisions regarding all their property. He was…very proud of Birchwick.”
They followed the curve of the lush land downward until the grass shifted gradually to a small dirt pathway, but Amy hardly noticed, chewing the inside of her lip as questions flooded her mind. So his grandfather had been the one to leave all estates but Birchwick to ruin? How did Mr. Eastwood feel about all of this?
Her pride longed to believe he boasted the same sort of conceit as his grandfather must have. But carrying chickens and fixing tenants’ gates hardly spoke of vanity. Still, if Mr. Eastwood cared so passionately about his work, why could he not have pressed to do more earlier, before the neglect could occur?
If Hugh were here, he’d tell her to keep her lips closed and her questions to herself.
But seeing that he was more than occupied with the party ahead of them—particularly Miss Cox—Amy brushed aside his would-be warnings. After all, she was not trying to impress Miss Booth with her amiability, now was she?
“May I ask you a question, Miss Booth?”
“Of course.”
Amy pushed away the rest of her hesitance—as well as the niggling thought that she ought not care about this discourteous gentleman at all—and pressed forward. “How is it the estates fell into such disrepair? Surely Mr. Eastwood could have requested his grandfather to do more for them.”
Miss Booth wrung her gloved hands together with an averted gaze, clearly uneasy with the question.
Amy may not have been trying to impress Miss Booth, but she had no desire to make the woman uncomfortable. Perhaps she should have taken Hugh’s imagined advice after all.
“Forgive my questioning. That was rather impertinent of me to ask.”
“No, not at all. It is natural for visitors to have questions about what occurred. But, as it is, Mr. Eastwood does not like to speak of his past, and he values privacy above all else. He cannot abide gossip surrounding his name. I would hate to divulge any information he himself would not be comfortable speaking about.”
Amy stiffened. Gossip. That’s exactly what she was doing now—looking for information pertaining to Mr. Eastwood. Heat crawled up her neck, digging warm claws into her flesh.
In Bath, she’d been the victim of countless rumors and gossips. Now, here she was, treating Mr. Eastwood the same way she had been treated. No matter her opinion of the gentleman, he deserved more respect than that. As did Miss Booth, who was very loyal to Mr. Eastwood. Did she have an attachment to the gentleman?
Amy shook her head. No, that was more gossip.
“I do wish to clarify, though,” Miss Booth said, drawing Amy from her battling thoughts. “Whatever has happened in the past, Mr. Eastwood is not to be blamed. And he is now doing his best to improve his properties, not only for his family, but for the image of Coniston as a whole. And we are most grateful for it.”
Amy nodded, chewing the inside of her lip. This was not what she’d wanted
to hear, more of Mr. Eastwood’s goodness. But then, how long could she go on denying the evidence? Perhaps the gentleman was not whom she’d painted him out to be.
They walked in silence for a moment, stepping over errant puddles in the road and large strips of mud. Merriment drew their attention forward as Hugh and Miss Cox shared a laugh. Mr. Jones looked back from where he walked at the front of the group with Mr. Eastwood. Both men frowned.
“Miss Cox seems quite taken with your brother,” Miss Booth said.
Amy cringed. Most women were. “Yes, it would appear so.”
Miss Booth kept her eyes forward on the group. “We all grew up together, you know. Miss Cox and Mr. Eastwood. Mr. Jones, Fisher, and Payne. Miss Winslow. The Shaws.”
Amy tried to keep up, recognizing all but one name. Before she could ask who Miss Winslow was, Miss Booth continued.
“We would often play together as young children, though Mr. Eastwood wasn’t allowed to do so very often…” Her eyes rounded, flicking toward Amy with concern.
Amy stared forward, feigning nonchalance to avoid upsetting Miss Booth for her obvious slip of the tongue. Amy knew many children who hadn’t been allowed to play often due to schooling or other familial commitments. So why did Miss Booth appear to have revealed some clandestine secret? Was it because Mr. Eastwood’s grandfather had something to do with it?
Miss Booth continued as if she hadn’t faltered in her words. “At any rate, some of us have grown, matured, or even married. While others have remained utterly the same, like Miss Cox. She has always been an incorrigible flirt.” Miss Booth paused, sending a heavy look to Amy. “I would hate to have her injure anyone.”
Amy understood her meaning at once. Miss Booth was alerting her of Miss Cox’s flippant flirtations.
Amy sighed. This was just what Hugh didn’t need. Another noncommittal relationship. Another liaison for which he would not have to take responsibility. “Not to worry, Miss Booth. My brother is more than capable of taking care of himself.”
And only himself—when it came to his relationship with women. But such behavior was not fair for Mr. Jones.
The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5) Page 8