A footman opened the door, and a maid came in, carrying a very large basket stuffed with every sort of flower imaginable.
Mattie rose. “Oh, dear. Beatrice would have loved these. We must endeavor to keep them fresh for her.” She came to the maid, her hands outstretched to examine the blossoms.
“They aren’t for your sister, Miss Rayment,” the maid said, delight coloring her tone. “They’re for you. There’s a card.”
“For me?” Mattie saw the card held by the footman and took it with murmured thanks.
Miss Matilda Rayment,
Thank you for sparing my feelings and enjoying the theater with me. I hope I might extend another invitation to you, in the name of friendship, to ride with me in the park today. Please send your acceptance to the address enclosed. If you must send your regrets, I will strive to understand. But it is good to be around familiar people in a city full of strangers.
Yours, etc.,
O. Bolton
Mattie stared at the note, the little lines and letters jumbled about in her head; when she finally made sense of them she could hardly believe it.
“Oliver Bolton has invited me to ride in the park today,” she said, sparing a moment of pride that the sentence came out evenly.
“Mr. Hapsbury’s nephew?” her father said, and she turned to him in shock. He sometimes forgot she was a woman of six and twenty instead of merely sixteen, but he could remember the steward’s orphaned relative?
“Yes. The very same.”
“Always liked that boy. Full of ambition, and a hard worker.” Father chewed at the insides of his cheeks for a moment, his eyebrows drawing down. “We ought to have him to dinner if he is in town. Invite him while you are on your ride today, Mattie girl.”
A direct order, issued when his thoughts were clear, must be obeyed. But—she was trying to rid the family of Oliver’s intentions, not bring him more fully into the fold.
“Then you do not object to my riding with him?” she asked carefully, folding the card and running her index finger over the crease.
“Not in the least.” Her father settled himself more comfortably into the couch and took up his drawing again. The maid still held the basket, and the footman still held the door. Mattie took in their expressions, noting the maid’s anticipation with distress.
Really, servants ought to be more circumspect.
Mattie sighed and took in the riotous blossoms again, trying to remember when she’d last received flowers from a gentleman. It had been years.
“Put these in the entry, Sarah, and inform the groom I will need my horse at a quarter till five.” Mattie tucked the card into the ribbon at her waist and went back to sit next to her father, picking up the book again and effectively dismissing the servants with their curious stares.
“I am glad to see a young man take notice of you,” her father said, not looking up from his work. “You are a good girl, and I want you to be happy, Mattie.”
Nervous laughter bubbled up inside her. “Mr. Bolton is but a friend, Papa. I am too old to be of interest to anyone. I’m content to be here with you and Mama.” She looked down at the page, not really seeing it and uncertain as to where she’d left off reading.
Her father sighed and shook his head, but he said nothing more, leaving Mattie to her thoughts and suppositions of what Oliver Bolton could mean by sending her flowers.
Chapter Seven
Oliver clutched Matilda’s acceptance in his hand with something near to triumph. Either she was oblivious to his motives or else curious to see what he could want with her. No matter the reason, she had agreed to spend more time in his presence, which meant he had greater opportunity to present his case to her.
As a youth, Miss Beatrice’s tinkling laughs and witty remarks enchanted him. Now that he’d inherited, he finally had a way to enjoy the pleasure of her company, and he would not allow it to be taken from him so swiftly.
Five o’clock found him at the baron’s home, with Matilda already mounted on a fine chestnut gelding, wearing a smart hazel riding habit that suited her coloring. Her cheeks were rosy and her smile easier than he had seen it so far.
“You do realize,” she said after they’d greeted one another, “that Rotten Row will not afford much of an actual ride at this time of day? We will spend most of our time weaving in and out of carriages or standing still.”
“You do not seem concerned over such a fate,” he returned, not having to remind himself to be pleasant. The day was lovely, and Matilda was in a friendly mood. They took to the road, following a slow line of carriages and horsemen, most moving in the direction of Hyde Park.
“I am merely happy to be in the fresh air with good company,” she stated firmly.
“A kind compliment, Miss Rayment.”
She raised her eyebrows. “How do you know I meant you? I could’ve been talking of my horse.”
For a startled moment, Oliver wasn’t sure what to say, but when he saw the pink in her cheeks and her upturned lips, he started to smile. “Ah, I see. Naturally, a horse is a fine companion, especially when one intends to ride.”
Matilda’s shoulders noticeably relaxed, and she gave him a brighter smile. “I haven’t ridden through the park in some time, Mr. Bolton. Nor has my friend Coriander.”
Oliver chuckled and nudged his horse to ride alongside her. “You named your horse after a spice?”
“I name all my animals after spices. Do you not remember our kitten?”
“Basil,” he said, the little black ball of fluff coming abruptly into his memory. “I rescued that loathsome creature from the eaves of a window once. How could I forget him?” He’d had to borrow a ladder from the gardener and regretted not borrowing a sturdy pair of gloves as well when the kitten unleashed its tiny, razor-like claws upon him.
Matilda had thanked him profusely, while the cat tucked in her arms glared at him, and had offered to bandage up his hands.
She seemed to be remembering the same event. “Have you any lasting scars from that encounter?”
Oliver looked down at the leather gloves he wore now, smooth and supple, the gloves of a gentleman instead of a gardener. How strange, the difference a few years could make in one’s circumstances. “I think not. I healed tolerably well. What of the cat?”
“He has grown quite portly and spends his days sleeping in warm patches of sunlight and giving Cook grief,” she answered, a lilt in her voice as she spoke. “He is a most abominable creature, but I do adore him.”
They gave attention to the road for a time, weaving around ambling carriages, and then they were on the paths of Hyde Park. Riding abreast was less comfortable, if they wished to avoid collision with other riders or fine little vehicles with shiny wheels and tall seats. Oliver tipped his hat to every woman they passed, earning a few smiles and nods in return. Matilda made her share of greetings, calling out names when she knew them, but never stopping to speak to anyone.
When the opportunity presented itself, he urged his horse forward to her side once more. “Have you no wish to socialize today, Miss Rayment?”
She looked askance at him. “Did you have someone you wished to speak to, Mr. Bolton?”
“I am afraid my circle of acquaintances is quite small,” he admitted, looking around the path. “I have seen no one I know.”
She drew up her horse. “Oh. I beg your pardon. Might I introduce you to anyone? I know several of the people we’ve passed. I am sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”
Oliver waved the apology aside without concern. “Perhaps another time.” His horse slowed to a stop when the barouche in front of them halted. Oliver stood taller in the stirrups, trying to see over the crowd while his horse danced to the side.
“Have you not ridden through the park yet?” Matilda asked, and he turned to see her horse placidly bending to nibble at the grass near the path. “It is more standing still than it is moving, especially in our fine spring weather.” She grinned at him from beneath the brim of her riding hat.
Matilda didn’t appear perturbed in the slightest. Her attention turned to the Serpentine, as they were as near its shores as one could get on Rotten Row.
“It isn’t like at home,” she said, her voice grown softer along with her expression. “One can have a good, brisk ride and suitable exercise without worrying if anyone notices your new hat.”
“Should I have said something about your hat?” he asked, wondering where her melancholy air came from. “I am afraid the expectations of society are yet new to me.”
Matilda’s attention redirected to him, her eyebrows raised. “You ought not make such comments, Mr. Bolton. You are a gentleman, and you need make no excuses. In all honesty, you comport yourself as well as any lord I have come across.”
The vehicle ahead of them moved, necessitating that they both continue forward, giving Oliver a moment to think on what she said. The woman barely knew him. How could she hold such an opinion of his character already?
“But you really should say something kind about a lady’s riding cap. Especially when it has pheasant feathers smartly applied to the brim instead of haphazardly placed in her curls.” One side of her mouth quirked upward, and Oliver had to chuckle as she tossed her head, the better to show off the headpiece.
“Forgive me, Miss Rayment. Your feathers are most becoming today.” They were passing a carriage going the opposite direction, and the woman inside gave him a most peculiar look for that comment. “And very well placed.”
“That is much better. Thank you.” She bestowed a deep nod upon him, but as she faced forward, that wistful sort of expression came into her eyes again. “Your uncle would be proud you’ve adjusted to the manners of a gentleman so well. I look forward to giving him a firsthand account of your time in London.”
Oliver had written to his uncle weekly since inheriting the Lincolnshire estate, asking advice, bemoaning the rundown house and flooded fields, and finally, in the last eighteen months, sharing all that had finally gone right with the estate.
“I didn’t expect he would tell the whole neighborhood when I wrote, but he must’ve for you to be knowledgeable of my work,” Oliver said. “My uncle is not usually known for being talkative.” He turned to share a humorous smile with Matilda, but she turned her eyes downward and fiddled with her reins as they drew to another stop. “Is something troubling you, Miss Rayment?”
“No. Not at all.” Quite abruptly, she lifted her chin and fixed him with a curious look. “You haven’t been in London long. Have you visited the Royal menagerie yet? Or any of the art galleries? Will you be attending services while you are in town?”
Oliver’s mind puzzled over her manner, but he answered easily enough. “I have seen very little and done very little. I had hoped my friend, Mr. Dunwilde, would guide me for a time, but he’s left on a shooting trip in the country. I suppose,” he added with what he hoped was carelessness, lowering his gaze, “I must find my own way.” Something he’d been doing a lot of the past five years.
Her tone of voice when she spoke, in a rushed manner, was perfectly sympathetic. “Oh dear, but that isn’t done. You must be introduced into the correct circles, if you mean to make a place for yourself in society. Especially if you wish to court Beatrice.”
The name startled Oliver out of his thoughts. Miss Beatrice. Of course. “Your sister enjoys her place in society?” he asked, moving forward again. “I imagine she is popular.”
“Her company has been sought after a great deal in years past. And she did leave for that house party rather hastily.” Matilda didn’t look at him as she spoke, though her manner became less animated. “She is not a retiring sort of person. Beatrice enjoys being at the center of grand events.”
“I cannot think how many of those I might be invited to attend,” Oliver said slowly, his eyes on the horizon.
They were moving again, coming to the end of Rotten Row.
“Once people know you, they will count themselves lucky to have you at their parties and balls.” Matilda cast him a genuine smile. “I have always found you to be pleasant company, after all.”
He chuckled. “We did not exactly spend a great deal of time in each other’s company, Miss Rayment.” He could only remember a handful of their interactions, though they had lived in the same village for six years. He was forever about on his uncle’s business, which was truly estate business for the baron’s family, and she was being molded into a proper lady along with her younger sister.
“What about that time in the study, during that terrible storm? Do you remember?” she asked, turning her horse onto the street. “It had been raining for ages and ages. Your uncle sent you to the library for a book, I think.”
For several seconds, Oliver felt certain she was mistaken in her memory, but then he began to recall such an afternoon. “I didn’t know you were in the library, hiding behind the curtain.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “I wasn’t hiding. I was sitting on the window seat.”
“Behind the curtain.” He narrowed his eyes at her.
“Halfway behind the curtain, perhaps,” she returned, pursing her lips.
Oliver chuckled. “I know enough to refrain from contradicting a lady. Yes. I remember. You were on the window seat, and I came in looking for the book, and there was that monstrous burst of lightning—”
“And you screamed,” she interrupted with barely concealed glee. “Or shrieked, more like. I didn’t know you were there, so that frightened me, and I fell out of the window seat.”
Which had made the curtains fly open—and she had hit the ground with a shockingly loud thump. He started to laugh, remembering how he’d lifted the book in his hands like a weapon only to see Matilda crawling out from under the drapes, hair in disarray and face frozen in shock. They had both stared at each other, he with raised book and she from her hands and knees on the ground.
Matilda started laughing too, covering her mouth with a gloved hand when a matron riding by sent a withering glance their direction.
“I thought you said I was good company? Nothing about that scene strikes me as evidence of that.” Oliver couldn’t keep the amusement from his voice, though he tried to compose himself, with poor results.
“You don’t remember?” she asked, tipping her head to one side. “You dropped the book on the floor and rushed to help me to my feet.” She grinned at him. “Quite the gentleman, really, considering you were as frightened as I was.”
“How old were we?” he asked, furrowing his brow in thought. “Thirteen?”
“Near there, I should think. You hadn’t started calling me Miss Rayment yet, but you’d been with us for a good while.” She turned away, her profile lovely and expression soft. “You stayed in the library for at least a quarter of an hour, trying to soothe my nerves.”
“Trying to soothe my own,” he added. “It was a blow to my thirteen-year-old ego, to be so unmanned in the presence of a young lady over a crack of lightning.” Missing his parents and trying to find a place for himself, Oliver hadn’t possessed much confidence in those days. “I didn’t want you running off to tell my uncle any tales, after all.”
Matilda raised a gloved hand to her heart. “Me, sir? I would never do such a thing.” She batted her eyes and put on an expression of innocence, making him grin. They were nearing her house. “I thought you a very nice boy. Why would I make trouble for you?”
“You wouldn’t, of course. But that was before I knew the family very well. I hadn’t been acquired to assist with dancing or etiquette lessons. I was only my uncle’s errand boy, and I had no wish to upset him. Poor Uncle Hapsbury. He hadn’t any idea what to do with me most of the time.”
Indeed, Oliver could remember several instances when his uncle had looked over the rims of his spectacles in a state of befuddlement, trying to sort out whether to laugh or scold Oliver over his misadventures.
“I think he did a mar
velous job with you, overall,” Matilda said, her tone sincere and her eyes meeting his squarely.
“Thank you.” And then, because he was starting to feel guilty over enjoying Matilda’s company, he added, “I hope Miss Beatrice feels the same.”
Matilda’s approving look vanished, replaced by a more distant, polite expression. They were at her house again, and a servant appeared to take her horse. Matilda dismounted and turned her attention to him. “Thank you for the enjoyable afternoon, Mr. Bolton.”
He dismounted as well and stepped forward, feeling an apology was in order but uncertain what he would be apologizing for. “Miss Rayment, I—”
The front door flung open, crashing against the wall and interrupting his words, and her father came hurrying down the steps.
“Mattie,” he said, sounding breathless. A male servant followed close at his heels, eyes wide and face pale. “Mattie, I cannot find your mother, or your sister. Where have you been?” He was obviously agitated as he reached for his daughter, enfolding her in his arms upon the walk.
Matilda’s face paled as she accepted the embrace, and she appeared dreadfully off balance.
Oliver handed his reins to the groom. There were few other people around, but Oliver could sense something of a scene building.
“My lord,” he said, giving his attention to the baron. “I am afraid I kept your daughter out too long. We went for a ride.”
“Yes, Papa. You see. Here I am.” Matilda turned an apologetic eye to Oliver. “And Mother and Beatrice are well. Come inside, and I will tell you everything.”
The baron looked around the street, then at Oliver, before he loosened his grip on his daughter’s arms. “Won’t you come inside too, young man?” he said, eyebrows drawn down in puzzlement, as though he could not remember Oliver’s name.
Matilda’s eyes widened, and she looked at Oliver in something of a panic. “Mr. Bolton likely has other demands on his time, Papa.”
Oliver’s shoulders dropped, and he looked from the horses, still standing in the grip of the young servant, around the street, where there were now several pairs of curious eyes watching their little tableau.
An Evening at Almack's Page 4
