For a moment, regret appeared in Beatrice’s countenance, but then she shrugged it away. “All Mother did in the carriage ride home was weep about Father and about me. She seemed to think Mr. Redhurst and I would come to an understanding during the house party. Obviously he was not as enamored of me as you both believe.”
“He seemed to care a great deal about you, to devote so much attention to you,” Mattie said, but Beatrice waved away her protest impatiently.
“It is of no consequence. He is to wed another. It is done. Really, Matilda, you are more disappointed about it than I am.”
A maid appeared at the door.
“Mr. Bolton’s here, miss.” Making her joyfully innocent pronouncement, the maid disappeared before Mattie could give any instruction.
“Mr. Bolton?” Beatrice’s voice rose with interest. “What is he doing here? He cannot know I’ve returned to town already.”
Mattie closed her eyes and willed her heart to stop racing. How had everything turned so wrong so swiftly?
When she answered her sister, Mattie managed to sound indifferent. “Mr. Bolton has come to escort me to the shops. He’s never been to Piccadilly.”
“Oh? Go and speak to him, Matilda.” Beatrice hurried to the door, her mood obviously brighter than it had been mere moments before. “I will change and be down in a quarter of an hour. I’ll accompany you.” She disappeared into the hall, her lovely pink dress showing her slim figure off perfectly.
“Why change?” Mattie muttered, a strange melancholy taking hold. “You’re beautiful in everything. And ruining everything.”
There wasn’t time for a conference with her mother to determine what must be done next, nor comfort the baroness in regards to their failed plan. Nor was there any opportunity for her to slip away with Oliver—Beatrice would find a way to join them or tell Oliver she had been purposefully left behind.
Whatever plans Mattie had made—and they had been the frailest of plans—were dashed to ruin.
Mattie’s steps were unhurried as she entered the hall and went to the stairs.
Beatrice would flirt, simper, bat her eyes, and giggle delightfully for hours. And Oliver? He would do as so many other gentlemen had done. He would bask in her sister’s glow, and Mattie would shadow them both, nothing more than a chaperone.
There would be no smiles from Oliver for Mattie, no teasing comments, no childhood remembrances. No gentle words or kind looks. Beatrice would be on his arm, not Mattie. Beatrice would receive his every word and gesture.
Mattie froze midway down the staircase and gripped the rail tightly, frightened she might fall without its support.
In truth, Mattie realized, she was not so much concerned with Beatrice’s behavior as she was with what it would mean regarding Oliver. She didn’t want to see Oliver fawn over Beatrice, didn’t want to witness the sight of his dimple appearing when Beatrice laughed, and she most certainly did not want to watch him fall in love with her sister.
Because I love him.
The realization brought the briefest beam of happiness into her heart before it was swallowed in pain and grief.
Mattie sank down on the steps, not caring if anyone saw, and wrapped her arm through the spindles of the banister.
It couldn’t be love. The thought was firm and commanding. When has there been time for me to fall in love? Surely it takes a great deal of knowing a person—
She’d known Oliver since they were twelve years old. He touched many of her childhood memories with his presence. And she’d always admired his kindness, his thoughtful words, the respect he showed others whether above or below him in society.
Having planned out her whole life years ago, leaving no room for love, confronting it now gave her a shock.
Examining her heart carefully, she dared not move from her spot.
How did she know it was love she felt and not something petty, like jealousy?
Because all she had to do was think on walking about the garden on Oliver’s arm, and she blushed. Thinking of his smile made her smile. Planning to remove him from her family’s sphere gave her pain from the first moment she knew it must be done. And she admired him, greatly, for his work to turn an impoverished estate into something better, for his letters to his uncle, and for his kindness toward her father.
“I hadn’t realized you now greeted callers from the stairs.”
Mattie peered down to the ground floor, between the rails, into Oliver’s gleaming eyes. His smile was wide enough to make the dimple appear, and his countenance shone with cheerfulness.
Mattie’s heart faltered, and she raised a hand to her lips to keep from blurting the truth to him.
His expression changed from happy anticipation to concern. He came to the foot of the staircase and made as if to come upstairs, but he hesitated. “Matilda? Is something wrong?”
The use of her Christian name undid her, and she parted her lips to speak—
“Oh, Mr. Bolton! Wonderful. I mean to join you today,” Beatrice’s voice sang from overhead. “But I neglected to ask Matilda if we are in an open or closed carriage. I cannot choose a bonnet until I know.”
Oliver’s eyes had risen the instant her sister began speaking, but they dropped again to Mattie, their depths full of confusion.
“I’ve borrowed an open carriage, from a friend,” he said, looking at Mattie though he answered Beatrice’s question.
“Lovely. I shall wear my tallest bonnet, and we will be seen by everyone near and far.” Beatrice’s laugh made the air sparkle, and then her steps receded. Mattie hadn’t looked up at her beautiful sister even once. She knew well enough the way Beatrice would tilt her head to one side, the pose she would affect, and how she would purse her lips, waiting for Oliver to answer her question. It was always the same with Beatrice.
Mattie used the seconds granted her to compose herself, so she could offer at least a tight-lipped smile to Oliver when she stood.
“Good morning, Mr. Bolton,” she said, trying to take pride in her even tone. “As you can see, my mother and Beatrice have returned.” She took the steps down slowly, deliberately. His nearness would not have the slightest effect on her. It could not.
His eyebrows pulled downward. “Miss Rayment,” he said, formal once more. “You appeared to be in some distress a moment ago. Are you recovered?”
Mattie couldn’t imagine ever recovering from the pain in her breast.
“I am quite well, thank you. If you will excuse me, I need to inform my maid we will not need her services.” She started to walk around him, calling forth every lesson on deportment she could remember to keep moving without stumbling.
A strong, warm hand closed gently around her arm, halting Mattie in her steps. Looking up into Oliver’s concerned eyes, Mattie’s heart gave a hard twist.
Why? Why must this happen now?
“You are troubled.” It wasn’t a question, not the way he spoke it and certainly not with the way he stared intently at her, as though trying to see into her very soul. “We needn’t go today,” he added, his voice softening. “Is it your father—”
“No,” she said, cutting him off as quickly as she could. Discussing Beatrice with Oliver was the very last thing she wished to do. “No, Papa is well. Beatrice is too.” She gently tugged her arm away from him. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I am a little fatigued.” It wasn’t a complete lie, but it was the best excuse she could summon at the moment. “The spring air will cure me, I’m certain.” Mattie forced her lips upward in a smile.
“Miss Rayment—”
“Excuse me.” She turned and walked away, measuring each step while the click of her heels against the ground echoed in the hall.
Chapter Thirteen
The pleasant morning Oliver expected to spend in Matilda’s company took on a decidedly different shape with Beatrice present. For one thing, he’d meant for Matilda to sit with him at the front of his borrowed phaeton, instructing him on the best shops in London. Instead, she sat quietly b
ehind him, and Beatrice beside, the younger woman offering her raptures over the fashions of the day and speaking of people he’d never met.
Elation at obtaining Beatrice’s undivided attention ought to have filled him the moment she airily presumed to take the seat next to his. Instead, he found himself trying to look over his shoulder in a way that would afford him a glimpse of Matilda.
Matilda might’ve had perfect posture, but the downcast expression she wore tore at his heart. With her head turned to one side, he could only view her profile.
Beatrice noticed his distraction and glanced over her shoulder at her sister, her brows pulling together.
“Oh, Matilda,” she said, and Oliver kept himself facing fully forward, relieved Beatrice might finally offer some consolation to whatever had upset her sister. “Are you ill? You must stop sulking. Do liven up a bit, or else we will have to take you home. I have no wish to be seen about town with such a miserable-looking sister.”
He nearly pulled the horse up in that moment, so shocked was he by the unfeeling words. Never, in all his time at the Granthorne estate, had he seen the sisters regard each other with anything other than kindness.
“Are you unwell, Miss Rayment?” he asked over his shoulder, trying to gentle Beatrice’s admonishments. “We can stop for refreshment, if you wish?”
“I am well. Please, do not trouble yourself. I’m only thinking.” He heard the forced lightness of her voice.
Whatever it was she thought on, it must’ve been of a gloomy and fretful nature.
Beatrice made a humming sound, then filled the rest of their drive with her conversation and a few pointed compliments to his driving, suit of clothes, and the like.
This is ridiculous. I wanted Beatrice’s notice, now I have it, and I’m fretting over Matilda. Enough. Oliver took himself in hand and determined to enjoy every minute of their exploration.
Before long, he had managed to join in Beatrice’s chatter, asking her questions about how she’d spent the Season thus far and other such pleasantries. The conversation never went deeper than the very sort of thing one could discuss in a quarter-of-an-hour morning call, but it remained amiable.
Upon their arrival in front of the bookseller’s, Oliver found a boy willing to look after his horses before helping Beatrice down from her seat. Then he extended the same courtesy to Matilda, offering her a gallant bow and smile.
She looked down at him, her expression placid but unsmiling, and took his hand.
There’s no reason she can’t enjoy herself. Even if she is off balance with Beatrice’s presence.
Before Matilda could withdraw it, Oliver tucked her hand into the crook of his right arm and secured it to him by covering it with his hand. “You promised to be my guide, Miss Rayment. You cannot do that if you walk behind us.”
Matilda’s eyes widened and flew up to meet his. That had been precisely what she’d intended, to follow them about all day as a chaperone. It wouldn’t do.
Miss Beatrice slipped her lace-gloved hand onto his other arm. “We will both guide you, Mr. Bolton,” she said in her high, airy way.
Matilda focused her gaze on the street and stepped a little away from him, though her hand remained on his arm.
The ensuing hour spent walking in and out of shops, peering through windows, and nodding to passersby proved to be one of the strangest in Oliver’s memory. On his left arm, he had the young lady he’d admired in his youth, knowing he would never be in a position to do more than look on in wonder as she lived a life he dreamed of. And here she batted her eyes at him, paid coy compliments, and flirted most sweetly. It ought to have been rewarding.
Yet on his other arm, quiet and withdrawn, was a woman whom he’d never taken special notice of until the previous week. But that wasn’t right either. He possessed memories full of Matilda Rayment’s practical advice, kind smiles, and serious eyes looking across a room at him.
While he’d stared after Beatrice, thinking her a fairylike creature, he’d hardly noticed she never once glanced at him. But Matilda had been there from the start, expressing her condolences over his loss.
They had just stepped into a little green area, to partake of a basket of crackers and jellies purchased, when Oliver’s thoughts finally burst out upon his tongue.
“Miss Beatrice,” he said in so abrupt a manner that the young lady stopped walking. “Do you remember when you had to learn the minuet, and your dancing master insisted your sister and I join you to practice?”
After her lovely blue eyes blinked at him twice, the young woman shook her head. “I am afraid not, but I suppose I must now thank you for those services. You must’ve been quite the accomplished dancer, because I haven’t had even a moment of trouble with those steps since my come-out.” Beatrice’s eyes strayed from him to glance about the lawn. “Oh, there is a bench. How perfect.” She released his arm and went toward it.
Oliver watched her, thoroughly befuddled. It had been one of his favorite memories, dancing with the sisters, even though it had also been somewhat embarrassing. He could hardly hold it against Beatrice if she did not remember it the same way.
“You trod on her gown,” Matilda said, voice gentle and soft. “It wasn’t one she liked, so she didn’t mind.”
He turned his attention to her, aware of her steady presence at his side.
“You remember?” he asked, searching her eyes.
Matilda nodded, and the smallest of smiles turned her lips upward. “Did you ever learn the minuet, Mr. Bolton? Or do you still require your partners to whisper the steps to you?” There was nothing unkind in her words. She spoke with the air of one sharing a jest or secret, then she released his arm and went ahead of him, joining her sister in arranging the impromptu picnic.
It struck him, like a bolt from heaven, that while Beatrice might’ve been the sister he hoped to impress, it was Matilda who had been the one worth befriending. Matilda, the thoughtful sister, who observed the world around her while her sister flitted about with no more care than a butterfly.
Oliver knew Beatrice to be a charming person, and she had it in her to be kind. Matilda had been trying to keep Oliver from spending time in Beatrice’s company. But perhaps not for the reasons he had suspected.
Beatrice called his name and waved, bringing him back into the moment. Matilda sat on the bench beside her sister, staring silently at him, waiting.
Somehow, Oliver had tangled himself into an affair of the heart.
He walked across the grass, fixing a stiff smile on his face. Unraveling this mess I’ve made might prove difficult.
Chapter Fourteen
“I cannot understand what went wrong,” Mattie’s mother said with a note of despair, taking her turn at sitting on Mattie’s bed. “Mr. Redhurst seemed enamored of her. Then we arrived at the house party, and the other young woman was there. And your sister acts as though it doesn’t affect her in the slightest.”
“Perhaps she wasn’t as invested in the match as we hoped,” Mattie said as the maid put the finishing touches to her hair in preparation for dinner. The Pomona-green evening gown Mattie wore was one of her favorites, due to the way it called forth a similar shade in her eyes. For a fleeting moment she wondered if Oliver would notice—but she wistfully put that thought aside.
The baroness was silent for a moment before speaking again, with some uncertainty. “But you believe having Mr. Bolton at our dinner table tonight will help in some way?”
Mattie had made the suggestion the moment they returned from their outing with Oliver. Watching Beatrice flirt for more than an hour had given her a great deal of time to feel wounded, and to understand something she hadn’t considered before. If Beatrice did not get what she wanted, she only went after it until she achieved her object or was denied so thoroughly—usually by their father—that she dared not try for it again.
Papa wasn’t able to help them with situations such as this. Not in his current state. Vexation of any kind usually ended in his confusion.
The maid tucked small matching feathers into Mattie’s hair in an artful manner.
“I think it will,” Mattie said, not meeting her mother’s eyes in the mirror. Instead she pretended to study her gloves. What she didn’t say, what she couldn’t say, was that if Oliver could love Beatrice, they might find happiness together. If her sister could love Oliver, surely that love would be more important than social status and income.
Oliver might find the encouragement to put his suit firmly before the family. Though the idea gave her some measure of hurt, Mattie could do nothing to stop it. At least, that’s what she told herself, refusing to examine her feelings any further. What right did she have to feel anything beyond friendship for Oliver Bolton?
The maid curtsied and departed, leaving Mattie and her mother alone.
Her mother sighed and then spoke as though she had seen into Mattie’s thoughts. “Perhaps we were wrong to encourage a match with Mr. Redhurst. Though Mr. Bolton is not of the position in society Beatrice may have wanted, he is familiar with the family and with her. If she loved him, they might do well together.”
The words sent a chill into Mattie’s heart, which jerked painfully in response. Somehow she kept her voice steady as she responded. “I confess, I had similar thoughts.”
Mother stood and came to stand near her eldest daughter, resting her hand on Mattie’s shoulder, almost as though she needed the support. Finally, Mattie looked up, meeting her mother’s deep-brown eyes. The tears brimming there startled Mattie.
“Matilda,” her mother said, her voice trembling. “I only want to be sure Beatrice is happy. And that you are happy. Your place in society doesn’t matter so much as whether or not you find joy in your life. I hope you know—that you can understand—that is all your father and I have ever wanted for both of you.”
Her own eyes growing full with unwanted tears, Mattie covered her mother’s hand with hers and forced a lighter expression on her face. “You know I am content, Mother. I always have been.” Did her mother hear the way her voice broke? Did she suspect there was more to it than the emotion of the moment?
An Evening at Almack's Page 7
