The idea frightened me, exceedingly.
“Do you need to remove yourself for a moment?” Mr. Peterson asked, his voice calm and pacifying. I turned toward his steady gaze and saw at once the facade of teasing lifted and his clear countenance gauging my reaction. Mr. Pollard sat just to our left, his head drooping with the onset of a nap. I truly could not figure out how a man was capable of sleeping so consistently. I merely shook my head and allowed him to lead me toward the window.
“Mr. Peterson?”
“Hmm?” He turned toward me.
“Do you truly believe me cursed?”
He glanced from me to the window streaming with rain. The clouds beyond were thick, the late afternoon sky positively dark. Candlelight reflected on the water drops clinging to the panes, causing the window to glow and us to find our own reflections in the window shrouded by drips and lines of rain. It was mesmerizing and beautiful, and I found my reflective nature enthralled by the image.
“Many people do believe in curses,” he said at length. “Have you not found yourself the brunt of nature’s joke, with no other recourse but to manage her wrath with humor?”
“I certainly have these last few days.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps you needn’t allow her to win.”
“You mean,” I clarified, turning toward the man instead of watching him in the window, “I must choose to not be cursed and then the rain will cease? That sounds fantastical, sir.”
“There is a lot of power in the nature of choice, Mrs. Wheeler. You may not be able to control the weather, but you can control a great many things about you if you merely choose to.”
I faced the window, uncertain if his meaning held any value, or what had spurred the insightful revelation. It was simple for a man to say that one could choose happiness; he had not been subject to the whim of an angry, distanced husband or a drunk of a brother. But that was in the past; Mr. Bancroft was my future.
“What a solemn gathering,” Miss Thornton observed, sweeping into the room and delicately lowering herself into the chair nearest Mrs. Bancroft. “By my word, I do believe that we need a little something to raise our spirits, ma’am.”
Mrs. Bancroft murmured something I could not hear, to which Miss Thornton chuckled. “When I was last in London there was a hostess quite inept at fostering interesting gatherings. At one such dinner my dear brother took it upon himself to assist the family, procuring a fine game of charades that fairly put everyone into a good humor.”
“If you believe charades to be the fix for a dull party, what does that have to say for our plans this evening?” Mr. Peterson asked, his teasing nature restored.
“That I quite enjoy the game,” Miss Thornton responded, her hands primly folded and a dainty smile touching her lips. Her intelligent gaze sought mine and I held it. Was she the woman who spoke ill of me earlier? I would not put it past her. In truth, the woman was a puzzle. I felt such dislike in her gaze, but there was little in her actions to reinforce the feelings.
Lord Stallsbury entered the room, Miss Pollard shortly behind him. He greeted the women before strolling languidly toward Mr. Peterson and me.
“Did you enjoy your letter?” he asked, coming to rest his dark gaze on me.
“I know not to what you refer, my lord.”
A brief flick of emotion passed through his eyes. “There was a letter delivered earlier, while you were indisposed. I supposed it was brought to you by your maid.”
I shook my head, anxiety beginning to swirl within me. It had not been long enough for Charlotte to receive my letter and send a reply. Could she have horrible news that could not wait? “My maid said nothing.”
“I wouldn’t refine too much on it,” Mr. Peterson said.
The butler came to the door to announce dinner and we filed into the room, taking our seats while Miss Thornton chatted loudly with Mrs. Bancroft and Lord Stallsbury at the other end of the table. Her voice grew more shrill the longer I was forced to endure it. My teeth ground together in irritation, my fork grasped far too firmly in my hand.
“It is my belief,” I could hear her say, “that anyone might be put into a good humor with small and simple actions. It is not necessary to always procure large gestures to obtain affection, but the small things add up to create joy.”
“Do you agree, Mrs. Wheeler?”
I jumped, Mr. Bancroft’s voice soft but loud in my ear when I was straining to eavesdrop on Miss Thornton. His eyes were earnest, his head tilted in concern.
“You seem to be focusing so keenly,” he continued, “I assumed you had an opinion on the matter.”
I took a bite, chewing my food slowly to allow myself the time to gather my thoughts. How was I to tell him that the woman simply didn’t seem as though she liked me, and as a result I was not very fond of her? It would not paint me in the best light. Instead, I said, “I believe any healthy relationship might be strengthened by small acts of kindness, naturally. I do not think large gestures are entirely necessary, but perhaps are valuable to boost one’s esteem. In that, it may depend on the nature and strength of the relationship to begin with.”
“Do you find yourself in need of large gestures to aid affection?” he questioned.
Lowering my fork, I searched Mr. Bancroft’s gentle, pleasant face. Yet my mind continually jumped back to the image of him facing his mother, livid. I could not remove from my thoughts his face, mottled with rage, altering within a moment to calm congeniality.
Was it simply the nature of men to be quick to anger? It was a distinct possibility that I had created an image of the perfect gentleman and assigned it to Mr. Bancroft. It was unfair of me to hold him to such standards when the rest of humanity was allowed grace.
Lowering my lashes, I cast my eyes downward. “I am not sure,” I began, answering his question. “I suppose it would depend on the gesture. I am not so frivolous, I would like to think, as to require great gestures of affection. But what woman would deny the basic kindnesses that build and create love? A small bouquet or handwritten poem do not cause the giver much hardship, but cause them to grow in the woman’s esteem greatly, do they not?”
His thick eyebrows pulled together in consideration, a sandy brown curl flopping forward as he nodded his head. “I suppose I had not considered it that way.”
“Do not refine upon it too much, Mr. Bancroft. I am not so shallow as to hinge my affections upon small gifts or gestures.”
He turned an endearing smile upon me. “No, my dear, I should say that you are not.”
Returning to my meal, I glanced down the table and watched Miss Thornton entertain Lord Stallsbury with the greatest ease. She was perfect for the role of his future duchess, and I could see that he was busy making the same conclusion for himself.
Chapter 13
Miss Pollard stood before the grouping of chairs, doing her utmost to imitate what I believed was a rabbit.
“A bird? A duck?” Mr. Peterson questioned, running a hand through his hair. “I cannot tell while you flap and jump at the same time, Miss Pollard, if you are intending to fly or leap.”
Chuckles broke out among the audience and poor Miss Pollard’s face turned scarlet.
“I believe I warned you all that this game was not my forte,” she said crisply.
“You are doing well, my dear,” Mrs. Bancroft said, her voice low and soothing. “Now what were you? A sparrow?”
“I was attempting to be a fox.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Peterson said, his grin stretching dangerously across his face. “Naturally, that was meant to be a fox.”
“You may take a turn next, sir, so that you might see how very difficult playacting can be.”
Mr. Peterson dutifully stood. He pulled a slip of paper from the bowl and considered it a moment before folding and tucking it into his waistcoat pocket.
Immediately he began squatting as though he sat upon something, holding one arm forward as another raised in imitation of a whip. He galloped about the stage a
rea until Thornton cried, “Clearly you are riding a horse.”
Mr. Peterson quit at once, languidly resuming his seat with a smug smile playing on his lips. Miss Pollard frowned.
“Mrs. Wheeler, would you like to go next?” Miss Thornton asked, as though she was the hostess of the party. I glanced to Mrs. Bancroft—the actual hostess—but she did not seem the least bothered by the control Miss Thornton took. I gave the younger woman a tight smile and drew a paper from the bowl.
Fishing.
Well, that was simple enough. I had never fished before, myself, but I had watched my brother a time or two and I knew the basic actions well enough. I took myself to the center of the stage and turned to the side, holding an invisible fishing pole. It was more difficult than I imagined, for there was no way to explain that the item I held was long and thin.
Casting back, I let the line fly forward with a smooth motion in my arm.
“Throwing rocks!” Miss Pollard guessed.
I shook my head, casting the pole again.
“Throwing an arrow?” she guessed again.
As though that made any sense. I shook my head again as she screwed up her face in thought. Why was no one else guessing? Surely the men knew of what I was physically describing for they planned to take part in the activity themselves the very next day.
I cast my line once again and Lord Stallsbury said, “You are fishing.”
I turned my smile on him, grateful to not be left upon the stage for a great length of time casting pretend lines into an invisible pond. “Well done, my lord!”
Resuming my seat, Lord Stallsbury replaced me on the stage. He pulled a paper from the bowl and a smile tipped his lips before he looked directly at me. Had he gotten my paper? My contribution had been something of a joke, realizing that the likelihood of him choosing it was slim.
He stood before us, smiling at me before forcing his face into a straight expression. Standing still, he held his hands before him in prayer. That was odd; perhaps he did not have my slip of paper after all. He quickly moved over two paces and held out a hand expectantly, then mimed putting a ring onto an invisible hand. Moving back to the first position, he held his hands in prayer again and then looked at us expectantly.
Clearly, charades was not a talent for Lord Stallsbury. He did have my paper, I could see it now. But everyone else in the room remained unaware of what he could possibly be showing us. He must have gauged the confusion in the room for he sighed and crossed toward me, offering me his hand.
I placed my own inside his and he led me to the stage. It was my fault that he chose to use me as a prop, for he must have known that I wrote the difficult prompt. Nevertheless, using another person was against the rules, surely. I glanced about the audience but they either did not see anything wrong with it or they chose to let it slide. He was a marquess, after all.
He stood beside me, taking my hand in his own and mimicked sliding a ring onto my finger. I glanced up into his dark brown eyes and my heart pounded against my breastbone. Flashbacks to my first marriage in Aunt Mary’s small church flooded my memory, but were swiftly squashed by the endearing smile on Lord Stallsbury’s face.
“Wedding! It is a wedding,” Mrs. Haley shouted, clapping for herself.
He tore his gaze from my face and bowed to the audience, gesturing toward me until I curtsied. “The card read marriage,” he said, “but I believe wedding is close enough.”
I chuckled to relieve the tension in my shoulders and moved to resume my seat. Miss Thornton’s stormy gaze was not lost on me, and neither was Mr. Bancroft’s.
Mrs. Haley took her place on the stage and the game continued as though nothing had happened. Which was true. Nothing had happened. I was caught up in the moment of playacting a marriage and it brought both pleasant and unpleasant feelings to the forefront of my thoughts. I was fortunate to avoid a repeat performance and when it was time to leave the gentleman and prepare for bed, I was shocked to find Miss Thornton immediately on my arm, clutching me as we made our exit.
“You did splendidly in there, Mrs. Wheeler. Absolutely delightful.”
This she said about my pretend fishing.
“Thank you, Miss Thornton. It was a pleasant way to pass the evening.”
“Yes, quite.” She watched me a moment as we stood outside my bedchamber. “Goodnight, Mrs. Wheeler.”
“Goodnight, Miss Thornton.”
I escaped into my bedroom, allowing Emma to undress me and help me into my night rail. I wanted to believe Miss Thornton was genuine in her praises, but my gut would not allow it. There was something off about the woman, but I could not put my finger on what it was.
“Did a letter come for me today while I was asleep?” I asked Emma.
“Not that I know of, but I can ask.”
I agreed and she left to inquire after the post.
I sat on the edge of my bed watching the candle flicker on the table beside me. I had made the decision earlier that there would be no need for a meeting this evening with the marquess as I had one chapter remaining in my book and surely Lord Stallsbury had nothing he needed to discuss. I was no expert on relationships, clearly, but he seemed to be progressing well with Miss Thornton.
I was progressing rapidly with Mr. Bancroft, myself, though the idea frightened me now. I waited for Emma to return, my gaze locked on the flickering flame and the shadow it cast on the wall.
“You were correct,” Emma said, coming into the room. “This arrived earlier.” She held forth a folded, sealed letter and I took it, waiting for her to take my gown and leave me for the night.
As soon as the door closed behind my maid, I slid the seal open and unfolded Charlotte’s letter. I devoured the words, fear and anticipation pulling me forward until I read the sentences I most feared.
There was trouble.
I shut my eyes, dropping the letter on my lap. How was I to help Charlotte when I was so far away? Refusing to cry, I crossed to the window and then back. Pacing, I shook my arms out to relieve built up pressure and considered Charlotte’s words. She was not in immediate peril. That was the first point to her benefit.
The second, that Miss Hurst was, herself, quite capable of handling the situation. Charlotte was in good hands.
I picked up the letter once more and read through it, past the pleasantries and update on the superb stables at Corden Hall—Mr. Bryce was a horse breeder and Charlotte was bound to be in heaven among his superior steeds—and to her brief mention of the chatter she had heard in Linshire: Noah was drinking himself to sleep at the inn now, instead of at home. Remarks had been made in Charlotte’s presence that were not kind, and Mr. Bryce, Miss Hurst’s betrothed, was called upon to check on the nature of Noah’s well-being.
Of course, Mr. Bryce had not been permitted inside the house, but was able to see well enough that our brother was alive, though unfit for company. It was the precise description I could have given over the course of the last few years.
The only difference was that until now, Noah had not created too large a spectacle of himself. Our cottage was well built, but bare. On the outside, no one had cause to assume our poverty. We had done a decent job, I hoped, of convincing the people in town that we were not excessively poor and our brother was merely antisocial, not a drunk. He was quickly undoing all of my hard work.
What would Charlotte do when Noah made his situation clear to the people in town? Her reputation would not survive it, surely.
To move my mind from the trouble at home, I picked up my book, sitting before the fire for better light.
Three quarters of an hour later, I had made no progress beyond the first paragraph, several lines of which I had read repeatedly. My poor heroine was about to receive her hero and their happily ever after and I could not force myself to focus enough on the pages to see them to completion. I dropped the book on the floor, holding my face in my hands.
There was nothing for it, I needed to go down to him.
I pulled on slippers and my th
ick dressing gown, buttoning it at the neck and tying the sash tightly around my waist. I was fully covered, if not completely clothed, and I would go to the library first to choose a novel in the event that I was caught.
I paced the room another quarter of an hour to be sure that the way would be clear before I poked my head out the door. The house was dark. None of the guest bedrooms on this floor had the least bit of light spilling under their doorways. I crept to the stairs and down to the proper hallway, my heart racing at the faint glow of light under the study door.
No sooner had I opened the door to the library than I realized my mistake. Two voices, both male, were murmuring softly near the low burning fire.
“Oh!” I said, despite myself. To slip away quietly would have been significantly better, but now I had outed myself and Mr. Bancroft and Thornton both turned in unison, surprised.
“Mrs. Wheeler, are you well?” Mr. Bancroft inquired, jumping to his feet.
I nodded. “I was merely searching out a novel. I find I cannot fall asleep.”
His face fell. “Is your bedchamber uncomfortable? Is the bed not to your liking? Or do you have a noise keeping you awake?”
His concern was nearly suffocating. “No, no. Nothing of the sort. I simply have not grown used to the bedchamber yet, and I enjoy reading in the evenings.”
He nodded as though my explanation was reasonable.
“I find I must scurry back to my room. I would not care to be caught out.”
Thornton stood. “Shall I escort you?”
“No,” I said, backing out the door. “This is not quite appropriate, sir. Just pretend you never saw me and I will take better care to explore the library in the daylight hours.”
I shut the door behind me with enough force that the men would heed my wishes, I hoped. I had barely managed a glimpse of the bookcases, but I had to admit that Mr. Bancroft was correct in his original description, the library looked positively glorious and I could not wait to return the following morning for a thorough evaluation.
Love at the House Party: A Regency Romance (Women of Worth Book 3) Page 9
