by CE Murphy
As they sat enraptured, Miss Derrington, whose observational skills were well honed from so many years of sitting aside and watching rather than participating, saw with delight how soft Miss Elsabeth’s gaze was upon Archer as he played, and what delight she took in being surprised by the gentleman’s skill. “He is rather handsome, is he not?” she asked quietly, so as not to break the spell, and was rewarded with Elsabeth’s murmur of amusement.
“More than rather, Miss Derrington; you need not tread lightly in admiration of your own cousin. Indeed, his handsomeness was much admired the first time Mr Archer was introduced in Bodton, although I fear his manners were rather less so. I confess, though, that when he chooses to be finely behaved, he is much more appealing than I had previously imagined. One could grow to quite like him.”
“One could,” Annabel agreed, and judging a little guidance better than a strong push, subsided into silence again. Elsabeth, who was not so innocent as to be unaware of Miss Derrington’s thrust, smiled more readily at Archer even so. It was a pity he had been so badly mannered, and perhaps even a pity she had been so prideful as to insist broadly that the man held no appeal. Even if he had not been handsome, or rich, his wit spoke to her, and that he was handsome and rich—she laughed softly, and put the thought away.
A game of whist was commanded after Archer’s musical interlude was concluded, with Miss Derrington happy to observe rather than participate, and then Archer, mindful of his cousin’s happiness, insisted that she read for them a little while. Annabel, who read well, recalled Elsabeth’s passion on the topic of not belittling her own skills, accepted the charge, but after half an hour put the novel in Archer’s hands and commanded he entertain them all a while himself. “Will we each read?” he asked pleasantly as he finished, and Elsabeth, finding herself willing, accepted the book still warm from Archer’s grip. She fitted her fingers against that warmth and, smiling, read a few chapters before Ruth declaimed any right on the part of the Coxes to carry on, thus saving them all from Mr Cox’s rendition of a racy stretch of fiction, or worse, a lecture on whether fiction was appropriate for young women at all.
The sounds of merriment did not, as Archer had predicted they might, draw Lady Beatrice from her rooms, but as the evening came to an end, Annabel Derrington squeezed Elsabeth’s arm and asked if she might come to the house often during her visit with Ruth. “My mother treats me as though I am quite fragile,” she confessed, “and perhaps I am. But I have never seen anyone stand up to her quite so boldly as you have tonight, and I am now obliged to wonder if some measure of my delicacy is of her making.”
“I believe Ruth and Mr Cox come here almost daily,” Elsabeth said warmly. “I should be delighted to come with them often myself, and spend more time in your company. Until tomorrow, then, Miss Derrington!”
The anticipated pleasure of improving the acquaintance with Miss Derrington allowed Mr Cox’s lecture about manners, which Elsabeth might have thought she had escaped during the post-dinner activities, to go almost unheard by Elsabeth as they returned to the vicarage. The weather had turned: it was colder by far than it had been when they arrived, and in the morning no one was surprised to see snow on the ground.
Elsabeth, emboldened by a warm coat and good boots, took it upon herself to walk that morning, and found great happiness in the leaden grey skies meeting the virgin white earth. Even the black trees spiking the clouds were things of beauty, and the silence of the land under snow made her invigourated breathing sound more alive than ever. Birds cut across the sky in flurries or alone, with the occasional bright-breasted robin standing out against a world made colourless by winter.
Her steps became strides and those strides turned to running through bursts of mist made by her breath. She dashed up hills gasping and down them again laughing, until she thought her chest might burst with the joy of being alive. She could not, here, as she might have in Oakden, allow herself to erupt with some wild dance of magic, though she could imagine the easy brilliance of flame spinning against the sky. But if she could not risk the magic, she could certainly allow herself to dance, and so she did, atop a hill with a view for miles. She spun, laughing, until she could spin no more, and then fell to her back on the snow, where she swept an angel and lay in its arms, gasping and smiling at the featureless sky.
The labour of her breath was too great to hear footsteps, and Fitzgerald Archer’s concerned appearance in her line of vision came as a great startlement. Elsabeth sat up with a cry, then as swiftly concluded he could be no more appalled by her activities than he surely was already, and fell back into the snow without concern. Knowing how greatly at odds it would be with her activities, she was careful to apply the most formal tone she had at her disposal when she spoke. “Mr Archer.”
“Miss Elsabeth,” Archer replied with equal formality. “Forgive me. I saw you fall, and imagined you might be in some distress. Instead, I see you have been producing a work of art. I fear I have marred your wing.” He moved his foot and Elsabeth turned her head to see the impression of his shoe upon her angel’s wing.
“My medium is a forgiving one.” She swept her arm upward again, wiping the footprint away, then folded her hands over her stomach while retaining her solemnity. Archer remained at the corner of her vision, looking down at her. Concern had fled his expression, though she could not say what had replaced it: curiosity, perhaps. “I did not see you at all, Mr Archer.”
“I thought not. I was some distance behind you, and on a different trajectory until I saw your...dance. Miss Elsabeth, I find myself at something of a loss. I am not entirely certain how a gentleman is to behave when he finds a young lady encased in the arms of a snow angel. Ought I offer a hand, that you might rise?”
“I believe it would be more suitable for you to lower yourself into the snow and create an angel of your own.”
“That is absurd.”
Elsabeth turned her head to smile directly at him. “It is, isn’t it? That is why it seems most suitable. Otherwise, I suppose you might go on your way, leaving angels behind.”
“I suppose I might,” Archer replied slowly. “I suppose I must. Good morning, Miss Elsabeth.”
“Good morning, Mr Archer.”
(38)
To say that Archer left the encounter with Miss Elsabeth disturbed did not do sufficient credit to his state of mind. There were certain expectations of ladies and gentlemen in Society; lying serenely at the bosom of a snow angel fit none of them. More distressing by far, however, was Miss Elsabeth’s utter lack of embarrassment at being found in such an unusual position. Her only moment of discomfiture had been upon Archer’s arrival, and it was clear she had been surprised, not humiliated. A woman who was ashamed by her activities would have leapt to her feet, all blushes and downcast eyes; she would have been unable to express herself without stammering, nor able to explain herself at all. Instead, Elsabeth Dover had spoken easily, as if they were in the very heart of a ballroom or parlour, and with such blissful serenity as to cause Archer to feel as though he was in the wrong for not joining her in the making of snow angels.
He could not possibly have done so, he admonished himself, and wondered that somehow he thought himself a coward and a fool for his propriety. Webber, he thought in a mix of horror and regret, might well have flung himself into the snow; but Webber had the knack of making himself liked, which Miss Elsabeth herself had emphasised that Archer did not. But Webber would not have found himself in a position of wondering whether he ought: even if his affections had once lain with Rosamund Dover, Miss Dover was not herself one who would be discovered in a country field sweeping snow about like a child.
That thought lay perilously close to a conclusion he did not wish to reach. Archer shook his head ferociously, as if to put thoughts of Elsabeth Dover out of his mind, and, when that did not succeed, strove instead to think of the impropriety of her behaviour rather than its charms. With that idea fixed firmly in place, he strode toward Charington Place and refused to look ba
ck.
For her own part, Elsabeth could not be mortified: she had had no notion of Archer’s presence, and was only glad that she had quelled the urge to dance with fire beneath the winter sky. Making snow angels was quite outrageous enough, though, for an intriguing moment, she had imagined Archer was considering the idea of joining her in the preposterous activity. It was a shame that he had not: she could have warmed to him quite considerably, had he stepped down from his manners to play a little while. But no: never Mr Archer, whose dignity could be stretched to fill two or three gentlemen with the usual amount, and leave him with enough to be regarded as stiff, even if he did play the pianoforte surpassingly well. And that was her last thought of Archer for some time: the cold seeped through her coat and dress and boots, and Elsabeth sprang to her feet again, shaking snow loose as she began a vigourous walk back to the vicarage.
There she was greeted with tea by Ruth, and for some little while, they cosied together before the kitchen fire before Ruth spoke of an obligation to visit Mr Cox’s parishioners. Warm, dry and happy, Elsabeth joined her, and saw as they walked that there were innumerable homes with small gardens pressed up against the house walls. Many were covered with a linen propped on sticks, to keep the snow off, and all were more vigourous than might be expected so early in the year. At each of those houses, Ruth went out with one or more of the children to help tend the garden, and returned with fingers reddened by cold and black beneath the nails with dirt.
“The linens are clever,” Elsabeth said as they went from the dozenth house. “How foresightful to prepare them; I had no notion of the oncoming snow.”
“Nor I,” Ruth replied serenely, “but it is only January. One might expect snow, Elsabeth, and Mr Cox and I may have brought some old linens around the parish to make protective coverings. It would be a shame to see such an early harvest go to rot.”
“But I noticed that your own garden is unprotected.”
“I am sure it will recover.”
Elsabeth laughed and caught Ruth’s arm, quite stopping her in their travels. “Oh, yes, so am I. Just as Papa’s has always recovered. Ruth Dover, you have hidden your light under a bushel!”
Ruth smoothed her skirts and met Elsabeth’s eye with no hint of guilt at all. “I am Ruth Cox now, sister, and I have a duty to Mr Cox’s parishioners. Lady Beatrice is an excellent patroness, but there are very few families who could not do with more. If digging in the soil with them for a little while, and helping to build linen houses for their gardens, is of some small use to them, then of course I can do nothing less than lend my God-given strength to their health and happiness.”
“God-given, is it, Ruth?”
“We are made in His image, and He does not make mistakes, nor burden us with gifts or faults we cannot bear.”
Tears sprang unexpected to Elsabeth’s eyes and she embraced her middle sister with more passion than she could ever remember before doing. “I am proud of you, Ruth.”
To Elsabeth’s surprise, Ruth, always the most stoic of the sisters, had tears in her eyes as well when Elsabeth released her. Tears, and a smile that shone more brightly than Ruth’s ever had as a Dover. “Thank you, Elsabeth.” For the space of a heartbeat, it seemed she would say no more, but then the words rushed from her breathlessly: “You won’t tell anyone, will you? Especially not Dina and Tildy. I should never hear the end of it.”
“My dear sister, I believe you could parade a winter garden in full bloom before them and they would never suspect anything was amiss, but of course: your secret is safe with me. Although—I do think Papa and Rosa would be so pleased to hear it!”
“I can depend on their discretion as well as yours,” Ruth said, solemn once more. “You may tell them, if you wish. But not by post, Elsabeth! It cannot be trusted to the post.”
“Of course not. Now, come. Have we more gardens to tend? And then I will visit Miss Derrington, and be home before supper.”
“We might be all day tending gardens, Elsa. Go to Miss Derrington, and return when you can. I’m pleased you’ve made a friend of her; I have had less success there.”
“I suppose Mr Cox holds her in too high esteem to regard her as material for something so common as friendship,” Elsa guessed. “Perhaps I shall endeavour to acquire an invitation for you to visit alone, if you should like to make such a friend.”
“I have done well enough among the parishioners, and am not lonely. That is your concern, is it not? But if you wish to meddle, neither would I object.”
Elsa laughed again, and embraced Ruth a second time, and with a happy heart traipsed to Charington Place, where she was greeted warmly by Miss Derrington and invited to sit by the fire. “I cannot imagine your fortitude,” Miss Derrington proclaimed. “Taking yourself out in such weather deliberately, and on foot! I should insist upon a carriage to bring you home.”
“And I should insist that you not bother. Surely, it is far more unfair to rouse a horse or two, not to mention a coachman, out of their own warm roosts, than to trouble myself to walk a trifling distance. I enjoy the winter, Miss Derrington. I could no more deny myself the pleasure of walking than you might deny yourself the pleasure of sitting by the fire.”
“I should find myself an icicle if I denied myself that pleasure. It is pleasant, though, to watch the snow fall and see how it quiets the world. Now, Miss Elsabeth, I was surprised to learn you knew my cousin. It seemed to me you and he shared an uncommon camaraderie.”
“Oh, uncommon indeed. I suppose he has told you of my unconventional behaviour this morning.”
“Not at all! But you must: I am so admiring of unconventional behaviour, perhaps because it is so far beyond me.”
“I believe it would be beyond me, too, if I found the entirety of my surrounds to be unforgivingly chilly at all times. I have told you of my fondness for constitutionals; I am afraid Mr Archer found me indulging in another fondness. He happened upon me making a snow angel in an otherwise lonely field.”
Annabel Derrington’s laughter rang like sunshine through the parlour before she clasped her fingers before her lips. “Oh, dear. I fear Gerry could not approve. He is most concerned with propriety.”
“I fear he did not approve. He seemed in quite a state when he left me, but as he neither damaged my angel’s wings nor, it seems, betrayed my silliness to another, I suppose it was not such a state as to do himself any harm.”
“Nor you any,” Miss Derrington agreed, “for I am certain that although I might find it delightful, others might look upon such a tale with more concern. But my cousin is very sensible of what might adversely affect others: indeed, I have it from him that only last summer, he prevented a match that could have been most unsuitable for one of his close friends.”
Elsabeth Dover was rarely cold, but her hands became icy at this proclamation. “Is that so?”
“Oh yes. His friend Mr Webber—perhaps you know him as well?—was, to hear Gerry tell it, quite infatuated with a young lady, perhaps even ready to make a proposal to her. But there was something unsuitable about her family, and Gerry encouraged him to leave hastily, before any permanent entanglements were made.”
“Something unsuitable about her family. What an extraordinary claim. Surely, we all have unsuitable aspects to our families, whether it is an unfortunate nose or a tendency toward a weak gaze. Was the lady herself objectionable?”
“Oh, no. I gather from Gerry that she was all that could be considered right and proper, so it must have been something far more alarming than an unfortunate nose to consider her family inconceivable.”
“I can hardly imagine that I am hearing this correctly,” Elsabeth said in a low, slow voice. “Mr Archer took it upon himself to decide whether Mr Webber’s fondness was appropriate, and removed Mr Webber—with whom, yes, I am familiar, and who is an amiable and persuadable man—from this lady’s presence?”
“Just so,” Miss Derrington said with satisfaction. “I gather it was no difficulty to persuade Mr Webber to Town, whereupon
I suppose he forgot the lady swiftly enough. I should like to go to Town myself sometime, although I suppose my general health is such that a Season would not do.”
With a shudder, Elsabeth allowed herself to be drawn into the new topic, the better to deny the fury that threatened to burst from her. Miss Derrington could have no notion of Elsabeth’s closeness to the matter she had so casually discussed, and to clarify it would only mortify her. With an effort, she replied, “A Season? I thought—forgive me for my rudeness in saying so when you have not yourself mentioned it—I thought that you were engaged to Mr Archer.”
“Oh, there is no official arrangement. Mother has great hopes of the match, and Streyfield is beautiful, but I confess that my own desires, should they be of any import, would be to marry a man less qualified and retire back to Oyo with him.”
“Then you should have a Season,” Elsabeth said, somewhat distantly; she felt as though the conversation happened by rote, rather than through any determination on her part. “The ballroom crush in London would certainly keep you warm enough, Miss Derrington, and I am sure you would meet many pleasant gentlemen.”
“Mother would be enraged!”
“Ah.” Elsabeth smiled, though it felt cold. “But you would be engaged, and therein lies your purpose, does it not? We shall only have to hope that Mr Archer does not find your choice unsuitable and move to sway you where you might not wish to be swayed.”
“Oh, you cannot think Gerry was wrong! We know nothing of the circumstances!”
The smile remained forced upon Elsa’s lips. “You are right, of course. We know nothing of the circumstances. We do know yours, though, Miss Derrington, and it is certain that if you are not interested in marrying Mr Archer, then you will remain unmarried so long as you reside at Charington Place. I think you must ask your mother to take you to Town.”
