The vicar’s other supper partner alternately blushed and paled as she listened to the discourse and finally broke in with a little giggle. “Oh, Miss Christine, you are quite amusing. Anyone listening would think that you are questioning our vicar’s religious teachings. Pray, Mr. Ames, won’t you tell me of your recent visits about the parish? I would greatly enjoy hearing of your good works.”
Miss Christine, for her part, looked astonished to be cut so quickly out of her interesting debate and glanced about her, cheeks turning pink. Could she now realize her behavior would be construed as rude or unladylike? Her eyes met his and she raised her eyebrows high.
Thomas had the distinct impression a question was contained in her expression. Was she soliciting his opinion of the matter? Though he hardly thought their relationship was such that he should acknowledge this silent inquiry, he raised his eyebrows back at her and offered the barest of smiles.
She smiled back, clearly relieved that he would not censure her, and turned her attention to her plate.
The young woman should not have pursued such a topic at supper and the momentary amusement her faux pas provided him did much to alleviate his headache. However, he realized that one of his own supper companions was repeating herself to him and he must attend to the social niceties once more.
He found he glanced up frequently, however, to see if Miss Christine had reengaged the vicar on her topic of choice, but her head stayed bowed over her plate. This afforded him an excellent view of her brown ringlets artfully twisted with pearls, but not another look at her dark eyes or lively expression.
What a shame, he thought, that we are not supper partners. Discussing the King’s madness or lack thereof would be preferable to describing Italian grapes with Miss Whitson, and be much more diverting.
After supper, the ladies excused themselves, and the butler brought in several bottles of brandy for the gentlemen to choose from for their refreshment. Although not inclined to drink, Thomas thought it best to imbibe a little on this occasion to make it through the evening in one piece.
The talk immediately turned to the upcoming social season and Parliament’s return to the House. None of the men present had any political clout, however, one must be aware of the current climate. Thomas noticed his father, sitting as far away from the bulk of the group as he could get, remained mostly silent. It occurred to Thomas that as badly as he wanted to be gone from this place his father must want it more. Harold Gilbert knew all the men present quite well, and they must know of his struggles. It was unlikely anyone in the county could be ignorant of their difficulties with the farms. They must not know the full extent of the problem if young misses were still being thrown in Thomas’s direction.
When the gentlemen finally rose to join the ladies, Thomas made a point to linger back in order to offer his father a smile and a bracing hand on his shoulder. “Steady, Father. The evening will be over soon.”
Harold raised his eyebrows and attempted an answering smile. “I am getting too old to be away from my own table at night. I look forward to attending fewer social engagements with you at home. Everyone will wish for the younger Mr. Gilbert. The elder might beg off.”
“If you leave me to my own devices,” Thomas said, lowering his voice that only his father might hear, “I will most certainly exact my revenge. Father or not.”
His father chuckled and his expression lightened. “I believe you. Come. Let us see how your mother and sister have fared.”
∞∞∞
Christine stood by the window, facing the room, her forehead wrinkled in thought. Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, she wondered why Miss Hannah kept shooting her disapproving looks. She could hardly guess why or how anyone might find fault in her this evening. She wore one of her newest gowns, her posture remained perfect, her hair done in the latest style, and her opinions given politely and with that air of gentleness her last governess insisted she learn to use.
Yet she fell short of a societal expectation, obviously.
Julia sat nearby, in deep conversation with Lady Littleton and Mrs. Ames, dressed not nearly so well as Christine and content to sit with the matrons of their country society. Christine did not understand her sister at times, but at the moment she dearly wished Julia could offer her some hint of what she had done wrong.
At first, Christine was certain her conversation with the vicar had been appropriate, as religion was generally thought to be an excellent topic for young ladies to consider with some depth. Besides, he was the one that brought up religion and the rights of kings, and she did her best to attempt to stimulate what was being said. Wasn’t that part of a lady’s duty at supper parties? She felt sure it was. She ought to obtain one of the guidebooks her aunt mentioned as a directive to a lady’s behavior.
She could not have been in the wrong. Hadn’t Thomas Gilbert smiled as though nothing untoward occurred? She felt certain his look was one of approval and if a man as well traveled and educated as he could smile at her conversation, she must not have committed too grave an error.
It struck her as odd that no one in the company spoke of the King’s suspected illness or its ramifications. The topics stayed the same course as always, discussing social niceties.
Why could they never speak of important things in company?
She wondered what foreigners thought of the present troubles in England. Thomas Gilbert would know, having lately come from abroad. And he would not censure her, she felt, for bringing up the subject.
She determined to find an opportunity to ask him. She did not feel at all that this would be ill-advised, as the Gilberts had been their neighbors for several generations and Thomas Gilbert had once been a frequent visitor to the Devon home. He liked to discuss horses with her mother, when he was still a school lad. Although he must be nearly ten years older than she, Christine remembered he always had a smile for her and her sisters. Though Christine supposed she saw more of him than any of them, trailing behind him and her mother around the stables.
Julia once confessed a tendre for him, before she was out of the schoolroom, but later admitted she entertained romantic notions about each of the half dozen bachelors in the area. This confession came before her Unfortunate Season, and Julia never said a word about having an interest in any gentleman since.
Christine tried again to catch her sister’s attention by moving from the window more into Julia’s line of sight. If she could gain Julia’s insight into the situation with the vicar she would have no need to approach anyone else, thus minimizing any embarrassment on her part.
Julia remained completely unaware of Christine’s attempts, so engrossed was she in her conversation with the matrons.
The gentlemen entered the room before Christine could go further in her subtle efforts.
The husbands sought out their wives, the younger married men with a lighter step than their elders; and the three single men—one widower, Mr. Gilbert, and the younger Mr. Whitman—joined the circle of young ladies.
With all the shifting of places and changes in conversation, Christine thought this would be the most opportune time to speak to Julia.
Christine sidled closer to her sister, brushing by the knot of younger people, to stand behind the settee where her sister remained. She bent down to speak in her ear. “Julia.” Her sister ignored her. “Julia?” This time she looked up, eyebrows raised. “Might I have a word with you?”
Julia blinked and put on her most polite societal smile. “Is something amiss, Christine?”
That gave Christine pause. She could not very well admit to a problem where others might hear and make assumptions. Instead she smiled. “Not at all. I merely have a question.”
Julia half-lowered her eyes, her cool demeanor not the least encouraging. “What is it, dearest?”
Dearest. Julia used that particular endearment when irritated by her younger siblings. What had Christine done to irritate her?
“I—" She hesitated, uncertain. “I merely wished to a
sk if you would be favoring us with a piece tonight?” She winced, knowing full well the question was hardly credible.
Julia’s eyes snapped up, the look in them calculating. “Of course not,” she answered. “I no longer play in public.” That being said, she suddenly rose. “Excuse me.” She crossed the room and entered into a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Brody, a smile already back upon her face.
For a long moment, Christine felt utterly bereft. Here she stood, without a soul to converse with, in the middle of the room, ignored by her own flesh and blood. A lesser woman would have fled the room in tears, or at least blushed, but Christine strengthened her resolve to be the perfect society miss. She lifted her chin, put on her most sparkling smile, and turned to enter the circle of her peers.
Christine took the measure of the others in the group and relaxed. She had known all these people since childhood. Even Thomas, though newly returned, was familiar to her. She remembered him best from the years before her mother’s death, though she had glimpses of him in the years after. Having been in the schoolroom while he moved about in the adult’s society, her acquaintance with him effectively ended with her mother’s passing. Before losing her mother, she had followed Thomas about the stables and taken books to him from her mother’s extensive collection on horses. But that was all. She wondered if he remembered those years. They were long since passed.
Miss Hannah was in the midst of a detailed description of a hat she found at their local milliner’s shop. No one could find such inane conversation interesting, could they? One of the things her first governess drilled constantly into her mind was that a lady never spoke unless she had something of great interest to say. A lady should never bore her company.
“I hardly think,” she said when Miss Hannah paused for breath, “that a hat could really consume so much attention. Surely you saw other things of interest in the village?”
Hannah went pale. The other young ladies blinked and smiled knowingly. Christine looked to the gentlemen to see Mr. Whitman looking away most awkwardly while Thomas Gilbert bit the inside of his cheeks. Yet as uncomfortable as that must be, his eyes lit with obvious amusement.
Oh dear. Had she said something rude, or amusing? She did not mean to do either, hoping to steer the conversation into more interesting waters.
Christine felt that horrid blush begin to creep up the back of her neck and spread into her cheeks. “Oh, do excuse me,” she said suddenly. “I think Julia has need of me.” She turned on abruptly and moved as quickly as she could without running to Julia’s side.
Julia gave her a curious glance but said nothing, and then continued to ignore her, while Christine stayed uncertainly in her shadow for the remainder of the evening.
Chapter Four
As the eastern sky changed from deepest blue to gray, Thomas lay wide awake, staring at his ceiling. Despite the late night of tedium, his sleep was fitful and ended far too soon. He decided he might as well rise and begin the business of the day, but not until after he took the time to enjoy a morning ride. His hunter, a beautiful mare from Italy, would enjoy the exercise and it may very well be one of his last opportunities to ride her. As his father had said, precious few options remained to their family if they wished to avoid debt to institutions or friends.
Thomas marrying for money would be out of the question. His parents would never allow the thought, having formed a love match themselves. After seeing examples of marriage with and without love throughout his life, Thomas would rather decrease his property than attach himself where there could be no true affection.
In less than half an hour, Thomas walked through the stable doors. Six stalls along the back held his most prized possessions. The mares, all beauties with better pedigrees than the nobility of England, were awake and alert as their master greeted each one by name. They were to make his future for him, to raise the status of his family’s name and holdings, and begin a horse farm he hoped would become well known throughout England. One day, throughout Europe.
Those hopes were swiftly crumbling under the realities of his family’s financial situation. It was very true that selling even half of his magnificent animals would go a long way to saving their holdings.
Thomas’s father thought they all must go, but with the right buyers Thomas could retain a few of them. His heart ached to even consider losing one, but family duty came before his personal dreams.
He prepared his mount himself, as was his preference, and was soon in the saddle. Though he did not feel up to a bracing ride, he knew his mare would benefit from the exercise. Once the animal had sufficiently winded itself, Thomas took the time to wander down familiar paths, lost in thought.
Try as he might, he could formulate no real plan to save his horses unless he found someone willing to allow him use of their stud horses on the promise of a share in the foals. Should there be any.
After a time, Thomas took the horse to one of his favorite places on their property and dismounted, allowing the animal to drink from the cool brook.
He had favored this small clearing since childhood, in part because of how secluded it felt. He rarely saw signs of others passing this way, though the groundskeeper must come through on occasion. The trees on either side of the brook opened up here, where large rocks poked bald heads up from the ground, and the brook tumbled down the incline at a steady pace. The water provided an excellent place to rest his horse after a good ride along the boundaries of his father’s land. The trees protected him from strong breezes. In the summer, the canopy of leaves above kept the area cool, a perfect retreat from the heat of the day. With winter quickly approaching, the bare branches reached up to a cold, blue sky, the familiarity of the location comforted him. He felt the tension from the last twenty-four hours easing from his shoulders.
Thomas sat on a large, smooth stone beside the water, his eyes watching it trip and spill over stones on its way south. He attempted to let his mind go over more favorable thoughts, but found everything led him back to his current predicament.
The one thing even close to distracting him was the knowledge that several local mothers were setting their caps at him on behalf of their daughters. He held very little interest in their matchmaking. While he accepted the fact that he would one day marry, as he hoped to find someone to share with him what he saw between his parents, he did not feel that now was the correct time to indulge in romance. After all, what could he offer a young lady at present except financial uncertainty?
He sighed and scooped up a small stone to toss into the water. Then he picked up a twig and broke it into smaller pieces, bit by bit tossing each one into the current.
The previous evening’s entertainment at least proved to be somewhat diverting. He did enjoy meeting the people of the neighborhood again and catching up on things, to an extent. These were the men and women he had grown up knowing, and he had an interest in their well-being.
The truly amusing moments were all provided by Miss Christine Devon. The young lady, apparently about to make her grand entrance into London society, seemed terribly ill-prepared for the venture. She interrupted conversations, contradicted gentlemen, unwittingly insulted other guests, and then slunk away to hide behind her elder sister like a puppy uncertain of what it had done to earn censure. While he could detect no malice in the girl, her education might have been lacking in certain respects.
“Oh, hello, Thomas,” a merry voice called to him, bringing him out of his thoughts abruptly. He came to his feet and looked behind him, then across the brook, to see none other than Christine Devon, sitting upon a fine chestnut gelding, emerging from the tree-lined path on her family’s side of the divide. “I had no idea you liked this spot, too.”
He was not sure what was more unsettling, that she appeared as he thought of her or that she was calling him by his Christian name and acting as though they were well acquainted.
He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders, and made a brief bow. “Miss Christine. Good morning.”
&
nbsp; “I thought I was alone in my terribly unfashionable habits, waking with the birds for a ride. My sisters, when they go, wait until midmorning.” She brought her horse very near the edge of the brook before dismounting, quite easily considering she had no assistance. The young woman, though dressed in a smart riding habit, looked as though the wind had played havoc with her hair. Her horse, he noted, was a beautiful specimen who appeared well lathered from a good exercise.
“I find morning rides are best for clearing my head,” he found himself saying, still examining the animal more than the rider. “It prepares me for the day ahead.”
“Nearly precisely my view,” she said nimbly, and he turned once more to offer her a polite smile. “It does wonders for easing tensions. I think if more ladies rode, instead of parading around parks, they might find themselves with fewer headaches.” She said it so matter-of-factly that he could not help smiling. Once again, he detected nothing in her tone but an honest opinion, untainted by malice or criticism. Yet he could think of several women who would immediately find reason to be offended by her remarks.
“Miss Christine,” he said lightly, “I believe many ladies find such exercise unseemly. And many more would prefer to have the excuse of a headache to avoid situations or people they find unpleasant.”
She blinked at him, her expression turning thoughtful. “Would they? How strange.” Suddenly her eyebrows shot up and she took a quick step toward the bank. “Thomas, I wonder if I might ask you something.”
He tried to ignore the discomfort of being addressed so familiarly and smiled politely. “Please do, Miss Christine. I am at your service.”
“Wonderful.” She glanced up and down the bank as if to ascertain that they were, most inappropriately he reminded himself, alone. “I wonder if you could tell me what you made of my actions last evening? I am afraid I am under the impression I did something quite wrong.”
He blinked at her, startled by this direct approach, and found himself nearly stuttering out his reply. “Wr-wrong? Last evening? I am afraid I cannot know what you mean.”
The Social Tutor: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 1) Page 3
