Christine shook her head and pulled her new shawl tighter about her. “I am sorry. That was stupid of me to say.” She looked to her older sister, taking in her tired eyes and drooping shoulders. “I should have stood up for you more, or at least helped you make the best of things, instead of lecture.”
“Oh, Chrissy,” Julia said softly, using a pet name long ago put aside for lace and ribbons. “I am sorry it has come time for you to see him more as I do.”
“See the reality of the situation, you mean,” Christine stated, shaking her head. “That we will never fit into the mold he made for us. Never make him proud, because we are worthless until we marry men of worth.”
“We are only as good as our connections.” Julia nodded, reaching out to squeeze Christine’s hand. “It is a hard thing to learn. I knew, after you came home from your ride the other day, that something happened. You did not say a single word about the upcoming season, or the Christmas ball, or anything that has made you excited for so long. Then I did not see you at all yesterday, and most of today.”
“So you gave me a very early Christmas present, to cheer me up.” Christine smiled, truly touched by her sister’s thoughtfulness. “You are too good, Julia.” Then, without thinking, she rested her head against the glass and whispered, “Why has no good man come to rescue you?”
Julia’s eyes widened, but then she released one quick laugh. “What a picture. I immediately imagined a knight in shining armor, riding down the garden path to save me from an ogre.”
Christine laughed as well, though it was brief. “It is a fitting picture. We do have an ogre in our midst.”
Julia shook her head, though her smile remained. “I am not all good, Christine. And there are precious few knights in the world who would come to this part of the kingdom looking for maidens to rescue.” She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Though once I thought there was a man who might make a try for it.” Julia watched her closely, Christine saw, and so she fought to control her reaction.
“Julia,” she said, nearly whispering. “You had a gentleman suitor?” Christine would much rather take her sister by the shoulders and shake her for keeping a secret of that magnitude for so long.
The way her mouth turned up in a smile made the sadness in her sister’s eyes more compelling.
“The second son of a lowly baron was what I thought I had.” Julia looked down at her hands, now clasped together in her lap. “I met him during the first week of my season. Quite by accident. Aunt Jacqueline stopped the carriage to speak to a friend of hers, and I was looking around like a girl fresh from the schoolroom, a regular country bumpkin.” Her eyes grew soft and distant with the memory. “And there he was, across the street. I looked and caught him staring at me. He tipped his hat and grinned, cheekily as you can imagine, and came to the carriage. Which isn’t done, you know. We had not been introduced. Aunt Jacqueline had not entered yet, talking to someone on the walkway. She could not have even seen him there.” Julia chuckled at the memory.
“He made a flower appear from nowhere and held it up to me. ‘Did you drop this, Miss?’ he asked, when he knew very well I did not. I said as much, as politely as I could. ‘But you must keep it,’ he said, pressing it into my hand. ‘You look as though you might give it a good home.’ As if the flower were a kitten to care for. He was so handsome, and bold as you please, and he looked at me with kindness and admiration. He tipped his hat again and he was gone.”
Christine shook her head, leaning closer, placing her hand on Julia’s arm. “Did you see him again? You must have, to form an attachment.”
“Indeed. I saw him the very next evening and he arranged for an introduction.” She looked down and sighed. “His name was Nathaniel Hastings. The second son of a minor baron.”
“Ah. No title. An ‘Honorable,’” Christine said with a little smile. “Yet you do not seem to have been disappointed in him.”
“I was not. Not at all.” Julia tilted her head back against the window, her eyes staring straight ahead at nothing. “He inquired after my calendar and turned up just about everywhere, always coming upon me with a flower, or a ribbon, or a penny. He made them appear from nowhere and gave them to me as gifts.”
She sighed and closed her eyes tightly, her cheeks turned pale. “But Father was vastly disappointed when he learned of Mr. Hastings. Aunt Jacqueline told him how much time I spent speaking with him, ignoring nearly everyone else. She said it needed to stop, if I was to have more promising suitors. I did try, Chrissy. I met every young and old man I was introduced to by our aunt, at our father’s wishes. I danced. I conversed. I attended teas and concerts and balls. But I could not find it in me to encourage them when all I did, at every event, was hope for a glimpse or a word with Mr. Hastings.”
“Did he care for you greatly?” Christine asked, her voice hushed in the quiet room.
“I thought so. But I will never know. Father told me one day that he had met with Mr. Hastings.” She shuddered at the recollection. “And he said that I would never see him again. Father said other things, too. Terrible things. I was hurt and discouraged. A part of me hoped that Nath—Mr. Hastings would ignore Father and continue to seek out my company. He came to me once more, but that meeting did not end well. Soon after, he left London. I never saw him, or heard from him, again. Now here I am, years later, a spinster.”
Christine’s heart ached for her sister, and she reached out to touch her hand, gaining her attention. “I am sorry, Julia. Why did you not tell me? I am your sister.”
“At first, it hurt too much,” Julia answered, her whispered tone matching Christine’s, as though they spoke of something sacred rather than painful. “And I wanted to try to forget. Then, you were quite firmly upset at me for making Father set your season for later and before long you were lecturing me on how to appease him.” She shrugged. “It was easier to keep it to myself. I did not want to tell you in order to hear a lecture or have my hurts dismissed. But lately, as I have watched you these last weeks, I felt like it is time for you to know. For better or worse. To better prepare for your season.”
Christine moved closer and put her arm around her elder sister, her head on her shoulder. “Please Julia, forgive me. I was terrible and unkind. I should have known better than to treat you as I did. It is only that—only that—oh, I do not know how to explain!” She shook her head against Julia’s shoulder.
“I understand,” Julia said for her, wrapping her arms around her as well, embracing her tightly. “You wanted very much to make Father proud. To be a good daughter. And you wanted your season to be as all girls dream of it being.”
“See,” Christine said with a nudge. “You are terribly good. You give my excuses better than I do.” They both laughed, and after a moment, Christine continued. “I am truly sorry. I see so much better now than I did before, and I understand. I will never make Father happy. What about you, Julia? Could I make you happy?” Her voice sounded meeker than she wished. Timid.
“I am already quite proud of you for holding on to those horses of yours all these years. Father has always wanted them to be under his control. But you’ve forever been the expert on bringing up Mother’s bequest at the right moments.” Julia nudged her shoulder back, a crooked grin in place.
Christine squirmed, ashamed that she put her horses above all else. “I wish I had protected my sisters as well as my horses.”
“Unfortunately,” Julia said with an eye roll. “One cannot bequeath their daughters to others while their father is alive. I belong to Father so long as I am unmarried. As do you. If we protected each other from his terrible censorship he likely would find another way to ensure we stayed in line.”
“Indeed,” Christine said, shaking her head. “He is terribly manipulative.”
“As are you, sister,” Julia reminded her teasingly. “You find the strangest ways to turn one’s own words against them. You have won many a sisterly argument that way.” She shook a finger at Christine. “It is most unf
air.” She rose and stood with a stretch, putting on a more cheerful countenance.
“Now. I have sorely neglected you as you prepare for your season. I was nursing my hurt a little too much. It is past time to take you in hand and teach you some things every girl should know before going to London.”
Christine’s cheeks, she well knew, immediately turned bright red, causing Julia to laugh.
“Oh, it is not as terrible as that,” Julia said, still laughing.
“It isn’t terrible,” Christine squeaked. “That is—I mean—it really isn’t necessary.”
Julia’s eyes narrowed. “What isn’t necessary?”
“Lessons.”
Julia still looked perplexed. “Lessons?”
“On flirting and social behavior,” Christine said quickly.
Her sister’s eyes widened. “Who said anything about that? I was going to discuss the cafes and libraries!”
Immediately feeling like an imbecile, Christine nodded violently. “Yes. Cafes. Libraries. Go on?”
Julia’s eyes narrowed again. “Christine. You are terrible at keeping secrets. Why did you think I wished to discuss flirting? That is supposed to come naturally. And why in heavens—if you thought I was—would you say it isn’t necessary? Dear me! Have you been reading more scandalous novels than Rebecca?” she asked, looking oddly pleased at the notion.
“No! Me? Absolutely not.” But her cheeks reddened further. “But since you told me your secret, maybe it is time I tell you mine?” She said it like a question to which Julia promptly nodded her answer. “Oh, dear. Julia. First promise you will not laugh at me or tell anyone else.”
After giving her most solemn oath in agreement with both these stipulations, Julia sat back down on the window seat and Christine shared her story, haltingly at first, but finally spilling each and every detail to her elder sister, including the terrible lesson on recognizing a rake. Julia bit her lip to keep from laughing at points in the telling, and at others, she appeared downright shocked, and in the end she shook her head in wonder.
“By far, this is the strangest situation I have ever heard of,” she said at last. “Dear me. And I think you have not even realized the worst part yet.”
Christine blinked and frowned. “The worst part is having to admit to needing such lessons.”
“No, Chrissy, darling,” Julia said with a consoling pat on the hand. “The worst part is that you seem to have fallen in love with Mr. Gilbert.”
Christine felt sudden warmth rush through her. “In love? Absolutely not. What an incredible thing to say. We are friends.”
Julia shook her head once, then sighed. “I hope so or else you and I will have a great deal in common very soon.”
Christine forced aside the concern Julia’s words caused and insisted to her sister, and to herself, that she could not be in love with Thomas Gilbert.
In the end, she could not tell who remained less convinced: Julia or herself.
Chapter Seventeen
Thomas waited for her arrival, this time on Christine’s side of the brook, his breath turning to fog in the cold air. He smoothed a blanket over his horse, trying to distract himself from what went on in his mind. His thoughts had not been far from Christine since their last meeting, when she questioned him on his ideal woman. Although a strange conversation to have at first, he felt comfortable confiding in her. He could not help but wonder, if Christine did not have such fantastic social ambitions, if they might not be something more than friends.
Today he had a different sort of lesson in mind. One which he felt would be of benefit to Christine, though he had other motives for suggesting it. When she arrived, he would propose that they dance.
Thomas knew this lesson could undo him. Impropriety notwithstanding, he greatly desired to dance with her, to see what it would be like. This could be his opportunity to glide with her, to hold her close in a way acceptable to society, to test his heart and see if what he felt for Christine was what he suspected.
It would be best to try, just this once, in order to determine why the very idea of taking her hand in his caused him both misery and joy. Perhaps this was folly, as he knew Christine could never be his.
Her father demanded she marry for wealth and status, and now he stipulated that she marry within the confines of a preposterous list.
Even given the financial straits his family faced, Thomas could not imagine his father forcing any child of his into an unwanted union. Such heartless behavior could never be attributed to one who loved their family.
When Christine arrived, her usual bright grin in place, it did much to reassure him. After their last interaction, Thomas’s uncertainty as to how they would greet one another caused him concern.
Dismounting with her usual ease, she tethered her horse to an obliging bush. Christine adjusted her riding cap, and after she tucked a stray dark curl behind her ear, she turned to him and raised both arms in a shrug. “What shall it be today, Mr. Gilbert?”
The formal use of his name made him smile. “Thomas will do. Or Tom. If you like.” They moved beyond that formality with their last meeting, after all. Crying into someone’s shoulder, sharing their deepest hopes, left little room for conventionalism.
“I do,” she answered, her eyes fairly twinkling. Her cheerful character, her accepting nature, would earn her nothing but scorn in society for showing so much emotion in one expression. Yet he did not correct her, returning the grin. “Would you call me Christine?”
“It would be an honor.” He bowed, most formally, earning a laugh which lightened his heart.
Relax, he told himself sternly.
She had recovered from her father’s unkindness and so too should he. “I thought today we would practice dancing.”
“Dancing?” Her eyebrows came together and the smile became crooked. “I’ve had a dancing instructor, Tom.”
Her use of his family’s nickname made him feel more like teasing. “I know old Mr. Crowley taught you as he did half the people in our hamlet. But did he teach you how to use a dance to build interest in a potential suitor? To make them curious? To leave them wanting more with the touch of a hand?” He raised his eyebrows at her skeptical look. “You doubt me? Come. We will begin with a simple step.”
“There is no music!” she countered, gesturing around to the tree-lined clearing.
“You shall have to hum while I instruct,” he countered, brooking no argument. “Come. The gentleman asks for you to dance and you gracefully accept.” He bowed. “Would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next set, Miss Christine?”
She sighed and swept up her riding habit as she would a gown. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Gilbert.” Her curtsy was perfect, though her eyebrows remained most skeptically raised.
He took her gloved hand in his and led her a few steps into the middle of the cleared ground. “Music, please.” She dutifully began to hum as he made his bow and she her curtsy. They came together, clasping hands briefly before releasing each other and stepping to the side.
He spoke, she hummed.
“As you dance with your gentleman of choice, you can let him know much of your thoughts by your expression alone. If you are bold, you maintain eye contact as often as possible. I do not entirely recommend that unless you are already assured of his interest in you. Boldness can scare gentlemen away. It would be far more to your advantage to make eye contact briefly, smile slightly, then look down and away.”
“Why not up and away?” she questioned most studiously, then went right back to humming.
“Try it. Both ways. See which you think communicates being coy.”
She shook her head at him, but continued her humming. They stepped towards each other, with the briefest of hand clasps, then she looked up and away. “Oh. It seems dismissive. I think.”
“Indeed.” She stepped in again, then around him as the figure they had chosen demanded, then up at him and down and away. “See? You are being shy, or charming and uncertain, inst
ead of dismissive. That is my perception.”
“The details you come up with astonish me,” she said, shaking her head in wonder.
“All from observation of what works and what does not when ladies attempt to flirt,” he said with a shrug, never missing a step. “Now. That is the look. Let us go on with the hand clasp. When next we hold hands, pay attention.”
They passed each other again, his hand taking hers for a brief promenade. Instead of holding onto the tips of her fingers, as was the usual manner, he held more of her hand and offered the gentlest of squeezes before they let go.
“What does that communicate to you?” he asked, smiling over his shoulder as they stepped away, meeting with invisible partners before coming to the center again.
“Affection,” she remarked. “But is it right for me to do the same? Or would it be too bold?”
“I would not risk it more than once in a dance,” he answered evenly, smiling at her dutiful commentary. “After a particularly kind smile shared or witty remark made, I believe you could well use such a simple movement to communicate pleasure in the dance and the company. Try it.”
She did, and he nodded, ignoring the way his heart stuttered in his chest. “Your conversation during a dance need not be too witty, so long as you offer those shy glances, the slight encouragement of a hand clasp, and a very small smile. Too much smiling and your partner will not be able to tell whether you are laughing at him or enjoying yourself.”
“Do ladies not smile much in public?” she asked, blinking up at him in surprise. “Oh, dear. I thought it was my sour old governess who did not appreciate pleasant expressions. She was forever telling me to keep a more serious countenance.”
He chuckled. “I am afraid it is more than your sour old governess.” He offered another gentle squeeze of her hand and she smiled softly up at him. He forced a return of the expression, his heart turning over. “Yes, like that.”
The Social Tutor: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 1) Page 15
