The Spinster's Beau

by Caylen McQueen

  “Miss Dawson!” He was overpowered by the baritone of Mr. Turnbull. “I was beginning to think I wouldn't see you this evening.”

  “I have been here for some time, Mr. Turnbull.”

  “Well, you look very fine! Very fine indeed!” Her handsome suitors—excluding Mr. Cockburn—exchanged irritated glances with one another. “I hope you have reserved a dance for me?”

  As two other suitors descended on Miss Dawson, Robin was pushed to the side. It wasn't that he was small in stature—Robin was as tall and broad as any man—nevertheless, his body seemed to shrink when they arrived.

  He could hear his sister's voice echoing in his mind. You should be bold and assertive. If there are other men lurking about, she will be drawn to the one who is the most self-assured.

  How could he, as shy as he was, ever find the courage to be bold and assertive?

  “It's impressive, is it not?”

  When he heard Miss Weaver's voice, his body jolted with alarm. “W-what is impressive?”

  “My niece's ability to draw men to her,” Emily continued. “I knew she was well-liked, but I suppose I didn't realize the extent of it.”

  “I haven't a hope, have I?”

  “Oh... I wouldn't say that, Mr. Cockburn.” Was it wrong to give him false hope? After all, she knew her niece's opinion of him was less than favorable. “You are exceedingly polite.”

  “No woman has fallen for a man because of his politeness, Miss Weaver. My sister said I needed to be more aggressive.”

  “And I'm inclined to disagree. In my experience, the aggressive ones are often the least genteel.”

  When Lord Berwick led Harriet away for her first dance of the evening, Robin expelled an audible sigh. Now that he had no one to impress, he removed his spectacles from his pocket and returned them to their rightful place. On his nose.

  “I must confess,” Miss Weaver continued, “I am happy to see her so well-loved. Honestly, she deserves no less.”

  “Your niece must be very dear to you.”

  “Very much so. You would think the gap between our ages would be too vast for a bond such as ours... but no. We are like sisters, Harriet and I.”

  “Is the gap really so vast?” Robin asked, “Honestly, I wouldn't have surmised such a difference. You appear to be the same age.”

  “I look twenty? Truly?” Emily chuckled at the thought. “You are too much of a gentleman to utter the truth, Mr. Cockburn, and I thank you for it. As it happens, I am three and thirty.”

  “You aren't so old, Miss Weaver.”

  “Not so old, but old nonetheless.” The statement made her chuckle again. “Children are strange, Mr. Cockburn. It happens right under your nose... time passes... you don't even realize it.” She saw the look of confusion on his face, so she explained, “You raise them, you nurture them, and with any luck, they become your dearest friends.”

  “If Miss Dawson is your dearest friend... please. Tell me honestly.” Robin turned his gaze to the floor, where his slightly scuffed boots stood out against the polished marble floor. “She could never come to admire someone like me.”

  “I would much rather she admire you than someone like... Lord Berwick.” Emily lowered her voice as she uttered the other man's name. At the moment, Lord Berwick and her niece were engaged in a dance. The handsome viscount flashed a dimpled smile at Harriet as they pranced around the dance floor. “What sort of man wears yellow? He looks like an overgrown canary.”

  Miss Weaver's assessment of his competition made him smirk. “He is a bit dandified, at present,” Robin agreed. “He's very nicely coiffed.”

  “Ah, but you should be wary of a man who is too nicely coiffed! It is very likely he will care more about his hair than you.”

  “If he is an oversized canary, I am an oversized robin.”

  “How so, Mr. Cockburn? Do you conceal a shocking red breast beneath your waistcoat?”

  “No!” he laughed. “I was referring to my Christian name. Robin.”

  “I see. Robin Cockburn. It's a bit like Robin Hood, isn't it? A very heroic name, if I may say so.”

  “I am far from heroic,” Robin objected. “The man she's with now... Lord Berwick... he's a much more dashing, heroic figure than I am.”

  A moment later, Harriet traded Lord Berwick for Mr. Turnbull, who joined her for a quadrille.

  “Mr. Turnbull as well,” Robin went on. “He's yet another man with whom I could never hope to compete.”

  “Mr. Turnbull is supposed to be the handsomest man here... or so I've heard.” Emily didn't tell him it was her niece's own opinion she was citing. “I must have a strange idea of what is handsome, because I strongly disagree. Do you see his overhanging forehead? I suspect he might be more ape than man.” When she saw Mr. Cockburn's eyes swell, she added, “Oh dear. You must think my forthrightness is very uncouth!”

  “On the contrary, I find you very amusing.”

  “I have always been a bit too abrasive. I have never been successful at minding my tongue or guarding my words.”

  “If anything, your attempt to bolster my spirits is a kindness.” For the first time, he turned his eyes away from Miss Dawson and settled his gaze on Miss Weaver. She was actually quite pretty, in a plain sort of way. Her deep black hair was in a tight bun, but it was a very striking color. A very exotic color. Her skin was milky white, starkly contrasting her dark hair. The faint lines around her amber eyes were charming, if anything. They were sparkling eyes, full of wit and wisdom.

  “Miss Weaver,” he said aloud. He meant to say it to himself.

  “Hmm?”

  “It... it's nothing.”

  “Are you sure?” Her lips were tilted in a half-smirk when she turned in his direction. “If you meant to malign one of my niece's other suitors, I promise I would not judge you for it.”

  “No. I meant to say nothing of the sort.”

  Miss. Miss Weaver. Emily Weaver was unmarried. She was kind and pretty and charming, and her eyes danced with amusement and mischief. Why did he not see it straightaway?

  She was exactly the sort of woman he needed.

  “Oh dear...” Emily pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “The dance has ended, but Mr. Turnbull has yet to return my niece to me. If he was a gentleman, he would not keep her at his side so very long. I should collect her before he subjects her to anything untoward.” Emily bobbed a curtsy and smiled at Robin. “It has been a pleasure, Mr. Cockburn.”

  “A... pleasure...” he repeated the words softly. At present, he was too awestricken by his revelation to manage a proper response. As he watched her go, he felt a peculiar tugging sensation in his heart.

  Miss Weaver. Emily Weaver. She was a special breed of woman.

  And he was going to woo her.

  Chapter Three

  “Can you think of a word that rhymes with beauty?” Harriet asked her aunt. She was reclining on a sofa beside the bay window. A halo of light cast a soft glow against her fiery hair, making her look like an angel—or, perhaps, a harpy.

  Emily glanced up from her needlepoint. “Why do you require rhyming words? Are you writing a poem?”

  “Indeed I am! I am writing a poem for Mr. Turnbull,” Harriet explained. “He'll never see it, of course. No one will see it... apart from you, assuming you show an interest.”

  “Of course I would be interested! Now... what did you ask for? A word that rhymes with beauty?” Emily sat back in her chair and gave her chin a thoughtful tap. “Duty, perhaps?”

  “I cannot think of a line in which the word duty would be appropriate,” her niece sighed. “Can you think of something else? If not, I will have to rephrase the previous line, and I would not want do to that.”

  “I suppose... f... fruity?”

  Her niece flashed her an incredulous look. “And how could I possibly incorporate that word in my poem?”

  “I haven't the slightest idea. You're the writer. I am sure you will think of something.”

  A moment later, Harriet
's writing session was interrupted by the butler, who staunchly announced the arrival of Mr. Robin Cockburn. The news had Harriet throwing up her arms in defeat.

  “Mr. Cockburn?! Why not Mr. Turnbull? Or... or Lord Berwick?!” Her tiny nose was puckered with disgust. “We saw him yesterday! Why must he call on me so soon?”

  “I feel you're being too harsh with poor Mr. Cockburn. He seems like a very pleasant young man.”

  “Pleasant... and dull.”

  “He has very beautiful blue eyes,” Emily countered, “which were only enhanced when he donned his spectacles.”

  “Of course you would see the good in everyone, Em. You're such an optimist, it almost makes me feel guilty!” Harriet closed her diary and crossed her arms over her chest. “Will you tell him I am busy? No, tell him I am ill. Or... or tired! Invent some excuse, but make it sound plausible. I would not want him to think I am being rude.”

  “But you are being rude,” Emily whispered to herself as her niece fled from the sitting room. “Truly, this is the height of rudeness!”

  A maid brought tea and biscuits, and shortly thereafter, Robin Cockburn arrived. He swept his beaver hat—which was slightly dusty—from his head as he entered the sitting room.

  “Good day, Mr. Cockburn,” Emily greeted him.

  “Good day, Miss Weaver.”

  “I suppose I should offer you an apology.”

  “An apology? What for?” As he sank into the chair across from her, he looked rigid and uncomfortable. Was he nervous?

  “Well...” As she hesitated, Emily leaned forward to pour herself a cup of tea. What exactly was she supposed to say on Harriet's behalf? “I am very sorry, but my niece cannot join us. She is... indisposed.”

  “Oh. I see. She isn't unwell, I hope?”

  “N-no. Not exactly. She... she is...” Think of something, Emily. Conjure some idea that will salvage your niece's decency. “She has been suffering from some... exhaustion.” Emily brought her teacup to her lips and prayed the conversation would cease. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Cockburn?”

  He shook his head. “Actually, Miss Weaver, I wanted to... to speak to... you.” He simultaneously cleared his throat and turned his gaze to the ceiling.

  What was it about this peculiar teatime that made him so uncomfortable? “You may speak to me on whatever matter you would like.” However, she hoped he would not inquire about Harriet's opinion of him. As honest as she was, Emily did not know if she had the willpower to tell another blatant lie.

  “Miss Weaver, I...” He combed a hand through his dense blonde hair and took a breath. “I did not come today to see your niece. I was hoping to... to call on you.”

  “Oh!” She nearly dropped her teacup. “Are you certain about that?”

  “Absolutely certain,” Robin assured her. “Ever since we spoke, you have been at the forefront of my thoughts.”

  “I... see.” Emily set her teacup aside and reached for a biscuit, though she did not consume it.

  “I brought something for you.” He dipped a hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and extracted a single flower. When he held it out to her, he realized it was slightly wilted. “Oh dear...”

  “Did you bring a flower for me?” Despite the flower's shabby state, she accepted it with a smile. “How very thoughtful of you, Mr. Cockburn.”

  “My apologies, Miss Weaver. It was not quite so wilted when I plucked it. I am sure my sister would chide me for offering you such a gift... although it was her idea to bring it.”

  “A sister. I believe you've mentioned a sister before?”

  “Anne is very young, but she claims to know what's best for me.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Eleven.” He shifted in his chair before continuing. “Our parents died when she was still very young. I am like a father to her... or, if you were speaking to her, I am sure she would say she is like my mother. She tends to be imperious and precocious.”

  “She sounds very amusing. And... I am so very sorry to hear about your parents.” Emily held the flower toward the light. “As for your gift, I am sure a wilted flower suits me perfectly. Like the flower, I am old and wilted.”

  “Hardly!” His protest was so adamant, he made her jolt with alarm. “Th-that is to say... you are actually the finest blossom.”

  “Mm.” She forced her lips into a tight smile. What could she possibly say to that? Robin Cockburn was yet a boy. Surely he was not serious about his romantic pursuit of a spinster? And if he was serious, what could they possibly have in common?

  “I'm not so young, really,” Robin said, as if he was reading her mind. “I am four and twenty.”

  “As for my age, I believe I have already owned to it.”

  “And it matters not.”

  “I am...” Her tight smile turned into a genuine one, “thirteen and twenty.”

  Robin chuckled at her witticism. “I suppose that is one way to look at it.”

  “And when I am forty, I will say I am twenty and twenty,” she said. “If anything, it sounds impressive. And it sounds much less oppressive than forty.”

  Another moment of awkward silence descended on the room. Emily's smile disappeared, replaced a crease on her brow. She wondered if he was toying with her. He didn't seem like the sort of man to play with hearts, but it wasn't as if she knew him well.

  As the silence continued to reign, Emily finally sampled her biscuit, and Robin focused on his fidgeting hands. At the moment, his hands were perspiring so profusely, he wondered if he would ever be able to remove his gloves. They felt as if they had been grafted to his hands.

  “So...” It was Robin who attempted to resuscitate the conversation. “What do you enjoy? For example, do you like to ride?”

  “I do. And you?”

  “Very much so. I adore horses. I adore all animals, as it were. Especially cats.”

  “I suppose I am more of a dog lover. They're much more placid.”

  “Indeed they are.”

  Emily focused on the ticking of a grandfather clock. For the next minute or two, it was the only sound in the room. What on earth was she supposed to say to a misguided youth who had mistakenly set his cap on her?

  “Mr. Cockburn, it was a pleasure to see you, and... thank you for the flower.”

  When he saw her rise from her chair, he immediately sprang to his feet. “Are you leaving?”

  “I... yes. I should check on Harriet.”

  “I'm terribly sorry to hear she is unwell. Give her my regards.” Robin watched her face, waiting for a sign. He wondered why it was so difficult for him to read the expressions of others. “May I call on you again, Miss Weaver?”

  Oh dear. Was his time really so worthless that he would squander it on a spinster? “I suppose. But... be sure to come when both Harriet and I are able to receive you.” Emily bobbed a curtsy and fled from the sitting room in such a hurry, she had to wonder if she, like her niece, was being rude to Mr. Cockburn.

  Emily marched to her niece's bedchamber and found her reclining on her bed. When Harriet saw her aunt in the doorway, she didn't bother to sit up.

  “Is he gone?” Harriet asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You have my gratitude, Em. You've saved me from what could have been a potentially miserable afternoon.” She twirled a lock of red hair around her finger as she spoke. “If you're curious, I ended up rhyming beauty with as he. I am not entirely satisfied, but I am afraid it will have to suffice.”

  “It sounds sufficient.”

  “You have such a far-off look in your eye,” Harriet observed. “Wait, I know that look!” She sat up in bed and thrust an accusatory finger at her aunt. “Do you like Mr. Cockburn?”

  “I like him well enough. He's very kind and--”

  “No. You like him!” Harriet insisted. “I should have seen it! After all, you were always so quick to defend him!”

  “I think you've been reading too many fanciful stories, dear.” Emily was shaking her head as she backed out
of the doorway. “I couldn't possibly like him. Not in the way you're suggesting.”

  And it was true. It wasn't as if she enjoyed being a spinster, but she couldn't possibly allow herself to care for Robin Cockburn. No matter how much she liked him, she refused to be courted by a man who was closer to her niece's age.

  Chapter Four

  Two days later, an unexpected announcement had Harriet groaning yet again.

  “Mr. Cockburn has arrived and is waiting in the foyer.”

  “Mr. Cockburn? Again? Why is it always Mr. Cockburn?!” she whimpered the words to the ceiling. “Why is it never Mr. Turnbull? Or Mr. Chapman?”

  “Mr. Chapman?” Upon hearing the unfamiliar name, Emily's eyebrow raised. “I believe that is a new one.”

  “Why are you surprised, Em? There are many gentlemen I admire... and Mr. Cockburn isn't among them.”

  Emily rose from her chair and joined the butler at the door. “You needn't worry about entertaining him, Harriet, for I believe Mr. Cockburn is here to see... me.”

  “You?! Why on earth would he be here to see you?” Harriet's entire disposition changed when she heard her aunt's supposition. She couldn't accept the idea that one of her suitors would invest his attentions elsewhere. “I suppose it would not hurt to speak to him. I cannot abandon him every time he comes.”

  “Then we will greet him together. Come.” Emily offered an arm to her niece, which the younger girl accepted with a smile.

  When Robin saw them arrive, a compliment hovered on the tip of his tongue. So I am to be joined by two beauties today. He couldn't bring himself to say it, not when his self-confidence suffered so.

  “Good day, Mr. Cockburn!” Harriet greeted him so cheerfully, one would have no idea what her true feelings were. “I am sorry I was unable to meet you the last time you were here. I wasn't feeling quite the thing.”

  “So I heard. You are feeling better today, I hope?”

  “Quite a bit better, yes.”

  “Would you be well enough to join me for a walk? I spied your garden from the window, and it looks perfect for a stroll.”