by Deborah Hale
“Very well, then, if you will not tell us—” she grasped Pru’s arm “—shall we join Lord Chiselton at the table?”
“Must we?” Jamie wrinkled his nose. “I never cared much for him when we were children, and he hasn’t improved with age.”
“Tsk.” Pru’s disapproving cluck did not match the merriment in her eyes.
“Now, Jamie.” Elizabeth tapped his arm with her fan. What flaw did her brother and cousin see in Lord Chiselton that she could not? But they were nearing the table, so she could not ask. “Mr. Lindsey, you have not yet told us the cause of your laughter.”
“Oh, that.” He pulled out a chair for her. “We discovered mutual interests in both horse racing and dogs. We were trying to outdo each other with stories of their antics.”
“I see.” She sat down and looked over her shoulder into his twinkling blue eyes. “Well then, because I know all of Jamie’s stories, you must tell us yours.”
“Ah, hounds,” Lord Chiselton said. “A subject near to my heart.” Seated at the head of the table, he appeared to have once again assumed the duties of a host. Never mind that Elizabeth’s mother had arranged this entire meal and sent her own servants out to serve it. For a moment, his presumption nettled her, but she brushed the sting away. As a peer, no doubt he was accustomed to taking charge. There was nothing wrong with that.
While the viscount launched into a saga of ears and tails, Elizabeth studied Mr. Lindsey, who sat across from her. He listened to Lord Chiselton, and occasionally his eyes flickered with interest. At other times they reflected boredom. But the viscount prattled on, apparently oblivious to his audience’s response. Despite his loquacity, he did manage to clean his plate.
In the brief intervals between the viscount’s discourses, Mr. Lindsey spoke quietly to Pru on his right and Mr. Redding on his left, each of whom responded with interest. Of course Di cut him completely, refusing to answer when Mr. Lindsey spoke to her. Elizabeth chided her cousin with a cross look, but Di lifted her nose and sniffed in her arrogant way. Yet Mr. Lindsey simply breathed out a quiet sigh and resumed his gracious discourse with Pru.
Yet even as she scolded herself for making comparisons between the gentleman and the viscount, she was forced to admit that Chiselton was the less pleasant companion. But still a peer, she reminded herself.
And I shall marry a peer.
Chapter Eight
Standing in the corner of Captain Moberly’s library, Philip perused the shelves hoping to find a book to hold his interest until supper. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the west windows, making the titles on the book spines clearly visible and providing adequate light for reading, at least for a while.
The smell of leather and tobacco and old books reminded Philip of his own library, which his father had stocked with every essential work of literature, sparing no expense. From these two walls of books, Philip surmised that Captain Moberly possessed a similar interest in the world of knowledge. He ran his fingers over the titles, as if that would help him make his choice.
Shakespeare always provided an insightful diversion, but he felt the need for something more spiritual in nature. Perhaps Milton could help rid his mind of the afternoon’s outing and fill it with interesting information to discuss, should the need arise. Although he couldn’t count himself a desired guest, he’d been invited to stay and would offer his share of conversation to help make the evening pass pleasantly. More pleasantly than the day, he hoped.
He’d enjoyed riding with Jamie and the two young ladies, especially Miss Elizabeth, until they’d encountered that other party connected to this vast Moberly family. While Redding possessed an amiable and courteous disposition, both Lady Diana and her cousin the viscount hadn’t missed an opportunity to demonstrate their scorn for Philip. Lady Diana had cut him directly, acting as if he weren’t present, while Chiselton had kept trying to engage him in a boasting competition, never mind the topic. Dogs, horses, imports, America, even the weather, all were thrown down like gauntlets. Philip’s minimal experience with Society made him wonder if this sort of conversation was normal. If so, he hoped never to mingle with such people. Yet the day might come when he had no choice.
Milton’s Paradise Lost didn’t prove to be the hoped for distraction. Satan’s complaints against the Almighty sounded much like Whitson’s sniveling attempt this morning to justify his breach of contract. Philip shoved the heavy volume back onto the shelf and pulled out the most recent edition of The Gentleman’s Magazine. He’d not read his own copy yet and wondered what news he would find.
As he expected, along with the usual domestic news, the magazine contained articles regarding the ongoing fears of invasion by France and news that the Prince Regent was facing a clash with the United States. Although Philip disliked the conflicts, he couldn’t criticize their causes. Was not every quarrel about money and power? In fact, his very reason for being in Hampshire was to demand material satisfaction from Whitson. Sometimes a country—or a man—had to exact justice, whether for his family or for property, even if it required force to compel another party to do what was right.
His chest burning with renewed anger over Whitson’s betrayal of dear Lucy, Philip returned the quarterly to its place. He must settle his emotions before attempting any social interaction with his hosts.
He found Johnson’s Dictionary and moved a wing chair to face the shelves at an angle so sunlight could illuminate the pages. This was as good a time as any to increase his vocabulary, for he performed poorly at parlor games involving riddles. If his hosts preferred games over conversation, he’d have difficulty keeping up.
Lost in his studies, he barely noticed the click of the library door. But the subsequent girlish laughter thoroughly startled him.
“Sh. Shut the door.”
Miss Elizabeth’s voice? He couldn’t be certain, for the lady spoke in a whisper.
“Now you must tell me everything.” This time, Miss Prudence spoke. “What did Lord Chiselton say to you?”
Philip was highly curious to know what the viscount said to Miss Elizabeth, but honor demanded he must not eavesdrop. He stood quickly, dumping Johnson on the floor with a thump, and turned to face them. “Good evening, ladies.”
Both gasped, then eyed each other with mischievous glances and pressed hands to lips, apparently struggling to cover their laughter. Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed pink, and her dimple made an appearance, enhancing her beauty.
Philip felt a jolt beneath his ribs, a strangely pleasant sensation becoming all too familiar in this lady’s company. He struggled to suppress it. Until the matter of Lucy’s dowry was settled, he had no business looking to his own marriage prospects. No matter how beautifully Miss Elizabeth smiled.
“Why, Mr. Lindsey, what a surprise.” With much difficulty, Elizabeth swallowed her silliness and offered Mr. Lindsey a pleasant and, she hoped, mature smile. How dreadful if he thought her a mindless chit given to giggles and gossip. But why should she care about his opinion?
“Yes.” He picked up the large book he’d dropped a moment ago and placed it on a shelf. “Captain Moberly granted his permission for me to use his excellent library.”
Another laugh escaped Elizabeth. “And you chose to read a dictionary?”
“Yes.” He made his way around the chair. “A man should never cease seeking knowledge.” No apology or embarrassment colored his tone. Interesting.
“No, he should not.” Unless he believes he already knows everything. Elizabeth could not imagine Lord Chiselton reading a dictionary.
He stared at her for a moment, then moved toward the door. “If you ladies will excuse me—”
“You needn’t leave,” Pru said. “We can sit and chat until supper is announced.” She waved toward the grouping of upholstered chairs by the windows.
“Or—” Elizabeth sent her cousin a quick frown “—we can join the others in the drawing room.”
“Or—” One of Mr. Lindsey’s eyebrows quirked in a mischievous e
xpression. “I can join the others in the drawing room, and you ladies can finish your discussion of Lord Chiselton.” He grimaced. “Forgive me. That was unnecessary.”
Elizabeth bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing. She did not dare look at Pru. “There is nothing to forgive, sir. Please, let us all go. I am certain Mama and Papa will wish for our company.” She felt a mad impulse to tell him what the viscount had said, but that would be unkind. Best to tell Pru later when they went to bed.
They exited the room, descended the wide front staircase, and made their way to the drawing room. Everyone was there, even the children and their governess. A mild sense of foreboding struck Elizabeth. Surely her family would not engage in their usual antics in front of this stranger. But there was no turning back.
“Ah, there you are.” Seated on the blue settee, Mama directed them to their chairs. “Now we can begin. We are about to be entertained by the children.”
Elizabeth glanced quickly at Mr. Lindsey, expecting to see boredom. After all, it was not the custom of most families to put forth their children in this fashion. But just as it had this morning when he first arrived at Devon Hall, the gentleman’s expression softened as he looked at the little ones.
“Quiet now.” Seated in his favorite chair, Papa presented a regal picture, with his handsome, noble visage and full head of graying hair. He gazed fondly at the little troupe of performers. “Helena, you may begin.”
Elizabeth’s six-year-old niece sat at the pianoforte and laboriously plunked out a Mozart tune, or a vague semblance thereof. When she finished, the adults applauded and voiced their praise. Again Elizabeth noted Mr. Lindsey’s generosity, for he clapped his hands along with the others.
“Very fine, my dear,” Papa said. “Now, what else do we have?”
The five-year-old twins, Lewis and Guy, stepped forward into the center of the room wearing ragged robes from the attic’s costume chest. Guy slumped down on the floor with one leg bent to the side and put on his best pitiable expression. Eleven-year-old Frances, strangely self-conscious, blushed as she stood up with her Bible.
“We will now present a play from Acts 3, verses one through eleven.” She proceeded to read about the disciples Peter and John praying at the temple in Jerusalem for a lame man. Now in costume, Helena played John, and Lewis made an impressive Peter. Guy, always the most dramatic, put on a performance as the cripple that no doubt would have pleased William Shakespeare.
Elizabeth and her brothers and sisters had presented this story to their close relatives several times, but she never failed to get chills up her back when “Peter” extended his hand to the “lame man,” who leapt to his feet, danced around and cried, “Praise God!”
Again the adults applauded with much enthusiasm, and Elizabeth saw a look of wonder on Mr. Lindsey’s face. More of a glow, actually, as if he had seen the actual miracle instead of a simple portrayal by children. A strange and agreeable sentiment filled her chest at the sight. Like Papa, this gentleman was a man of true faith, a rarity among their acquaintances. A rarity among all the men she had ever met.
But she could not decide whether this was a reason to become better acquainted with him or to avoid him altogether.
Chapter Nine
For his early morning Scripture reading, Philip found the familiar passage in Acts that the children had re-created the night before. Once again, wonder welled up inside him over this remarkable family. Teaching the little ones to perform Bible stories was an extraordinary way to ingrain Scripture into their mental and moral constitutions. So much better than requiring that they endure the droning sermon of a vicar or curate, whose words must be incomprehensible to their young ears. Philip would remember this experience when…if the Lord blessed him with offspring.
At the end of his reading, he prayed for the Moberly household, Miss Elizabeth in particular. Last evening, she had appeared as moved as he by the children’s performance, but he had no opportunity to speak to her about it. As he’d noticed yesterday over breakfast, she seemed to be struggling with some concern. But after yesterday’s outing at the ruins, he realized it wasn’t his place to offer assistance when so many caring family members surrounded her.
In his prayers for his own family, he asked that dear Lucy might recover quickly from Whitson’s treachery and that Bennington’s solicitors would arrive from London hastily to set matters to right. The sooner this travesty was behind them, the better.
Just as Philip closed his Bible, Captain Moberly’s valet, Hinton, arrived with shaving supplies. He brought with him the suit Philip had worn on the ride from Gloucestershire, having refreshed the garments with whatever mysterious method valets employed. Grateful for the assistance, Philip felt like a new man when he went downstairs to the morning room for breakfast, where he met young Moberly.
“Going down to Southampton.” Jamie waved a small bun covered with strawberry jam. “Want to ride along?”
“I thank you, sir.” Philip gave the idea a moment’s consideration, but another day of riding held no appeal. “Permit me to beg off today, and I’ll go with you next time.”
“Very good.” Jamie slapped Philip’s shoulder in a brotherly manner and trotted away.
Philip followed the aroma of sausages to the buffet. A footman, the room’s sole inhabitant, informed him that the ladies were still sleeping and Captain Moberly was taking his morning tour about the manor grounds.
Now that was a ride Philip wouldn’t have minded. He often wondered how other landowners inspected their properties. Father’s untimely death six years ago, when Philip was only seventeen, had left several matters unsettled, several responsibilities untaught. Although his loyal steward had done his best, Philip always sensed some important gaps in his education. Perhaps, if invited, he could join the captain another day.
He helped himself to a plateful, once again grateful for the hospitality Moberly had bestowed on him. The fare at any inn couldn’t compare to the offerings of a devoted family cook. And the backache he’d developed from tavern mattresses during his journey disappeared after one night in the Moberly guest room’s feather bed.
The footman offered both coffee and tea. With a bit of guilt, Philip chose the more expensive tea. He must find a way to repay his host for the expenditure required to keep a guest. Perhaps his steward could advise him on an appropriate gift to send after everything was settled here.
After finishing his breakfast, Philip nodded his appreciation to the footman. “Can you tell me, my good man, where I might occupy myself without disturbing the family?”
The servant must have anticipated his question, for he didn’t hesitate. “The conservatory, sir. Captain Moberly has a tropical garden that produces year ’round.”
“Ah, very good.” Philip took directions from the man and quietly maneuvered his way through the house to the large glassed-in room attached to the rear. He’d noticed it yesterday and wondered what might be growing there. His own hothouse produced a small selection of fruit and herbs, but he’d like to increase its variety and yield.
When he opened the glass door, a warm blast of air swept over him, bringing the scents of lemons and strawberries. A middle-aged gardener and his young apprentice greeted him and continued their labors.
Philip wandered down the rows of plants, finally settling on a stone bench to admire the herbs and vegetables. Through the open back doors, he could see the outside garden soaking up a light rain. For the first time, he noticed the overcast sky, a certain sign of his displacement from the familiar. At home, he always considered the weather before planning his day.
Everywhere he looked, the profusion of greenery heralded a vibrant newness of life. Strangely, instead of admiration, the sight stirred up a familiar hollow ache just under his ribs. His vicar suggested it was loneliness, possibly an indication that the time had arrived for Philip to marry. But he couldn’t begin his quest for a bride until he exacted justice for Lucy. Further, he had no idea how to find an appropriate wife. If
the Lord willed for Philip to marry, He would have to bring the right woman into his life.
The inside door swung open, and Miss Elizabeth entered, charmingly dressed in a pale green gown of sprigged muslin whose color reflected in her eyes and turned them the color of a turquoise gemstone. The now familiar jolt under his ribs replaced the ache and brought Philip to his feet.
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth blinked. “Good morning, Mr. Lindsey.” She had not expected to see him here. “Please sit down, sir.” Locating the gardener nearby, she relaxed. The man’s presence ensured propriety.
“Will you join me?” Mr. Lindsey waved to the bench where he’d been seated. His blue eyes shone with a look she could not discern but found very attractive.
Having forgotten why she had come to the conservatory—perhaps a sprig of mint for her tea?—she accepted his invitation. “Did you sleep well?”
“Indeed I did, thank you.” His gentle smile brought warmth to her cheeks. “I thought never to see you without your charming cousin. Is Miss Prudence well?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “The poor dear has one of her rainy-day headaches.” She eyed the hazy windows, which were steamy from the rain. “Perhaps the weather will clear this afternoon, and she will feel better.”
“Please give her my regards.”
“Yes, of course.”
They sat quietly for several minutes until their silence engendered merriment within her.
“And so, Mr. Lindsey.” She gave him a playful grin. “With the inclement weather, will you spend your morning in the library reading Johnson’s Dictionary?”
Mr. Lindsey chuckled, and his eyes reflected good humor. “I was depending upon that for my entertainment, but perhaps you can suggest another activity.”
“Hmm.” Elizabeth gazed toward the windows again and pasted on a thoughtful expression. She should not have inquired about his plans. But with Jamie on an errand and Papa about his usual business, someone must entertain their guest. Mr. Lindsey deserved that courtesy, even though he was not a peer. And one diversion came to mind. “If you like to sketch or paint, you may join Mama and me in the parlor.” As the words came out, she wished them back. “Unless you consider those pastimes only for ladies.”
