Not Quite a Lady (The Dressmakers 4)

She heard Mr. Carsington’s deep chuckle, and that made her giggle like a schoolgirl. She covered her mouth, as a little girl would do, trying to be good. But she’d always had to try harder than most. She gave up. What was the point of stifling her mirth with such a man, who scorned euphemism and hypocrisy?

She became aware of his gaze, and of the lingering smile that softened his features and made him seem, for a moment, like someone else. Someone less cynical and not quite so coolly rational. Someone like the man she believed he was when he held her in his arms.

“There, you know I’m right,” he said. “It is exactly the same as they do with bulls and horses but with more elaborate social rituals attending the process. And considerably more elaborate attire.”

“Is that how Papa put it to you?” she said. “You debated the merits of breeding certain types of pigs, for instance, then went on to speak of his guests?”

Mr. Carsington nodded. “More or less.”

“Then that is more or less how he presented the matter to me,” she said. “My father takes the methodical approach, you see.”

“To getting you fired off.”

Gad, that was what it was, after all. Poor Papa, all he saw was an aging daughter in dire need of a husband.

“I believe he has hopes of getting some of my cousins fired off, as you so romantically put it, at the same time,” she said. “When Papa puts his mind to something, he puts his heart into it, too, and proceeds with his usual enthusiasm.”

“Are all those cousins as old as you?” said Mr. Carsington.

“Heavens, no,” she said. “No one is as ancient as I.” She started to walk, carefully avoiding the direction the child had taken.

Mr. Carsington followed her. “You are not quite ancient,” he said. “Not past all hope.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I am relieved to learn I am not yet tottering toward my grave.”

“Looking at the matter objectively,” he said, “in purely reproductive terms—which is the essential purpose of marriage—one must consider a woman of seven and twenty prodigious old. You are rapidly nearing the end of your prime reproductive years. Males generally choose young females, who have many breeding years ahead of them, to increase the odds of producing male children who will survive to adulthood.”

“If one looks at the matter objectively, it is hard to understand why my father goes to so much bother,” she said. “I am not his son. I cannot inherit his title or the bulk of his property, which is entailed. Thus it is nothing to him whether I produce many sons or none, since my children cannot continue the line.”

The pathway took them to one of the several swampy ponds that had once formed an elegant series of water features adorning the landscape. She discerned no signs of child or dog. The home farm stood a distance away. She was safe, for today, thanks to Mr. Carsington’s timely interruption.

“All parents, no matter what their social position, seem to want grandchildren,” he said meditatively. “It would appear that humans, being mortal, want reassurance that some part of them will continue long after they’re dead. In any event, parents want to see their children settled.”

“Your parents, too, it appears,” she said. “In lieu of a wife they have given you a property. That is sensible. I should imagine it is harder to get a son wed than a daughter. Girls will marry practically anybody who seems agreeable. They don’t know any better because they’ve never been allowed to learn. They’ve never had the freedom to discover what they truly want. They understand practically nothing of men—including their own brothers, if they have them—and base their opinions, their ideas of love, mainly on looks and charm. For some, money and position are at the top of the list.”

There was a silence. She didn’t care. This was not a social event, and she wasn’t obliged to keep the conversation going. She watched the insects and birds darting over the water and into the surrounding trees. In the late-morning silence, the buzzing and twittering sounded like music. For a moment, at least, she could pretend she was at Beechwood in the way she always used to be, as herself. For a moment, at least, she was almost calm.

“It pains me to admit this,” came his deep voice at last, “but you continue to surprise me.”

She looked at him. He, too, was watching the insects and birds—no doubt with a deeper understanding than she had of what each creature was and what they were about. Though his hat brim partly shaded his face, the shadow only seemed to emphasize the strong, chiseled features. She remembered the feel of his cheek against hers, the taste of his mouth, the comfort of his strong arms. The wild longing she felt was not a memory but a current of feeling. It belonged not to yesterday but to this moment.

She wished she might touch his hand, as one might touch a friend’s hand in a moment of understanding. Only that. But when could it be like that, with a man?

She pushed aside both the wish and the longing. This was not so very difficult to do. She’d had years of practice.

“You’ve surprised me, too,” she said. “You can admit a mistake, which so many men—and women—cannot do. You can apologize, a form of speech that seems to strike even the most loquacious dumb. And you have shown compassion for an insignificant apprentice,” she added, her voice almost perfectly steady.

“It is nothing to get maudlin about,” he said.

“I was not maudlin,” she said. “I only remarked on your kindness to the boy.”

“You make too much of it,” he said. “I gave him a job to do, that is all. There’s nothing out of the way in hiring boys to rid the property of vermin. Your keepers pay hosts of boys to kill crows and starlings, rats and weasels and such. Your father suggested it, in fact.”

“It seems you and Papa discussed Pip at length,” she said.

“I sought his advice,” Mr. Carsington said. “Your father’s experience far surpasses mine. I wanted to give Pip something to do outside of the house. Some of the workmen have got it into their heads that he’s bad luck. Every time there’s an accident, it’s because of him—not another’s clumsiness or carelessness or simple happenstance. It’s hard enough managing the multitudes at work on my house. The last thing I need is a Jonah.”

“Perhaps we could find something for him to do at Lithby Hall,” she said—and instantly wished the words back.

She could not have the boy about constantly. As large as her father’s property was, she’d know Pip was there, and she’d be looking for him, constantly looking for him. She was demented to raise the possibility.

“Your father’s vermin are under control,” Mr. Carsington said. “I’ve more need of Pip at Beechwood. We’ve arranged for him to go to Lithby Hall to collect Daisy, early every morning, as soon as the servants are up. After her exercise, he’ll return to work—if the other laborers will let him. Meanwhile, I’ll watch how matters proceed in that regard. He seems to like the plaster work—what little he gets to do of it. Like any apprentice, he’s assigned the drudge work and fetching and carrying. But Tyler admits the boy has a talent for designing patterns, some of which he’s used. If Pip is suited to the trade, then it’s folly to take him away. But we shall wait and see.”

“And if matters do not go well?” she said. “You promised to find a place for him, and I do not think you make idle promises.”

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nbsp; He turned and smiled at her. “Do you not? What, have I a redeeming quality?”

She lifted her chin. “Being kind to children is a redeeming quality, I believe. It seems I must mark that down in your favor.”

“Are you keeping a book?” he said.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Always.” She glanced up at the sun, half-obscured by a cloud. “It must be close to noon. Stepmama will be ready to go home. I had better go back.”

She left him then.

He did not come after her this time, yet she could feel it, as palpable as a touch, the golden gaze following her, and she wondered if he wore that softened smile.

Chapter 10

Sunday night 30 June

“A difficult day, sir?” Kenning said as he followed his commander up the stairs. “You’re later than your usual time.”

“Lord Eastham had a good deal of advice for me concerning Lord Lithby’s forthcoming house party,” said Colonel Morrell.

The invitees to Lithby Hall included half a dozen of England’s most eligible gentlemen—that was to say, the half dozen Lady Charlotte had not yet rejected out of hand.

She’d reject this lot, too, because they’d all make the same mistake. They would go directly for their target.

Lady Charlotte must be won by stealth, indirection, and slow siege.

Colonel Morrell did not explain his strategy to his uncle. Nor did he mention that the only man who worried him was Darius Carsington, who gave no signs of courting her and had the advantage of proximity.

“The house party will mean the end of the ladies’ daily visits to Beechwood,” the colonel said. “I was in the army too long, it seems. I had no idea a gentleman would permit his wife and unwed daughter to spend so much time in the house of an unmarried man.”

“His lordship’s always let Lady Charlotte run on a long leash,” said Kenning. “On account of how she almost died.”

“Ten years ago,” his commander said. “Hardly a reason to risk her safety and reputation. In his place, I should be all the more cautious.”