Page 17 of Miss Determined
Mrs. DeWitt, occupying the center of the sofa like a biddy hen on her nesting box, beamed at her youngest. “The girls get their music from their father. He was always singing. We used to do little family musicales. Grandmama was very skilled with the violin. Do you favor any particular instrument, Mr. Dorning?”
Mrs. DeWitt wasn’t exactly fawning, but neither had she attempted to toss Trevor out a window. Amaryllis had been quiet, presiding over the tray at her mother’s bidding and forgetting to serve herself.
Or maybe there wasn’t enough tea in the pot for her to have a cup?
“I am competent at the keyboard,” Trevor said, “and I’m a passable baritone, but the only instrument I have any proficiency with is the flute.”
“The flute!” Mrs. DeWitt clapped her hands. She was graying at the temples and matronly about the middle, but her smile was charming. “I adore the flute. Do any of the other Dornings claim musical accomplishments?”
Trevor popped a tea cake into his mouth, the better to give himself time to fashion a reply. He did not know if the Dornings were musical. They were horticultural by reputation, and resourceful. Also tallish, and one of them was notably fond of dogs. Another painted portraits, and then there was Sycamore, who specialized in mayhem and audacity.
“Mr. Dorning is not closely related to the Dorset Dornings,” Mrs. DeWitt senior said. “He hasn’t the Dorning eyes. I knew the previous earl in passing. Lovely man, always prosing on about flowers and herbs, but they weren’t merely plants to him. They were medicines, poisons, tisanes. I recall him telling me that one could weave fabric from nettles. The result is stronger than linen, or so the earl claimed.”
The Dorset Dornings were more numerous than renowned, but an earldom was unlikely to go unnoticed in this family.
“I am only passingly familiar with the titled branch of the family,” Trevor said, “and not well acquainted with them. They do have the most interesting eyes, don’t they?” Varying shades of lavender, violet, amethyst, lilac…
“You aren’t closely related to them?” Mrs. DeWitt asked with studied diffidence.
“We are cordial, but I do not presume on the connection.” Not quite a lie. Trevor’s step-mother had married a Dorning, and that was a cordial connection of sorts, but still…
The earldom, the eyes, why hadn’t he chosen hisnom du voyageurmore carefully?
“Have some more tea?” Amaryllis asked, holding up the pot. Her expression was horribly pleasant, not a hint of devilment or even intelligence in her gaze.
Trevor could think of no excuse to linger other than the socially acceptable second cup. “Just a splash, please, and am I correct that you enjoy a lovely view of the Twid from the east side of the house?”
“We do,” Diana said, sitting up very straight. “I’ve sketched that view more times than you can count, Mr. Dorning, in all seasons, though the library gets quite chilly without—”
“Please don’t bore our guest with a recitation of your artistic subjects,” Mrs. DeWitt said. “Lissa has painted our prospect of the Twid to the satisfaction of all admirers.”
“Mama, please don’t boast.” Amaryllis poured out the requisite splash, and only a splash. “I can play the pianoforte, Mr. Dorning, but my artistic gifts exist mostly in my mother’s mind.”
“Nonsense, Amaryllis. Compared to most girls, your watercolors are more than adequate. Tell us, Mr. Dorning, are you looking to buy property here in Berkshire or merely rent?” Mrs. DeWitt’s smile had dimmed from gracious to polite.
“Either,” Trevor said, finishing the tepid tea in a single swallow. “A long-term lease might suffice, though I’ll need arable acres to go with a comfortable dwelling. Good acres, not neglected pastures that have to be tilled up, marled every year for the next five, and reclaimed from overgrown hedgerows.”
He sounded even to himself as if he meant that—and he well might.
“Twidboro Hall has good acres,” Diana said, which earned her a glower from both her mother and her grandmother. “Well, it does. Mr. Dorning could lease those acres from us and live in the gatehouse.”
“Ignore her,” Amaryllis said. “The gatehouse is a glorified hermit’s folly.”
Diana’s chin jutted. “It is not. Grandmama lived there for years before Papa died. I used to visit her when Papa and Gavin got to arguing, and Grandmama would give me a biscuit and tell me a story.”
“Bats like the gatehouse.” Caroline offered that scintillating gem. “Gavin told me they keep the mice down. He liked to rehearse his speeches there.”
Silence descended, awkward and painful. The prodigal’s name had been mentioned not once but twice, and the teapot was empty. Worse yet, Trevor had revealed that no earl numbered among his close relations.
“My friends who grow grapes in Bordeaux love bats,” Trevor said. “Bats gorge themselves on moths, and vintners the world over abhor moths because they can ruin a whole harvest.”
“Truly?” Caroline was clearly delighted in the nocturnal feeding habits of French bats, or maybe she was pleased that Gavin had been right about something.
“Truly. The wineries that can claim a bat cave near their vineyards are the envy of their neighbors, but if I start talking about wineries and vineyards, I will still be maundering on come Michaelmas. If you ladies will excuse me, I will thank you for your hospitality and take my leave.”
Nobody made any effort to dissuade him from departing.
“I’ll see you out,” Amaryllis said, while Diana made a surreptitious grab for the last of the tea cakes.
