Page 27 of Miss Determined
Phillip waited for her to open a gate and pass through ahead of him. She closed the gate behind them, and they resumed walking.
“Describe the man, Lissa, not his clothing.”
“Tallish, broad-shouldered, muscular without being brutish—like you. He’s clearly fit but doesn’t need to show off his vitality. He was patient with Roland—very patient—though his reflexes are devilishly quick, at least in the saddle.”
“You let him ride Roland?”
The path led between rows of rhododendrons a dozen feet high, a rare splash of green in a landscape still inching out from under winter’s browns.
“Mr. Dorning offered, and… he wants to help, Phillip, but he hasn’t tried to tell me what to do.” And everybody told Lissa what to do, from Mama to Grandmama, to Diana, to the solicitors, to Mrs. Raybourne, and even Phillip.
“Then Mr. Dorning is a dolt,” Phillip said, shoving Lissa’s shoulder gently. “He should tell you to bide in Crosspatch, running everything from the assemblies to the market committee to the altar society, because that makes you happy.”
The committees and whatnot made her busy and tired. “Mama mostly runs the altar society.” A knitting club for gossips, though nobody in the neighborhood lacked a warm scarf or new stockings come winter, and St. Nebo’s was always clean and tidy. “The market runs itself.”
“Except when Dabney gets to squabbling with Pevinger, or Squire Jonas takes a notion to criticize Mrs. Henry’s jams and jellies.”
“They squabble for the joy of squabbling, like children.” And yet, Lissa would miss the sound of raised voices on a sunny Wednesday morning, followed by the moment when all heads on the village green turned to the steps of the inn, and a few quiet bets were exchanged. Which man would let a profanity slip first? Would Mrs. P or Mrs. D appear to support her champion?
Then Lissa would wade in, sort out the misunderstanding, and everybody would have a little something to talk about over their nooning.
“Mr. Dorning would never lower himself to squabbling,” Phillip said primly. “Hehas a certain dignity foreign to Crosspatch Corners, but so far, nobody will tell me what color his hair is.”
A certainirksomedignity, as if he was keeping his own counsel about some weighty matter far above the petty concerns of an obscure village. A loftiness, for all his correct manners and pleasant conversation.
“He’s blond. Blue eyes. Entirely standard English coloring.”
“As far as I know, I’m English,” Phillip observed as they rounded the bend in the path that brought Lark’s Nest into view. “Not a blond hair on me. Black Irish, as best Mrs. Raybourne can describe me. You’re English, as are Diana and Caroline, and again, not a blonde among you. Why does Mr. Dorning’s coloring win national honors, I wonder?”
Gavin had teased Lissa like this—gently, annoyingly. The part of Lissa that wasn’t worried witless about him, or furious with him, missed him. Why was it so hard to admit that?
“Oh, very well,” Lissa said. “Mr. Dorning is handsome. Handsome in a substantial way, not in the pretty, fribbling manner of a London dandy. I didn’t realize at first how different he is, because it’s mostly a matter of what’s absent. He doesn’t make florid gestures. He doesn’t raise his voice to draw notice. He doesn’t talk about people I’ve never met as if I should know who they are and be impressed that he’s acquainted with them.”
“And Mr. Dorning walks with a certain easy confidence,” Phillip said, “that draws the eye despite a lack of military bearing or fashionable affectations. No quizzing glass, no gloves dyed to match a green top hat, no tassels on his boots, no jeweled walking stick.”
Well, yes.“You’ve seen him.”
Phillip leaned close enough that Lissa caught his lavender and scythed grass fragrance. “He’s pacing on my terrace, and if you turn tail and run now, I will send him after you. I will not endure a caller, Lissa DeWitt, unless you endure him with me.”
Phillip had no hostess, but he didn’t need one. He never entertained formally and seldom entertained informally either. Vicar Raybourne might stop by twice a year, and Lissa came and went on casual terms, but Phillip was no sort of host.
And there was Mr. Trevor Dorning, taking up a lean against a porch pillar and looking… Damn and blast, the man wasscrumptious. Diana had chosen the right word. He was polite, well spoken, ambitious, and all that other twaddle, but he was alsophysically attractive, and that realization both pleased and puzzled Lissa.
“Did I tell you that Lord Tavistock is raising our rent at Twidboro?” she asked, waving in greeting to Phillip’s caller.
“You did not, and you know it,” Phillip said, falling in beside her as she headed for the house. “That bastard. This is why you are so grimly determined to return to London, isn’t it? Mourna is going quietly daft, and your grandmama has simply grown quiet. Take my money, Lissa, please.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I doubt you have enough to solve the dilemma that we’re facing. Gavin might not return for years, if he returns at all. I must marry well if we’re to have any sort of regular income and any hope of seeing Diana and Caroline properly fired off.”
“You’ll support your family once you’re married?”
“If need be. The loftiest husband in the realm does not interfere with his wife’s pin money.” Mama was very certain on that point.
Phillip maintained a silence that might have been intended as diplomatic, but instead felt pitying.
Mr. Dorning allowed Lissa to make the introductions, and he shook left-handed when Phillip proffered his left hand. The gentlemen embarked on a discussion of whether spring was early or on time for Berkshire while they waited for the tea tray.
Lissa added the occasional remark—the crocuses were early, but the daffodils had been less precocious—and considered what if anything to do about the inconvenient fact that she, who had disdained heirs and dandies, was physically drawn to Mr. Trevor Dorning, whose ambition in life was merely to brew a good pint of beer.
