Page 67 of Miss Dashing
“That pit is financial, social, emotional, logistical… Say you want to rent out your town house to raise some capital, but the only tenants willing to look at it won’t pay what you’re asking and won’t respect the premises. You want some new clothes made up by the fellow you’ve long patronized on Bond Street. He informs you that, sadly, he’s unable to take any new commissions for at least three months. Try the lesser shop around the corner, though he’s also unable to take your business.”
If Hecate brought such a fate on her family—the blame would fall exclusively on her, never on dear Cousin Johnny or scheming Cousin Isaac—she’d have no allies or supporters with whom to fight back.
Except for Phillip, who was still trying to master the quadrille in the odd, private hour. He’d taken to stealing away to the portrait gallery after supper. He practiced the steps in solitude, the disapproving eyes of the Brompton rogues staring at his stumbling progress.
“I wish we’d left last week,” DeWitt said. “The situation here grows complicated.”
“We might not make it past the finish line,” Phillip said. “If Hecate accepts Johnny Brompton’s suit, I will not answer for the consequences.”
The day was shifting from afternoon to a long, lovely summer evening, and Phillip endured a wave of homesickness. Not for Crosspatch Corners in particular, but for a life made simple by geographical limitations. As long as he’d kept to himself and tended his acres, he’d been safe from heartache.
“Come swimming with us,” DeWitt said. “You stink as badly as I do.”
“Worse,” Phillip said. “A four-mile course was a romp for Roland. You’ve been conditioning him.”
“He loves to run.” DeWitt’s pride in the horse was evident in his tone. “Speed is in his blood. The whole time I was away, he wanted to be about his job—galloping like the wind—but nobody was on hand to sort him out. He’ll have more endurance for being allowed to grow into his frame before he’s permitted to compete, but the native speed has always been there.”
Had this conversation taken place in spring, before Tavistock had upended Phillip’s life and Hecate had stolen his heart, Phillip would have taken the bait DeWitt so kindly dangled. A good long natter chin-wag about training a promising colt would have been enjoyable. The highlight of the day.
“Be off with you,” Phillip said. “I will leave the hale-fellow-well-met nonsense at the swimming hole to you. You’re the professional thespian.”
“Don’t say that too loudly. If you, as the ranking guest, disdain our company, Henry Wortham and his ilk will take it amiss.”
Phillip had been very nearly of Henry’s ilk until recently. “Then I will put in an appearance for the sake of Henry’s pride, but charm is beyond me.”
“One doesn’t expect miracles, my lord. That’s part of their appeal.”
Phillip accompanied DeWitt down the path to a widening in the stream below the arched bridge. A bend on the stream’s course had made for a stretch of deeper, slower water and obscured the location from the sight of the house or summer cottage.
Private enough that Henry Wortham was already parading around as God had made him.
Henry, a truly magnificent specimen in the altogether, made a clean dive from a handy rock and came up gasping. “Ruddy cold. My cods will be the size of raisins.”
“They’ll match your brains, then,” somebody replied.
“Still bigger than yours.” Henry splashed water at his detractor, and others peeled down and joined Henry in the water. A four-mile gallop had taken the starch out of most of them, and when the numbers began to thin, Phillip shed his clothes and waded in.
The water was luscious. Just cold enough to be refreshing, though the swimming hole itself lacked the dimensions to accommodate much more than a casual dip. Phillip scrubbed off, made use of the towels provided for the occasion, pulled on shirt and breeches, and found a place beside Henry on the grassy bank.
“How fares Mrs. Riley?” Phillip asked as several yards away, a still shirtless Johnny began to hold forth about some howling, half-man/half-beast creature rumored to inhabit the Canadian woods.
Johnny Brompton when drunk, perhaps.
“Midwife says Mavis is coming along nicely, and the baby’s doing well too. I brought them the flowers. Didn’t stay, just passed them over the threshold. I think Mavie was pleased. My ma sent over a quarter ham, and the basket from Nunnsuch could double as a cradle.”
Hecate had doubtless chosen it for that reason. “But you’re at a loss for what to do next?”
“Aye. Mavis is a hard worker, and I know not every man will take on another’s get, but Mavie is also smart. Smarter than most village girls. Her pa was a vicar’s lad, and they had books. She’ll want a smart fellow like her William.”
Henry spoke of books as Portia or Flavia might have referred to ducal invitations. “You aren’t stupid, Henry.” Though a man could be reasonably intelligent and still utterly stumped in matters of the heart.
Henry shoved damp hair from his eyes. “Ma put the manners on me, and I can read the London newspapers, but I’ll never be like him,” he said, jerking his chin in Johnny’s direction. “He’s a gent. A proper gent, and now half the village will be eating out of his hand. He listened to Mrs. Vicar go on about her knee and laughed at old Jonas’s jokes. He’s a better earl than the earl, and he hasn’t even studied for the part.”
No, he was not, but he might well be a better actor than DeWitt. “Johnny Brompton has no designs on your Mavis, I can assure you of that.” Would that he had.
“He’s a fool, then. Mavie is worth ten of the twittering misses from Town, meaning no disrespect to my betters. Brompton has something the ladies want, though, and he knows it.”
Did he? Most young ladies were shrewd enough to see past handsome looks and flattery. They wanted manners from a fellow, true, but also genuine consideration, respect, affection.
