Page 6 of The Husband Gamble
He looked forward to dinner, hoping he would be partnered again with Miss Fernhill, but instead Lady Osbourne had changed all of the assignments. He suffered through another hour and a half of inane conversation about the weather, fashion, and the latest London gossip, and was relieved to be left at the table to have port with the gentlemen.
He would not join the ladies again tonight, he decided. He finished his port and made his farewells. He was halfway up the stairs to his room when he realised he had left his gloves behind. As he opened the door to the dining room, Miss Fernhill’s name caught his attention and he paused to listen. Eavesdropping was reprehensible, but too tempting to resist.
Three of the other gentlemen were talking about her in admiring tones—her grace, her beauty, her intelligence. When the man who had partnered her for dinner tentatively suggested that she was less than reputable, one of her admirers insisted that, if she was good enough for a high stickler for Lord Hythe, she certainly merited the consideration of less elevated gentlemen.
Good. If he had done the lady a favour, he was glad of it. He had no feelings at all about her being courted by another man. Of course, he didn’t.
CHAPTERFOUR
Still, everyone in the village knows the essence of the tale, whether they were in the church on that day years ago or not. The bride, plain, pale-faced and drooping. The groom with his face set like stone. The bride’s uncle chivvying them up the aisle. Then the west transept doors crashing open (some say exploding, but if so, the villagers did a good job of repair, for there they are today for any child to see, ancient oak, worn by time).
[“The Abduction of Amaryllis Fernhill”, in Collected Tales from the Villages of England, by a Gentleman]
* * *
The following day was stormy—far too cold, wet, and windy for any further ventures outside.
As Rilla had predicted, Lady Osbourne was keen to marshal her guests into group activities. Thankfully, she left the guests themselves to choose between the pursuits on offer, though any lady or gentleman without an occupation was politely rounded up and channelled into being sociable.
Rilla avoided the room where an excited group were planning a theatrical performance, and also backed quickly from the one that contained a game of charades.
She would have liked to play billiards. She’d learned the game from her best friend, the daughter of the earl whose estate bordered her father’s, and had continued to play on her own after Emma made a runaway marriage. But not after her father died and her uncle moved into her house. He did not approve of females playing billiard. Doubtless, the gentlemen at this house party would agree.
Was Lord Hythe in the billiards room? She had not seen him playing cards and could not imagine him as part of the laughing, flirting parlour games crowd. Perhaps, although he had denied any musical abilities, he formed part of the audience in the music room? She found herself heading in that direction and stopped.
What was she doing? She needed to be somewhere Lord Hythe was not. When he was in the vicinity, she found it impossible to consider any other man. And Lord Hythe was not for her.
She had to move to the side of the passage to make way for several of the guests, ladies and gentlemen, who were hurrying to find hiding places for a game of sardines. Another activity that was not to Rilla’s taste. At the previous house party she had attended, she had found herself stuck in a cupboard under the stairs with four other people, one of whom had wandering hands.
In the end, Rilla collected her embroidery from her room, and joined Cousin Felicia in the parlour. Several gentlemen had also joined the ladies. Captain Hudson was whittling, and was happy to explain he was making a set of wooden soldiers for his older brother’s eldest son. “I suggested sailors,” he joked, “but apparently it has to be soldiers.” Rilla joined the others in admiring the skill with which he crafted a detailed little warrior out of a chunk of wood. “They will look more realistic once they are painted,” he told his audience.
Another gentleman was sketching the ladies as they worked. He asked Rilla if he could make a sketch of her hands, as they were particularly elegant. Rilla would have brushed it off as a meaningless compliment, but Mr. Woolard’s gaze at said appendages had a dispassionate quality that hinted his interest was entirely artistic. She granted permission.
Lord Joseph Enright said he had no skills to craft anything with his hands, but offered to read to the company. Lord Joseph was the second son of a marquis, but seemed to have avoided the arrogance that often went with such elevated rank. He had a very pleasant voice, and read with a dramatic style that suited the Robert Burns poem he had chosen, Tam O’Shanter.
Rilla did not understand some of the Scottish words, but she laughed with the others at the tale of the drunken Scotsman spying on a witches’ gathering, becoming entranced at the dancing of ‘a winsome wench’ and calling out encouragement. Then followed a wild chase until at last his brave horse managed to cross water, just in time to escape the lead witch, though the poor nag paid for its master’s peeping by the loss of its tail.
“What is a cutty sark,” she asked, when everyone had clapped the ending of the piece. “Does anyone know?”
Miss MacRae, one of the chaperones, was able to explain. “A sark is a shirt; in this case, a night-rail. Cutty simply means short, Miss Fernhill.”
“She was dancing in her night attire, then, and it flapped as she danced,” Captain Hudson chuckled. “No wonder naughty Tam was glued to the peephole in the wall.”
Rilla suppressed her smile when several of the ladies called him to account, and poor Lord Joseph, as well, for reading the poem in mixed company. Rilla was pleased to note that neither gentleman seemed much abashed. Certainly, she had heard far more bawdy stories in the world that had been her refuge from her uncle’s machinations.
* * *
Hythe made the excuse of correspondence and sequestered himself in his room until the afternoon.You will not find a wife in your bed chamber, he told himself. Then, remembering some of the stories he had heard about house parties,not one you want, that is.
He locked his door and went down to join the rest of the company for afternoon tea, determined to spend time with the young ladies he had not yet met.
The prettiest of the bunch was Miss Fairleigh. In Hythe’s opinion, her good looks and pleasant nature did not outweigh her inability to hold a reasonable conversation. Second runner-up was a damsel by the name of Miss Turnbull. She had the much-admired English rose complexion and colouring, and her fashionably-gowned figure was shapely and graceful. Hythe inserted himself into the crowd of men around her.
Poor lady. The other men in the group were a bunch of pompous boors. The talk was all about fashion and the fashionable set. Twaddle. Hythe contained himself. It remained to be seen whether Miss Turnbull actually enjoyed such trivial conversation, or whether she was merely displaying excellent breeding and deportment. He would have to talk to her away from her other admirers.
Meanwhile, Miss Fernhill had her own covey of gentlemen. Or, to be exact, she and a couple of other ladies, including Miss Fairleigh. Hythe couldn’t help but notice that they were enjoying themselves a lot more than he was. He could not in all honesty claim that Miss Fernhill was as pretty as Miss Fairleigh and Miss Turnbull. So why could he not get her out of his mind?
CHAPTERFIVE
