Page 10 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
“I do believe we are in for quite a tempest this evening,” said Miss Violet Ashworth, her voice composed as she stood at the music room window, eyes fixed upon the darkening sky. “The wind has been rising steadily since afternoon, and the clouds gathering over the channel bear all the hallmarks of a prolonged and rather determined storm. I suspect we shall find ourselves confined indoors far longer than any of us might have anticipated when the day began in such deceptively benign fashion.”
Outside, the clouds moved low and swift across the horizon with an ominous grandeur that had inspired artists for centuries—though Violet suspected such drama was best admired from the comfort of a well-appointed drawing room than from any less accommodating vantage.
“Indeed,” Lord Jasper replied from his place near the hearth, where he had been perusing a selection of musical scores that reflected both taste and discernment, “I have been watching the barometer fall steadily since luncheon. I daresay any attempt to reach Brighton proper before morning would prove not only imprudent but thoroughly disagreeable, given the increasingly unruly temperament of the weather.”
Lady Thalia Greaves glanced toward the windows with the sort of practiced assessment that came from years of managing a household that must be prepared for any contingency, her dark eyes calculating the potential challenges that a severe storm might present for both her residents and her unexpected guests, particularly given the delicate nature of the conversations that had characterised the afternoon’s increasingly tense family gathering.
“Hopkins has already begun preparations for accommodating additional guests overnight,” she announced with the sort of calm efficiency that had served her well during previous domestic crises, “though I confess I had not anticipated that weather would force such extended hospitality upon us at precisely the moment when family discussions have reached such a delicate stage of development.”
Marcus Berrington shifted uncomfortably in his chair near the drawing room fire, his expression betraying the discomfort of a man resigned to spending the evening in close quarters with individuals whose views diverged markedly from hisown—an arrangement he clearly regarded as both vexing and detrimental to the careful execution of his plans for his sister’s immediate future.
“Perhaps the enforced delay will provide an opportunity for more thorough consideration of the matters we have discussed today,” he suggested with the sort of forced optimism that barely concealed his irritation at having his timeline for resolving family difficulties disrupted by circumstances beyond his control.
“Indeed it may,” Thalia replied with the sort of noncommittal politeness that offered no hint of her private sentiments regarding the prospect of extended proximity to a brother increasingly determined to reorder her entire existence according to his narrow interpretation of feminine propriety and familial obligation.
The first drops of rain struck the windows with sharp intensity that promised considerably worse weather to follow, and the wind began to howl around the corners of the house with the sort of wild energy that made even the most comfortable domestic arrangements seem fragile in comparison to the raw power of natural forces unleashed without regard for human convenience or planning.
“I shall go and see that Miss Fairweather is comfortable,” Thalia announced, rising with quiet purpose as a particularly forceful gust rattled the panes. “Such storms can be especially distressing for individuals whose other senses have become heightened to compensate for their hearing difficulties.”
Lord Jasper set aside the volume of musical scores he had been perusing and stood at once. “May I be of assistance?” he asked, his tone marked by genuine concern rather than social obligation. “I have had some modest experience with individuals who navigate the world without sound, and I would be glad to help in any way that might bring comfort during what promises to be a rather difficult evening for all concerned.”
His offer surprised Thalia with its genuine solicitude, for she had grown accustomed to guests who viewed her residents as curiosities to be observed rather than individuals whose comfort and well-being deserved consideration and active support during difficult circumstances.
“That is most kind of you,” she replied, allowing her appreciation to show. “Though I admit to some curiosity as to the source of your experience. Most gentlemen of our acquaintance tend to consider such concerns beneath their notice or responsibility.”
“One of my cousins lives with significant hearing loss after a severe fever in early childhood,” Lord Jasper explained as they walked toward the conservatory, where Miss Fairweather often painted in the evening light. “Over the years, I came to understand that for those who rely less on sound, other forms of communication—and changes in the environment—take on particular significance. One learns to observe differently.”
They found Ivy seated on a cushioned bench in the corner of her studio, her easel set aside, hands pressed lightly to her temples. The calm self-possession thatso often marked her demeanour had given way to a quiet strain, her slender frame held taut with a tension that spoke not of fear, but of a kind of internal dissonance. Outside, the wind battered the conservatory windows, its rising noise sending faint vibrations through the floor and walls—a steady, inescapable rhythm that those more attuned to the subtle languages of sensation could not easily ignore.
“Miss Fairweather,” Thalia said gently, taking care to step into her line of sight before speaking, “I thought the storm might be causing you some discomfort. Is there anything we might do to help?”
Ivy looked up quickly, her expression shifting at the sight of familiar, sympathetic faces. She raised her hands in a rapid flow of signs, her gestures graceful but agitated. Thalia watched intently, trying to follow, but her knowledge of sign language—though slowly improving—was not yet equal to such complex, emotionally charged expression.
Lord Jasper knelt beside the bench—not too close—and waited until Ivy acknowledged him before speaking. His tone was calm, his posture deliberately at ease. “Storms can be deeply disorienting,” he said quietly, keeping his gaze steady on Ivy’s face so she could follow his words. “The changes in pressure and the vibration—they affect more than most people realise, especially when one has learned to rely on other senses.”
He reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather notebook, its pages covered in sketches and carefully made notes. “I found a book on sign language in the retreat’s library this morning. I’ve been trying to make some sense of it. It’s slow going without instruction—but enlightening.”
Then, with deliberate care, he formed a few simple signs. They were tentative and imprecise, the movements slightly awkward, but clearly recognisable. Ivy’s expression shifted, her posture easing as surprise gave way to quiet delight. She responded with a few gentle corrections, her hands shaping his with light, sure movements, and then signed a phrase Thalia recognised as‘thank you’.
“She’s asking if you’ve been studying just to speak with her,” Thalia said, her voice touched with something softer than amusement—almost affection.
“I confess that meeting Miss Fairweather has given my efforts greater focus,” Lord Jasper replied, sincerity unmistakable in his tone. “I had learned a few signs elsewhere, though never with consistency. But I’ve been struck by the clarity and expressiveness of this language. It deserves more attention than it’s generally afforded.”
They remained there as the storm roared against the windows, falling into a quiet rhythm of shared communication: some words spoken aloud, some exchanged in signs, and others scribbled in Lord Jasper’s notebook. The atmosphere was one of gentle collaboration rather than accommodation—a recognition of shared effort, not pity.
“You have a gift, I think, for putting others at ease,” Thalia observed a little later, watching him repeat a newly learned phrase with quiet focus and self-deprecating humour. “And I confess I am impressed by your willingness to adapt—to meet others where they are, rather than expect them to conform to you. I cannot tell you how rare that is.”
“Communication is surely a shared responsibility,” Lord Jasper replied with the sort of matter-of-fact wisdom that spoke of deeper consideration than most people gave to such matters, “and I find that the effort required to learn new methods of expression often reveals perspectives and insights that would otherwise remain hidden from those who rely too heavily upon familiar approaches.”
Their peaceful interlude was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor, followed by Kit Whiston’s appearance in the conservatory doorway with an expression of concern that suggested some new difficulty had arisen to complicate an already challenging evening.
“Lady Greaves,” he called with agitation, “I fear we may have another problem requiring your attention, for the wind has damaged several of the shutters on the eastern side of the house, and water is beginning to seep through the library windows where I had arranged my papers for tomorrow’s reading.”
“Of course it is,” Thalia murmured with resignation that bordered upon exasperation, for she had learned through bitter experience that domestic crises rarely occurred in isolation but rather seemed to multiply like particularly persistent weeds during moments when her attention was already stretched beyond comfortable limits.
“I shall come immediately,” she announced, rising from her chair with the sort of brisk efficiency that had served her well during previous household emergencies, “though I confess I had hoped we might pass this evening without additional complications beyond those already provided by family discussions and unexpected guests.”
“Perhaps I might be of assistance with the shutters,” Lord Jasper suggested as he carefully closed his notebook and rose to follow her toward the door. “I suspect that multiple hands will be required to address whatever damage the wind has managed to inflict upon your otherwise well-maintained establishment.”
