Page 89 of Lady Daring
“I do.” Quite against convention, Jasper stood and walked down the table to where the marquess sat in the place of honor next to Clarinda. “My condolences, Langford. And my apologies as well.”
He extended his hand, and the marquess rose and gravely shook it. Charley raised his glass to Darien, a silent offering, and Darien drank with him. Charley had brought him to Henry and thereby saved him. One Bales life for another.
“Hetty rang a peal over my head, if you must know,” Jasper said as he seated himself. “She won’t have our family support war, and I agree.”
“Will my son be a hen-pecked husband?” the marquess asked.
Jasper laughed. “They’ll need breeches of two sizes in that house, for certain.” He smiled down the table at his daughter, who sat beside Darien, cutting his food into tiny pieces.
“To peace!” Sir Pelton proclaimed, lifting his wine in a toast. The footmen rushed forward to fill glasses.
“And what arrangement has been made for your schooling, Miss Bales?” Henrietta asked. She heaped spinach pudding onto the girl’s plate after spooning a healthy portion for Darien. “At Miss Gregoire’s Academy in Bath, we were allowed to study anything we liked. Miss Gregoire does not hold that female education should be restricted to music and dancing and art.”
“I am not allowed dancing,” said Horatia. “Aunt Perdita says it would be improper to have a young man teach me. I am only to practice with my friends, but I don’t have any friends.”
“Doesn’t she—” Darien began, but Henrietta cut him off.
“Art and music, then?”
Horatia shook her head. “Too frivolous. She will have tutors for her girls, and I may learn from them when they are older. I am allowed to study French and a little history.”
“Astronomy?” Henrietta said. “Mathematics? The natural sciences? Miss Gregoire says philosophy is the foundation of any education.”
Horatia accepted a generous helping of beef ragout. “How I should adore a place like Miss Gregoire’s.”
“You will fit right in. All the girls there are very lively and smart.”
“I am not at all à la mode,” Horatia said, comparing her plain frock to Henrietta’s elegant open robe of green satin, which brought out the green in her eyes. She looked with envy at the embroidered coral stomacher and the graceful fall of the sleeves. “Aunt has dresses made for her daughters, but?—”
“I daresay your aunt could feed you better,” Henrietta went on, serving the younger girl another helping of mushroom fricassee. Horatia ate not as one starved, so long deprived as to be ill or without appetite, but as a healthy and growing girl whose diet was restricted more than was good for her. “I perceive your aunt favors the welfare of her own children above yours.”
Her mild tone held no accusation, but Rutherford looked stricken. Darien suffered another lashing of guilt.
Horatia focused on her plate. “My aunt and uncle have been most generous,” she said carefully. “My aunt has been good enough to see to my keeping, even though I have a mother who—” Her voice broke, but she recovered and plunged through. “A mother who ought to take charge of my care and conduct, instead of racketing through Europe with her cicisbeo.” Her tone quavered on the last words. “It is not easy to have a cuckoo in one’s nest.”
“Horatia,” Henrietta said gently, “your aunt and uncle are living in your family home, supporting themselves and their children in fine style on the income that should be going toward your future.”
“Henry,” Darien said in warning. She didn’t need to air his family ills before the Pomeroys. Nor rake him over the coals in public. He had his father for that.
“Your son will have told you I am a tragic meddler,” Henrietta said to the marquess. “But if Mr. Bales is to marry my cousin, I think it fair we inquire after his prospects. The living at Bellamy cannot be awarded until Lord Lucien returns, can it?”
“It cannot, indeed,” the marquess agreed. Darien stared at his plate.
“Well, then, let us have some cheerful news,” Henrietta said. “Papa! May I?”
Darien sat at attention, panicking. He did not have a betrothal ring. He’d meant to ask his father about his mother’s jewels.
“What, tell us that you’re to be hauled before the King like common rabble?” Jasper teased, helping himself to a dish of artichokes.
“My other news.” Henrietta looked around the table with solemn glee. “I,” she announced, “am owner of the old corn mill at Bamford! Hodge accepted my terms—I think Jasper had something to do with that, thank you, Papa—and my solicitor is drawing up the papers as we speak. I”— she lifted her glass triumphantly—“shall be intrade! Though I do not expect it will prohibit me from being transported, if Prime Minister Pitt has determined on it.”
An awful pause followed. Darien gripped his glass till he feared it would shatter. So Henry had her mill, her plans and her causes and her future. Did she mean to include him in any of these? He had no indication that she did.
“To Hetty and her mill!” Marsibel raised her glass, and Darien forced himself to join another toast.
The marquess turned to Jasper. “Do you know, I’ve been considering building a factory on the Trent, but I’m not sure there’s a high enough drop to power a water wheel.”
“It’s steam you want, in that case,” Jasper returned. “I’m building my next mill with Watt’s atmospheric engine. Uses half the coal of Newcomen’s, and you needn’t be near a river at all.”
