Chapter 2 #2
“Oh, but he is very appealing,” she insists.
“He cuts a fine figure, as the gossips like to say, with his noble brow, lithe but muscled form, and intelligent eyes. Personally, I find him callow in both his manner and appearance. I prefer the affect of a mature man who knows the value of persuasion and listening to others. Keast abides by Mr. Holcroft first and himself last, which is convenient, as they seem to be two peas in a pod. You do not want to engage either one in a discussion about agriculture, because he will talk himself dry, which I suspect you already know, as you have been here a few days.”
I smile wryly at this reminder of how poorly I have failed to integrate my cabbage knowledge into any of my conversation and own myself ignorant of anything having to do with vegetables other than eating them when they are appropriately prepared.
She laughs at my sally, either out of genuine appreciation or courtesy, drawing the notice of Miss Braithwaite, who ceases flirting with Russell long enough to eye me with curiosity.
Finding nothing of interest, she returns her gaze to my brother, whose delight at the attention could not be any plainer.
His color is high, and he chortles repeatedly.
Seeking a new subject to extend our exchange, I comment on the stellar quality of the repast. If I am engaged elsewhere, I cannot be obligated to listen to the deadly dull talk about land management.
Miss Burgess seems as grateful for the diversion as I am and describes with alacrity the meals she has enjoyed at Red Oaks.
The number is not great, she rushes to add, as she and her brother are invited to dine only when one of the favored families cannot attend—in this case, the Jenners, whose own summer guests had arrived earlier in the day.
“I am so very glad you are here to provide Andrew and me with this wonderful opportunity,” she adds with an endearing grin.
“Much of my existence is helping my brother tend to the souls of the village, which can be dispiriting at times, especially with the recent upheaval caused by Keast’s improvements.
The more efficient farming becomes, the less of a living it provides.
It is like in the north, with their stocking frames, which you know all about. ”
The truth is, I do not know all about it, as the situation seems hopelessly convoluted and disheartening, and I make it a practice to avoid convoluted and disheartening situations, especially when I cannot imagine them ending happily for the parties involved.
Nevertheless, I appreciate the compliment Miss Burgess has paid me, for I like being perceived as the sort of person who is informed about current events, and reply with grave authority: “Indeed, I do.”
Then I change the subject before she realizes she has given me too much credit. “Miss Braithwaite and Miss Nutting seem very nice.”
It is an outrageous lie.
Miss Burgess blinks in surprise, revealing that her interactions with the pair have been as warm as my own.
“Do they? I am certain that is by accident, then, for they are rarely kind to women they consider rivals. As I am eight and twenty, I do not fall into that category, but they find me equally unworthy for failing to nab a husband. They believe spinsterhood is catching, like measles or the plague.”
Wanting to return her honesty in kind, I rush to add that the women seem very nice to other people. “They have been highly solicitous of our hosts.”
“And your brother,” Miss Burgess notes wryly.
“There is a dearth of available young men in the district and a surplus of available young women. The Jenners also have daughters—three, in fact. It makes for extremely uneven numbers. Mr. Sebastian Holcroft has been the singular focus of the local matchmakers for years, and we all expected that he and the eldest Jenner would wed. Heather is a paragon of womanhood: lovely, intelligent, humble, kind. Lately, they have realized that they must transfer their ambitions to Chester. Miss Braithwaite and Miss Nutting have a friendly wager between them over which one can fix his attention, primarily because they are so bored with the local offerings. I know about the bet because they have discussed it in front of me. As a spinster, I am invisible to them. It is a magical power of sorts, and I think they are partially convinced that I am a sorceress because sometimes I know things about which I should not have the slightest idea.”
I wince.
Miss Burgess is not condemning my own behavior or speaking to it in any way, and yet her words are little spikes in my heart.
For years, I had done precisely that to Bea, paying attention to her only on occasion when she could be useful to me.
The difference was, of course, that my cousin was never invisible.
Thanks to my mother’s tireless complaining, I was conscious of the burden of an orphaned relative my entire life.
Somehow, despite this horrendous treatment, Bea appears to bear me no ill will, as evidenced by her willingness to visit Red Oaks in my support and provide her husband as a villainous foil.
(It is true that she does not know yet that she has made the generous contribution of Kesgrave’s assistance, but my cousin wants me to be accepted by Sebastian’s family and is too eminently practical to take issue with the most sensible route.)
Misunderstanding the source of my discomfit, Miss Burgess assures me that it is above all things delightful to pass through the world unseen.
“I really am privy to the most trivial of secrets. Mr. Jenner’s brother, for instance, paid eight pounds six shillings to Mr. Smitherton, who is the grocer, as compensation for driving through his store window while foxed, though he claims to have had a fit of apoplexy. ”
“A claim of a false illness is a wonderful secret!” I exclaim, hugely impressed by the quality of information to which she has been exposed.
“You could set yourself up as a Bedfordshire Mr. Twaddle-Thum, publish the reports, and then gasp with polite surprise as people marvel over the inexplicable things the gossip knows.”
Miss Burgess, receiving the suggestion in the spirit in which it was offered, clarifies that it is the settling of the debt that is astonishing, not the fiction of Mr. Jenner’s sobriety, as the gentleman is notorious for his intemperance and for routinely embarrassing his sibling, who is the local constable.
“He has driven his carriage into any number of things around the neighborhood and always refuses to compensate his victims. The fact that he did this time makes me wonder what Mr. Smitherton knows about him that I do not.”
Our pleasant tête-à-tête is interrupted by Mrs. Dowell, who is keen to know my opinion of the red-flanked bluetail, which has lately been spotted in the nearby forest.
Obviously, I do not have one.
As a gently bred young lady from Sussex, I would never presume to form an opinion about an avian species from another shire.
Indeed, I have barely formed an opinion about the avian species in my own shire, and if I have any notions at all, they are based on how lovely a particular bird would be to paint using watercolors.
(In descending order of prettiness, then: the blue tit, the great tit, the long-tailed tit.)
Sensing my hesitation, Eleanor presses for a response, as though the answer is of great import to her. “Yes, Miss Hyde-Clare, what do you think of the red-flanked bluetail?”
I want to reply snappishly that nobody wants to know what I think.
And it is true: The occupants of the table could not care less about my view of the red-flanked bluetail.
But that is not why the sisters posed the query.
They want to expose me to ridicule, and the best way to do that is to reveal the depth of my ignorance.
If I admit to knowing nothing about the bird, they will titter at the inferior quality of my education, and if I feign familiarity, they will contradict my observation.
It is a trap.
Yet another trap.
The visit is rife with them.
It is exhausting.
As I contemplate how to extricate myself from another snare, my gaze settles on the Incomparables across from me.
Yes, of course.
The Incomparables!
No flustered country house guest has ever gone astray offering extravagant praise to a pair of beautiful young misses.
“You are too kind to even notice me when the exquisite Misses Braithwaite and Nutting are present. I am sure we are all more interested in hearing what they have to say than listening to my banal comments.”
Then I simper.
If there is one ineffable skill I learned from my mother, it is how to simper with insipid blandness: the fatuous smile, the fluttery gaze.
I am inoffensiveness personified.
Miss Nutting, who has said little during the meal, presumably as her knowledge of the prevailing topic is as limited as my own, gratefully seizes the opportunity to reflect on the birds she has seen this season.
The red-flanked bluetail does not count among the assortment, but she spotted a bluethroat just the day before and that is similar enough.
“And of course the stonechat, the mistle thrush, the tree sparrow, the dunnock, the meadow pipit, the green sandpiper.”
Not to be outdone, Miss Braithwaite also offers a catalogue of birds she has seen in recent weeks, and even though her entries are not as specific—plover to Miss Nutting’s little ringed plover—her list is just as long.
“They will do this all night if left to themselves,” Miss Burgess notes softly.
“Theirs is the district’s great rivalry.
They have been neck and neck since leading strings, although there were a few months when Miss Nutting was fourteen and had terrible spots.
It seemed as though she would concede the field to Miss Braithwaite, but then her skin improved and she came roaring back. ”