Chapter 8 #2
étienne seemed just as frozen. It took a gentle prod of Verbena’s elbow to get him in motion once more. “A pleasure, Mr. McDonald.” He held out his hand to shake.
Mr. McDonald took it. “Your coat is exquisite, monsieur,” he said. He took in étienne’s ensemble with unabashed interest. “You must tell me who your tailor is.”
“Oh!” Verbena gave a high laugh. This had also been rehearsed. “Monsieur Charbonneau is actually the proprietor of a well-regarded—”
“I am,” étienne said, abandoning their carefully prepared script. “That is, I am my tailor. A tailor. For myself, as well as others.” He was staring at Mr. McDonald like he’d never seen a Scotsman before.
Mr. McDonald had not, Verbena noticed, released étienne’s hand yet and was indeed cradling it in his own. “And could you be mine?” he asked.
Verbena was relieved that Miss Hollyhock and Mr. Chesterfield had already floated off to join the rest of the archers in sizing up their bows. Otherwise, overhearing such a bold statement, even if it was meant innocently, could raise eyebrows. Hers were certainly climbing skyward.
Mr. McDonald seemed to realize belatedly the implications of what he’d said.
“What I mean to say is—! Forgive me, I’m new in town and I’ve been looking high and low for a reputable tailor such as yourself.
” He grimaced in apology. “I’ve gotten a few remarks on the…
quaintness of my dress and would remedy that, if I can. ”
étienne’s eyes shone with delight. “Certainly, Mr. McDonald. It would be my honor. You can find me in Savile Row anytime.” He paused, frowning at the archery targets some yards distant.
“When I am not playacting the Robin Hood, I suppose. Let us hope I can figure out where to aim the pointy end, hm?”
“You know, I hunted with bow and arrow when I was a lad. Not so much lately, as you can probably guess.” Mr. McDonald pointed to the black lens of his spectacles. “But I can show you the basics. If you’d like.”
They were still holding each other’s hand. For the good of their ruse, Verbena had to intervene. “Perhaps later! Shall we choose our bows now, monsieur?” she said, practically dragging étienne away from Mr. McDonald and toward the archery field.
étienne looked dazed, like he’d been hit over the head with a skillet. “Yes, of course. Later,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Mr. McDonald for far longer than was necessary.
When they were some yards away and there was no danger of being overheard, Verbena murmured under her breath, “Careful, étienne.”
“Hm?” His head snapped back to face her. Finally. “What do you mean?”
“You and Mr. McDonald, making fast friends. Much too fast.”
“I was only doing as you said! Head up, meeting the eye.” He made a V with his fingers, jabbing them toward his blue ones.
“Yes, and well done, but you’ll recall I said nothing about salivating over some Scottish dandy.”
“I do not salivate,” étienne said, “and I think ‘dandy’ is not quite the right word for Mr. McDonald.” He shook his head. “That coat. Beautifully made, of course, but did you note the color? Woefully out of season. My hands are itching to clothe him.”
“And unclothe him,” Verbena said dryly.
étienne looked at her askance. “I am not a fool, mon amie. He is handsome, yes, but it is not as if I can fall into his arms. I am going to marry you.” He patted her hand where it lay on his arm, then his eyes took on a gloomy cast. “And anyway, after Bernard…no, it is too soon to be thinking of any man’s arms.” He said this with such deep sadness that Verbena felt almost guilty for teasing him.
“Quite right,” she said. “Let us forget all that now. Pick out a suitable bow.”
étienne looked dolefully at the array of longbows in their polished stand, presided over by Lady Croydon’s gamekeeper. The male guests were clustered around, arguing over how tight one should make the string and the best manner of stance.
“How will I know what is suitable?” he asked.
“Don’t worry. Someone will tell you.” And with that, she unleashed étienne on the men of the party.
While he was occupied with all their advice—some sensible, most not—she made her way to the knot of ladies, who were clustered around another rack of shorter bows, more suited to their delicate frames.
Verbena selected one that seemed decent enough.
She wasn’t a terribly gifted archer, but that was all right; it would be unseemly for the ladies of the party to distinguish themselves too much, anyway.
One or two arrows might find their way dead center, but most would be loosed in less successful ways.
Accordingly, the targets were set up first for the ladies at a distance of only fifty yards.
Once the ladies finished their round, the men would shoot at a hundred yards.
Verbena took her place among the other women gathered about one end of the lawn, all chatting pleasantly.
She spotted Miss Hollyhock deep in conversation with Lady Jane Bell.
Verbena caught Miss Hollyhock’s hushed whispers as she approached.
“—as intimate in the carriage ride here as if they were already married. Mark my words, the match is inevitable,” Miss Hollyhock was saying. “He must be quite financially solvent if she’s entertaining his suit. Her standards have never been low. Why, she once rebuffed—”
Lady Jane’s wide eyes caught sight of Verbena over Miss Hollyhock’s shoulder. “Oh, Miss Montrose! We were just speaking of you.”
Verbena smiled. For once, she was very pleased to be the subject of rumors—so long as they were the rumors she herself sought to sow. “All good things, I hope?”
Miss Hollyhock turned, not looking the least abashed at being caught gossiping. “The difference between good and ill, I find, is less important than that which is interesting or not. You, my dear, are currently very interesting. I believe this pleases you, though of course you’ll never admit it.”
“Of course! I deny it completely,” Verbena said, though her wide smile showed her companions that she was in on the joke. As she’d hoped, the two other women laughed delicately behind their lace fans.
“May I ask what is so funny, Lady Jane?” came a pleasant voice from behind Verbena. “I confess I have a weakness for a good laugh.”
Verbena turned to find a man about her own age dressed in a serviceable archery costume in shades of rich brown.
He was on the short side for a man, with delicate features capped by a rosebud mouth.
His chestnut hair was arranged, like many young rakes’ that season, in a cherubic halo of curls about his head.
When his eyes met Verbena’s, there seemed to be a flash of something—surely not recognition, for she didn’t know him at all. Perhaps eagerness.
“Ah,” said Lady Jane, “I’m afraid Miss Montrose’s clever witticism cannot be re-created.
You would need to have heard the last quarter hour’s conversation before it made any sense.
” A polite way to avoid any embarrassment.
If men found out how women spoke about them and their prospects when they weren’t in earshot, they would surely pass some law prohibiting it.
“But let me introduce you,” Lady Jane said smoothly.
“Miss Hollyhock, Miss Montrose: this is Mr. William Forsyth. He is a great friend of my father’s. Have you met before?”
“I have not yet had the pleasure.” Mr. Forsyth stepped closer to shake first Miss Hollyhock’s hand, then Verbena’s.
His hand was slim and warm, calloused in several spots.
He held her hand a moment longer than was strictly necessary, his honey eyes staring at her.
“I should tell you now, Lady Jane does me a great service in naming me a friend of Lord Cheff. He is a reader of my little books, for which I am very grateful.”
Verbena pulled her hand from his gentle grip. “Oh? What is it you write, Mr. Forsyth?”
Lady Jane, meanwhile, feigned some need to absent herself from the conversation, gesturing vaguely. Verbena watched her go, wondering if she did not approve of whatever it was that Mr. Forsyth produced.
“The gothic, mostly,” said Mr. Forsyth. Ah, yes. Quite controversial in some circles. “Ghosts, banshees, anything that might haunt a manor house. Lately, though, I have tended toward stories of, erm, criminal mischief and mayhem.”
Verbena perked up. “Murder?” she asked, trying not to sound too interested in the subject. As much as she was fascinated by morbid stories in the London broadsheets, it did her no good to flaunt the fact in mixed company.
“Well, yes,” said Mr. Forsyth. He eyed her curiously. “Amongst other salacious things that are not fit for the eyes of young ladies. At least, that is what my critics say.”
Hm. Hm! Verbena looked at him anew. He was a rather attractive man, now that she thought of it. What he lacked in physical presence, he more than made up with wit. Her gaze lingered on his mouth, which, she observed, was pink as a kitten’s nose.
What an extraordinary thought to have. And about a man. That had never really happened to Verbena before. She blinked hard.
“These are novels?” Miss Hollyhock said with a note of reproach in her voice. “And you publish under your own name, not anonymously?”
Mr. Forsyth shifted on his feet. “Yes, that’s correct.”
Miss Hollyhock turned to Verbena with wide, disbelieving eyes.
In recent years, the novel had become a battleground in the court of public opinion.
Many successful novelists were ladies, and that alone was cause for concern.
Men often looked down their noses at such things, and if they dabbled in fiction at all, they were apt to do so secretly.
Verbena, having no time for novels, had no opinion on the subject. Although a man like Mr. Forsyth might persuade her to form one.