Chapter 7
I slept late the next morning and woke feeling tired and out of sorts. My head ached from the wine I’d drunk last night, and I’d had disturbing dreams, though I couldn’t now remember what they were. Harriet was up and breakfasting when I slid into the dining room. Papa wasn’t there, and neither was Mr Humbleton, thank goodness.
Harriet tsked when I declined a serving of scrambled eggs from the sideboard. ‘Eating something substantial might help?’
I shook my head and lightly buttered a roll. ‘Just this and a cup of tea will do.’
‘I didn’t think you had drunk that much.’
I bit into my roll and chewed. ‘I had another couple of glasses in quick succession after the pianoforte fiasco,’ I mumbled.
Harriet chuckled.
‘Where is Papa and the songbird, might I ask?’
‘They ate earlier and have gone into town,’ she said. ‘Apparently, our cousi n wanted some exercise and to discuss something with Papa. ’
Unconcerned about this information, I poured my tea and thought nothing of it.
Mary appeared at the door and bobbed. ‘Letter for you, Miss Harriet. ’
She handed over a small white envelope with a silver wafer seal, and Harriet snatched it up. It was addressed to ‘Miss Harriet Blackburn’ in swirling cursive. Mr Pringle’s handwriting, I detected.
‘Oh, Fliss, it’s from him.’
‘Indeed. Well, you’d better open it and see what h e says.’
‘I can’t!’ she gasped.
‘Give it here then.’
I wiped my buttery fingers on a napkin, took the letter from her, and scanned the contents. ‘He plans to call on you at two o’clock this afternoon. There is no mention of being measured for a suit unless it has been arranged already with Papa. From this letter, it seems you are the sole intention of his visit.’
Harriet let out a small squawk of joy, and I smiled and handed the letter to her, which she clasped to her bosom. Indeed, I could not help but be pleased for her after all she had endured on Mr Pringle’s account.
‘Oh, happy day,’ she swooned.
‘He hasn’t proposed yet,’ I cautioned. ‘We shouldn’t get our hopes up. He may just want to borrow a book.’
She gave me a withering glance.
‘But’, I added, ‘You were obviously in his thoughts since he was up with the larks penning that epistle. All indications lead to him liking you very much indeed.’
‘I hope so,’ she breathed. ‘We must find you someone, Flissy, now that you are free of any arrangement with Samuel.’
‘I am perfectly content, thank you,’ I murmured, sipping my tea and doing my best not to think of Mr Stonyface’s proud countenance. I stared out the window as if seeing the sun for the first time. ‘It is such a lovely day. I think I shall follow our cousin’s example and stroll to the lake for some fresh air.’
‘But you will be back before two o’clock to chaperone?’ Harriet said, her tone anxious.
‘Of course, dearest. I shall be back before you know I’ve gone.’
Leaving Harriet to fuss over her wardrobe and determine which dress might most please Mr Pringle’s discerning gaze, I pulled on my bonnet and strode off to the lake. We called it a ‘lake’, but in truth, it was more of a pond.
It was a mere half-mile walk, but the day was a fine one—and hot. After traversing several open fields, I reached a small copse, through which I knew a stream ran. Mopping my face with my handkerchief, I stopped for a breather and crouched down, cupping my hand under the flow of water to take a well-earned ice-cold drink. Wiping my hand on my skirt, I continued on in no hurry, ambling along the shady path and listening to the birds chirping and rustling in the trees. I found escaping into nature to be a soothing balm whenever I felt troubled.
In this case, it was two men causing me consternation. Mr Humbleton’s insistent attention to me was starting to grate, and I longed for his visit to be over or for Cassie to arrive home—whichever happened first. But that situation was like trying to close a warped cupboard door; no matter how hard I pressed to shut it neatly, the edges wouldn’t meet. I would just have to be patient and sow the seeds of her kindness and beauty and hope he took the bait.
Then there was the itch that was Mr Fitzroy. For someone I barely knew, he seemed to have inserted himself quite firmly and vividly into my life within a matter of weeks. His presence irked and intrigued me in equal measure and, I couldn’t deny it, attracted me. In general, him being tall, dark, handsome, and wealthy was enough to entice any woman, myself included; and if his nature had been more cheerful, then he would have made a desirable package indeed.
However, I disliked his irascible manner and found it annoying and uncalled for. What reason did he have for being so surly when he was rich and handsome? It made no sense to me.
But last night, he’d shown another side to his temperament, one that appreciated a humorous situation and enjoyed witty conversation. That had been a surprise. Then the touch of his hand sparking such a reaction in me had been another. I knew not what to make of him now at all, whether I should be open to what other surprises he might have in store or stay well away from him.
It was with these musings on my mind that I came out of the trees and headed down the narrow dirt path to the edge of the lake.
Wandering over to my favourite shady rock, I was about to unlace my shoes to dip my toes in the water when I spied a neatly folded pile of clothes and a pair of well-polished black boots. But no accompanying body.
Shading my eyes, I scanned the horizon and saw the dark head of a man (I assumed it was a man judging by the pair of folded breeches) bobbing in the distance.
How annoying! I’d walked here specifically to have some solitary time, and now someone else had gotten here first and stolen my respite. Well, I wasn’t going to be the one forced to go. I shaded my eyes again and realised the person (whoever it was) had seen me and was now swimming speedily in my direction. It was only when their face came into focus that I realised exactly who it was. Despite the heat of the day, my blood ran cold, then fizzed hotly in my veins. Mr Fitzroy, with his wet hair plastered against his forehead, was swimming through the glistening waters of the lake towards me and, if the neat pile of clothing was anything to go by, completely naked.
The delicious feeling of having the upper hand overtook my senses and made me giddy. Finally, I thought, I have him at my mercy. This was going to be most excellent fun and a sound payback for commenting on my humiliating pianoforte performance!
‘Good day, Miss Blackburn!’ gasped the man when he was within hailing distance, his face red from the exertion of swimming or perhaps sunburn. He seemed to be treading water and rather reluctant to stand up straight.
‘Good day, Mr Fitzroy!’ I returned merrily. ‘A lovely day for a swim, is it not?’
‘Er, yes. I did not expect that anyone would venture here. Otherwise, I would not have ... disrobed. Please forgive me.’
My eyes flicked towards his pile of clothing. ‘Quite.’
‘If you would be so kind as to leave ...’
‘Leave? Why would I leave? I’ve only just arrived after an arduous walk, and I’m rather tired, so I’d like to rest awhile. ’
I sat down firmly on the rock by the shore and rested my back against a tree, as if I were going to be there a good long while. (I actually needed to start making my way back to play chaperone to Harriet relatively soonish. But he didn’t need to know that!)
Mr Fitzroy blinked at me and swept a hand through his short dark hair to push it out of his eyes. It stuck up in front like a duck’s tail. I could see from his expression that he was flummoxed and unsure how to proceed and, by the way he was shivering slightly, that he was also desperate to get out of the water. The lake was never warm, even at the height of summer. It was fed from an underground spring that came from deep in the earth. Truth be told, I was surprised he’d managed to stay in for this long.
I watched him weigh up the situation carefully as to what to do without losing his composure or his dignity, and I knew exactly the two choices he had open to him. He could keep swimming until I grew bored and left or stride from the water with his naked body on display.
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled in anticipation. For all his crotchetiness, Mr Fitzroy was an incredibly handsome gentleman; and I, for one, would not complain if the latter was the route he decided to take.
‘Well’, he said eventually, ‘would you mind awfully if yo u closed your eyes?’
Ah, excellent! He had chosen the latter!
‘But it is such a lovely day, and the view is lovely from where I’m sitting,’ I said idly, swinging my foot. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss a second of it. So why would I close my eyes?’
Mr Fitzroy’s mouth pinched, and his brows furrowed, and I could tell he was struggling to keep his temper.
‘Miss Blackburn, you are being deliberately provoking.’
‘Not at all. Besides, shouldn’t you like to swim for a bit longer? The day is so warm,’ I added with a small smile.
‘No, I’m rather cold actually and would like to g-get out!’ It was true that his lips were turning a faint shade of purple, and his teeth were starting to chatter.
I relented slightly. Mr Fitzroy freezing to death wouldn’t be a good thing to have on my conscience.
‘It seems we are at an impasse,’ I said. ‘I want to stay here with my eyes open. You want your clothing. The only thing that stands between us is your ... indecency.’ I coughed delicately and fanned my face as if an innocent young maiden.
Mr Fitzroy’s eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared .
‘So what d-do you p-propose?’ he chatter-growled.
‘I could throw you your shirt, with a rock in it.’
‘That is your idea of a compromise?’ he said disbelievingly.
‘Yes. I can throw it so it plops in the water near you.’ I demonstrated the action with a flip of my hand for dramatic effect. ‘All you have to do is retrieve the item and put it on, and voilà! Neither one of us has to be inconvenienced.’
He sighed. ‘Very well. But m-make h-haste.’
Smiling to myself, I took up his shirt, made a bit of a show of shaking it out, and looked around for a largish rock. Spying a round smooth one that I thought might do the trick, I held it aloft so he could see. He nodded sharply and pressed his lips together, looking annoyed. It was all I could do to stop from giggling aloud. I couldn’t wait to share this with Jane. I knew she would be in fits of laughter.
Deliberately slowly, I placed the rock in the middle of his shirt, folded it over, and tied the arms tightly to fashion a kind of parcel. That done, I stood on the shore, did a couple of preparatory swings, and heaved it towards him. I wasn’t worried about hitting him because I knew my aim was pretty horrendous. I’d once played cricket with Jane and her brothers, and the balls I bowled went nowhere near the direction of the stumps.
Still, on this occasion, he did have to jerk back as the shirt parcel sailed rather close to his head before hitting the water with a resounding splash.
‘Oops, sorry!’ I called out and sat down again to await the next bit of fun: Mr Fitzroy trying to undo the shirt from the rock and then attempting to put it on while still in the water.
I heard him mutter several expletives as he fished out the rock and fiddled with the arms of the shirt.
‘I hope you’re not having difficulty?’ I enquired.
‘I’m p-perfectly f-fine,’ he answered through gritted teeth, his face mottled.
Finally, he got it untied and floated the shirt out before him in the water. Trying to put a waterlogged shirt over one’s head was no mean feat. So to rouse his spirits, I called encouragement from the shore as he attempted to get his head in the opening.
‘That’s it! Oh dear, try again! You almost had it!’
By now, I would have thought he would just give up and come out, but he was so stubborn!
After half a dozen tries, he managed to duck his head into the opening and emerged triumphantly, spitting a stream of water.
‘Bravo!’ I called and gave him a clap.
Mr Fitzroy, his jaw set in annoyance, emerged out of the lake a dripping wet Poseidon, the once-white (and now slightly mud-streaked) shirt clinging to his form. I gaped as I beheld that the transparent shirt that hung to midthigh didn’t really do much to conceal his manhood. He realised the same thing too late and hastily turned his back to me. But the clear outline of his firm buttocks under the see-through material was quite another view entirely and most pleasing to behold.
‘My breeches and jacket, if you please,’ he muttered, holding out his hand.
‘Certainly,’ I replied, passing his clothes to him and making no attempt to look away as he pulled his breeches on, covering those fine fleshly specimens out of sight.
‘Have you had enough of a show?’ Mr Fitzroy turned and gave me a withering look.
‘Do not mind me. I’ve seen it all before,’ I said breezily, then realised what kind of light that painted me in. ‘Er, I mean, in a human anatomy book, of course. In my opinion, you have nothing to be ashamed of.’
Mr Fitzroy’s face flushed bright red. ‘Boots!’ he barked at me, and I silently handed them to him, thinking his attitude was rather uncalled for. Hadn’t I given him a compliment?
After jamming his wet feet into his boots with a loud squeaking noise, he straightened.
‘Good day, Miss Blackburn. I would say it was a pleasure seeing you, but it has been most decidedly not ! ’ Without waiting for a reply or even bowing, he turned on his heel and strode off up the path.
‘You forgot your ...!’ I called after him. ‘Hat.’ But he was gone. How rude! I thought.
Feeling a little less inclined to laugh after Mr Fitzroy’s aggressive departure, I snatched up his hat and plonked it on top of my bonnet. It would make an excellent birdbath for the robins that visited our back garden!
After that excitement, I hastened back as fast as I could. It wasn’t easy walking quickly with a top hat on my head; it kept slipping off! Fearing that I had spent far too long engaging with Mr Fitzroy at the pond and that Harriet’s chance with Mr Pringle would be ruined, I clutched the hat by its brim and ran.
When I reached the house, there was no sign of a carriage outside, and I dashed up the front path.
‘Harriet!’ I called from the hallway.
She came out from the parlour in a flurry, looking pristine in a pale-pink silk dress that matched her cheeks. Her golden hair was sleek and pinned up with an array of glossy curls framing her face.
‘Fliss! I’ve nearly chewed my nails ragged! Where have you been? And why are you holding a top hat?’
I started to tell her, but she interrupted.
‘Don’t mind that now! He should be here within five minutes! You don’t have time to change, but please tidy your hair and clean your face at least! ’
She swept off back to the parlour. Feeling contrite, I raced upstairs, threw the hat on my bed, yanked off my bonnet, and attempted to re-pin my hair. I scrubbed at my face with a white washcloth, which came away grime streaked, reminding me of Mr Fitzroy’s shirt. Our encounter had fired me up no end. What an abominable man!