Chapter 12
Mr Humbleton told Papa that he’d decided to extend his stay for another week. Apparently, no matter how devoted he was to the goodly souls of his parish, securing a wife before he returned was now top priority.
However, he was smart enough to lie low for the rest of the morning, and he did not appear for luncheon. Was he hoping for Papa and Harriet to wear me down so that I would give in? I couldn’t understand why he would want to marry me when I so vehemently despised him. Was he of the opinion that love could grow where hate currently festered? I couldn’t make him out at all.
With all this going on, the time for Mr Fitzroy to call grew near, and I felt like my brain was going to explode. How could I sit and make polite conversation when I was still so angry with Papa and Harriet? I couldn’t have suggested a worse time for him to visit.
But there was nothing for it but to sit in the parlour with Mr Fitzroy’s velvet brimmed hat in my lap and wait. Harriet sat across from me, concentrating on her needlework, not speaking. I couldn’t bear it. We needed to be on better terms. Otherwise, the meeting would be even more unspeakably awkward than I envisioned it being.
In desperation, I plopped his hat on my head.
‘Harriet!’ I growled. ‘Look at me, I’m Mr Fitzroy.’ I scowled and attempted to mimic his gruff expression.
Her lips twitched. ‘Fliss, stop it. He’ll be here any minute.’
Encouraged, I strode across the room to the mantelpiece and stood there, gazing haughtily at her. ‘I never dance if I can help it,’ I said loudly in a gravelly voice. ‘Unless my partner is well known to me, and even then, I may still refuse to.’
Harriet chortled. ‘Oh, you sound just like him!’
There was a soft knock at the door. ‘A gentleman for Miss Felicity,’ said Mary, bobbing. Before I could do anything, Mr Fitzroy had appeared in the doorway, and I was caught. He stood stock-still, scanning the scene before him, and I could tell by the frown on his face that he had heard what I’d said from the hallway and that he didn’t approve of my impersonation.
Most embarrassed, I quickly rearranged my features and tossed his hat onto the sofa. His frown deepened, no doubt at my lack of concern for his personal belongings.
Harriet stood and went forward to greet him calmly as if nothing was amiss .
‘Mr Fitzroy, how nice of you to visit. Do come in! We were listening for your carriage or a horse, but we heard none. Did you walk over from Ashbury?’
‘I did,’ he said. ‘The weather was so nice today I took it upon myself to get some fresh air. I find walking to be even more pleasant when you have a visit with friends at the other end of it.’
He glowered at me, and I felt awful that he had been looking forward to this outing and I had ruined it with my silly play-acting.
‘Indeed it is,’ I said, knowing I needed to make amends. ‘Please, won’t you sit down? Mary will bring in tea shortly. And I asked our cook to make a cake especially as I knew you were coming.’
Mr Fitzroy nodded, his forehead smoothing, and I breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment there, I had thought he might snatch up his hat and stalk out the door, vowing never to speak to me again.
He lowered himself to the sofa, moving his hat out of the way first, while I sat in the chair opposite.
‘I trust Evan ... Mr Pringle ... is well?’ enquired Harriet, picking at a loose thread in her embroidery.
‘He is,’ replied Mr Fitzroy. ‘From what I have seen of him. His cousin Lady Whiteley has been keeping him occupied of late, visiting some relations of theirs in the area. ’
‘Oh how lovely!’ said Harriet. ‘It was unfortunate that we were not introduced to her at the ball.’
Mr Fitzroy clicked his tongue. ‘I shall remedy that and let her know you would like to make her acquaintance. No doubt she will invite you both to tea. It is one of her favourite pastimes.’
I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose in displeasure. Taking tea with Rosalind Whiteley wasn’t something I particularly wanted to do. But Harriet seemed well disposed to the notion because she said, ‘Oh yes, please do. I would like that!’
‘How long does she plan to stay at Ashbury?’ I asked, being careful to keep my voice neutral and not give any hint of jealousy.
‘I am not sure,’ said Mr Fitzroy, matching my tone. ‘I am not privy to her diary.’
He gave me a glance that I couldn’t quite read, but it was as if he knew what I was really asking: How is it between you? And are you attached to her in any way, shape, or form?
My eyes lingered on his, and a tendril of something grew between us—a feeling that tugged in my chest and made me want to ask him all manner of questions that were quite unsuitable.
But I clenched my hands in my lap and forced myself to look away. Mr Fitzroy, in his fine suit and neatly tied cravat, was altogether too handsome; and it was difficult not to feel overwhelmed by his presence at such close quarters. It was astounding, really, that he was sitting here in our humble parlour when I knew he was used to much grander surroundings.
The door to the parlour swung open. ‘Here’s Mary with the tea,’ I began in relief. But before I could finish my sentence, Mr Humbleton strolled in and let out an exclamation of surprise when he saw that the room contained our small party.
‘Oh, do forgive me! I didn’t realise we were having company. Good day, Mr Fitzroy.’ He gave a low bow, which Mr Fitzroy returned with a nod.
‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’ said our cousin, plopping into the nearest armchair and crossing his legs.
‘I was just retrieving my hat from Miss Felicity.’ Mr Fitzroy gestured to the accessory, now resting on the arm of the sofa.
‘Your hat?’ said Mr Humbleton, looking confused. ‘Pray tell, how did Miss Felicity come to be in possession of it?’
Mr Fitzroy’s eyes met mine again, but this time, more intently. Heat rose in my face as I remembered him emerging from the pond, his wet shirt not leaving much to the imagination .
‘I ... I found it in a field last week,’ I said, not knowing how to continue with that line of reasoning. But Mr Fitzroy came readily to my aid.
‘Yes, she did,’ he stated smoothly. ‘And she kindly conveyed as such to me at the ball. I’d been out riding, you see, and only realised I was without my hat when I returned to Ashbury.’
I stared at him, a little taken aback at the complexity of his fib. But it seemed he was just as anxious as I to conceal the true interaction that had taken place between us, no doubt in case my clergyman cousin deemed it unholy!
‘But how did she know it was yours? That is remarkable powers of deduction, even for my dear cousin, whose intelligence I esteem greatly.’ He smirked at me.
I felt like scoffing; ‘esteem greatly?’ What poppycock!
‘Not so remarkable,’ I returned curtly. ‘We met by chance one day in Overton, and he was wearing it then. I took notice of it since it suited him so well ...’
Mr Fitzroy’s lips curled into a smile, and I realised I’d unwittingly paid him a compliment. He inclined his head to me, and Mr Humbleton looked displeased.
‘So that is the story of the hat! Where is Mary with that tea and cake?’ I said, desperate to change the subject.
‘I’ll go and find out,’ said Harriet hastily. Now that Mr Humbleton had joined us, she could leave the room; before, it would have been impossible as Mr Fitzroy and I would have been left alone together.
‘Here we are!’ announced Harriet a moment later. She re-entered the room carrying a serving plate upon which was perched a gigantic sponge cake; jam oozed down its sides, and the top was covered liberally with swirls of cream. Mary followed behind with a tray of tea-things.
‘I hope you like sponge cake,’ I said to Mr Fitzroy, noticing he had raised an eyebrow at the size of it. ‘I’m sure I told our cook we were having one guest, not twenty.’
His mouth quirked. ‘I do indeed. Might I trouble you for a generous slice? After all, I need fortification for my return journey.’
Feeling pleased that I’d made the right decision on the type of cake that he liked, as soon as Harriet set it down on the sideboard, I jumped up and did the honours. Plunging the knife into the heart of it, I cut Mr Fitzroy a man-sized piece and hefted it onto a china plate.
I was about to hand it to him when Mr Humbleton, who was sitting in proximity, cleared his throat in that annoying guttural way he had.
‘Cousin, I do believe you should give me the first slice.’
I swivelled. ‘Pardon?’
He gestured to the cake plate I held, which was hovering in front of him. ‘It is an old-fashioned formality to be sure, but one that is still generally accepted—the gentleman of the house should be served first.’
I narrowed my eyes. I had never heard of such a formality, which meant there was a strong chance he was fibbing.
‘I do not know what you are talking about.’
He grasped the edge of the plate and tugged it towards him.
‘It is well known and practised where I come from,’ he insisted.
I tugged it back, feeling annoyed. ‘We are not in West Hertfordshire now, sir. Kindly unhand the plate.’
Harriet was looking between the two of us nervously but decided not to intervene.
‘It is also common courtesy’, he continued glibly, ‘since I am your intended ... husband.’
I sensed, rather than saw, Mr Fitzroy start in surprise at this information.
‘Let. It. Go!’ I hissed. With an almighty tug, I wrenched the plate out of Mr Humbleton’s clammy hand. But the cake, although dense, was not sufficiently anchored to it; and it flew in an arc, over my shoulder, and landed neatly in Mr Fitzroy’s lap, splattering cream, and jam all over his black silk trousers.
‘Oh no!’ cried Harriet, sounding distressed. With a fierce glare at Mr Humbleton, I took up a napkin and went over to assist Mr Fitzroy, who was gazing fixedly at the slice of cake in his lap.
‘I am so very sorry,’ I said quietly, holding the plate level with his thigh. ‘If you would allow me ...’ With my hand, I levered the cake off his lap and onto the plate in one swift motion but saw, with dismay, it had left behind a mess.
Using the napkin, I attempted to wipe the cream off his lap, but there was a lot of it. As I gently patted here and dabbed there, I could not help but notice Mr Fitzroy had begun breathing quite erratically. He suddenly grasped my wrist with his large warm hand and murmured, ‘Miss Blackburn, please do not concern yourself.’
‘But ...’ I stared at the greasy stain, feeling terrible.
‘Should I fetch a jug of water and some soap?’ Harriet called over.
‘Thank you, but no, I do not think it will help,’ said Mr Fitzroy. He let go of my wrist and stood abruptly, brushing off the remaining crumbs that clung, while I hovered with the napkin, wondering if I should attempt to dab at his lap again. He seemed wholly intent not to let me near it.
Mr Humbleton, meanwhile, had proceeded to cut himself a large slice of cake and was now forking it into his mouth in a self-satisfied manner.
‘If you need some new trousers, Mr Fitzroy, I’m sure Mr Blackburn would be delighted to assist,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘There is no need. I shall ask our housekeeper to attend to these forthwith.’ Mr Fitzroy collected his hat, and I saw that he meant to take his leave.
‘Oh, you don’t have to go,’ I said quickly.
‘I feel I must, for the sake of my trousers,’ he said with a half smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He bowed to me. ‘Good day, Miss Blackburn. I will leave you to your sister and your ... fiancé.’
He nodded to Harriet and Mr Humbleton, then strode swiftly to the door and was out of the room before I could stop him. I let out a small cry of anguish, for there was more than just damaged trousers at stake.
I hated Mr Humbleton at that moment. He’d managed to ruin a lovely tea party and a blossoming ... friendship ... and he hadn’t even been invited.
I rounded on him, a blaze of anger surging through me. ‘How dare you say you are my intended husband in front of Mr Fitzroy!’ I said tightly. ‘You are not , and I trust you never will be. I could never marry a man I despise so immensely!’
Not waiting for a response, I ran out of the room, hoping to catch up to Mr Fitzroy and rectify matters—namely tell him in not so many words that I was still a single lady and very much unattached!
Though I was fond of walking and deemed myself of a hardy constitution, Mr Fitzroy had longer legs than I and was striding so hurriedly that he was halfway across the field by the time I’d even reached the first stile. Nevertheless, I determinedly gave chase, lifting up my skirt and dodging cowpats, such was the urgency in me to convey the truth. If he should go to sleep tonight thinking I was engaged to that man, then it was almost as if my fate would be sealed (at least in his mind). I had to put him right.
But I was not wearing my walking boots. I was in thin-soled slippers more suited to a ballroom than an uneven ground with rough clods of earth and divots from horses and cows. Suffice to say, I tripped over several times, managing to right myself on each occurrence but was not so lucky on the last, when I stepped into a hole and went over on my ankle, falling heavily. I cried out and held it tightly for some moments to quench the pain. When it had lessened a little, gingerly, I stood and tested it with a single step. Although sore, it was not debilitating, and I continued (albeit limping) after the impervious figure who was now far ahead and drawing farther away from me.
‘Mr Fitzroy! Stop!’ I shouted to him. But his top hat disappeared over the brow of a hillock and vanished from sight .
I let out a cry of frustration.
Then it began to rain, a miserable downpour that soon wet me through.
At this time, I was closer to Jane’s house than my own. So I veered towards it and limped along as best as I could, leaning against trees and fence posts to rest. My ankle by now was truly painful and swelling fast. If only Mr Fitzroy had deigned to look back, I was sure he would have come to my rescue, even carried me in his strong arms to Ashbury. It was a romantic fancy indeed! And one that was comforting enough to keep me hobbling onwards through the mud.
It was in this heightened state of emotion that I pounded on the Austens’ front door. Amy took one look at my bedraggled, sodden appearance and quickly ushered me in out of the rain, where I proceeded to leave a large puddle on their flagstone entranceway.
‘Come through to the kitchen, miss, where it’s warm.’
I stepped forward and almost buckled from the pain shooting up my leg. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. My ankle,’ I gasped. Now that the happy vision of Mr Fitzroy carrying me had vanished into thin air, I could no longer walk.
Amy put her strong arm around my waist, and I leaned upon her shoulder heavily and made slow wincing progress to the kitchen, where the stove was emanating a comforting warmth .
She pulled out a chair for me and another to prop up my ankle. ‘I’ll fetch Miss Jane. She’ll know what to do.’
That makes sense, I thought wearily. Jane was a stoic defender for the weak and injured. Whenever the animals of the Austen menagerie were ill, she always wanted to nurse them back to health, whereas her mother was more likely to put them to sleep to save the bother.
There was the sound of slippered feet running, and Jane burst into the room.
‘Flissy, what on earth has happened? Your hair!’
Wonderingly, I touched my hair, discovering it had come loose from its carefully pinned chignon and was hanging like rat’s tails on either side of my face and dripping down my back.
I opened my mouth, but my throat constricted, and no words came out. Where should I even begin to explain the day I was having?
I shook my head at her. ‘Don’t try to speak if you don’t want to,’ she said kindly, and tears welled in my eyes.
‘Amy said you had hurt your ankle?’
I nodded mutely and pointed to my left foot, currently propped on the chair. She removed my slipper and gently pressed around my stockinged ankle with her fingers, then moved it to the left and to the right, and I let out a gasp. ‘Is that sore? ’
‘A little,’ I croaked.
‘I do not think it is broken, perhaps just a nasty sprain.’ Straightening up, she sprang into practical mode. ‘Amy, please could you fetch a towel, a bowl of warm water, and a bandage.’
After washing my ankle and binding it tightly, Jane dried off my hair and cleaned smudges of dirt off my face. As she helped me climb the stairs to her and Cassie’s parlour, she talked reassuringly all the while, saying that I needn’t worry and that I could stay with them for the night and that she’d asked Amy to look out one of Cassie’s dresses for me since she was more my size and that I would be dry and warm in no time.
As we made our way up, step by agonising step, my distress about Mr Fitzroy not turning around when I had fallen morphed into the feeling of utmost relief. Imagine if he had carried me to Ashbury? Turning up in this state with Rosalind staying there would have been mortifying. I doubted she would have wiped the dirt off my face, wrapped my ankle, or loaned me one of her fine dresses. No, I was in the best place possible—with my dear friend Jane, who would look after me.