Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“Bridget is quite comfortable on horseback,” Mr. Huxley said. “She was particularly keen to canter all over the park, but alas, my steed wasn’t up to that challenge. How did you and Jordy fare?”
The daffodils were still making a good show along the wall, the aspens were still a gauzy, hopeful green, but Sorcha was not as unsettled as when she and Mr. Huxley had most recently trod the garden path.
“We took a turn out here,” Sorcha said, “though in Jordy’s case, that meant pelting the whole circuit several times, and then we sat on the steps, and I showed him your card trick.
He never did guess the secret, but when I explained it to him, he took the deck from me and was determined to learn how to shuffle without peeking. ”
“Shuffling cards is one of myriad masculine skills nobody warns a boy he should master.”
“Like peeing a circle in the snow?” Truly, Sorcha’s spirits were improving. “Sorry. Blame my brothers.” Blame an incorrigible curiosity about what a flustered Bernard Huxley would look like.
“Or thank your brothers. If you are the parent of a son, particularly a son without a father, tolerance for masculine vulgarity can only be an asset. Bridget and I ran into an acquaintance of mine who also had a daughter or niece or connection of some sort in the saddle. The young ladies appeared to enjoy each other’s company. ”
Perhaps the desire to fluster was mutual. “Who is your acquaintance?”
“Lord Greymoor. He’s horse-mad and serves as his family’s groom of the nursery.
All the Alexander children begin their equestrian education with him.
He also has an interest in ancient texts relating to horsemanship.
He recalled that I’d taken firsts in Latin and Greek, though we missed being academic contemporaries by several years.
He struck up a correspondence with me regarding some Greek translations. ”
Sorcha mentally turned pages on various Society guest lists.
“Greymoor’s brother is a marquess. Their lady cousin married a viscount.
Greymoor’s earldom appeared pretty much out of nowhere—meaning the marquess lent a fortune to the crown—and another viscount lurks among the in-laws.
All of those men are married to women who move in Society.
Be very mindful of your bachelorhood, Mr. Huxley. ”
“Greymoor was sent to inspect me?”
“Possibly. Given what I know of that family, he might have been sent to ensure you are being treated properly. Heathgate, the marquess, was something like sixth in line for the title. A boating accident took the lives of half the family, and the marquess came to Mayfair with a very dim view of polite society. He’s accepted everywhere, and I’m told marriage has mellowed him somewhat, but he’ll exert himself on behalf of unlikely heirs and outsiders. I’ve always found him charming.”
“You know him?”
“He stood up with me twice when I was new to Town.” Two kindnesses that let all and sundry know that Sorcha had allies. Barclay had been amused the first time and annoyed the second.
A pair of robins flitted to the top of the garden wall. Sidled a few steps this way and that, then flew off to perch on the balustrade. Mayfair mating games everywhere.
“I will assume,” Mr. Huxley said, “that Greymoor was simply enjoying a hack with a daughter or niece in the saddle before him. Bridget declared her love of cantering, and the other girl—I forget her name—seconded the motion. They would still be debating the merits of grays and bays had not Greymoor declared that the horses needed to have their breakfast oats.”
The outing had been a success, about which Sorcha was ambivalent. She paused to extract a pair of green leaves from the bowl of the shallow fountain at the foot of the garden.
“I cannot provide Bridget a pony before Jordy has earned his own mount.”
“Oh, but you could, and Jordy might not even mind. Not every boy was born to sit a horse or enjoy sitting a horse. A gentleman should know how to ride, just as he should grasp the rudiments of fencing, shooting, smoking, sums, natural philosophy, sketching, history, languages, games of chance, cricket, current events, and flirtation. Jordy need not excel in the saddle.”
Mr. Huxley passed over a handkerchief bearing a mess of embroidery in one corner that might have been some initials.
Sorcha wiped at her wet fingers. “Did you stitch this yourself?”
“Lorne and his lady are raising an enormous brood, and needlepoint is expected of even the youngest family members. I believe that one was done by a fellow named Toddman, who made a gift of it to me.”
Sorcha folded up the linen and passed it back. “I do not foresee a career on Bond Street for young Toddman.” And yet, as ridiculous as the monogram was, Mr. Huxley carried the handkerchief and used it before others.
He’d taken Bridget for her outing, not left the task to a groom, and he was inquiring about Jordy’s progress toward the skills of a card sharp. He would make somebody a kind and considerate husband.
The next thought had Sorcha staring into the fountain as if it held the secrets of Delphi. Bernard Huxley would be a good father. Was that why Chanderton had cast him in the role of guardian?
“I have been invited to Her Grace’s at home on Thursday,” Mr. Huxley said. “Would I be imposing very greatly if I asked you to attend as well?”
As he asked, he studied the statue of Athena at the top of the garden. She bore her spear in her right hand. The robins were sitting on her left shoulder.
“I will not only attend as well, I will accept your escort, if that’s what you’re after. The duchess is in every way loyal to her husband. If you’ve been asked to attend, then Chanderton has decreed that you are to be accepted as a full-fledged member of the Dolforth lower ranks.”
“We had dinner at his club a few weeks ago. The wine was indifferent, but the beefsteak was quite good. I suspected supper at the club was some rite of passage, and then he hosted me to lunch recently. There are others?”
“A few. After Thursday, the hostesses will be on notice that you are to be received. The invitations will start on Friday morning, and you should answer each one, accepting as many as you can manage.”
He offered his arm, and Sorcha took it.
“I feel as I did in Paris last autumn. I’ve been reading French since I was in leading strings.
I’ve spoken French, or an Englishman’s version thereof, for at least twenty years, but for all I could comprehend upon setting foot on French soil, I might as well have been studying Ancient Norse.
Everybody spoke too rapidly, and with a provincial accent, and using vernacular that wasn’t in the lesson books. ”
“And then,” Sorcha said, “they all pretended they could not comprehend your perfectly correct French.”
He peered over at her. “Precisely. By the end of the second week, I was managing adequately, but the experience was lowering.”
“Try being a Scottish bride in Mayfair, Mr. Huxley. Nobody can understand your English, and no matter which fork you use, you didn’t use it correctly. You picked it up too soon, not soon enough, and your cutlery clattered when it touched your plate. Mortal sins, all.”
“The English beauties were angry because you’d cut a ducal widower from the herd. I suppose I’d best avoid ducal daughters?”
“They won’t trouble you. They’ll dangle after German princes and Russian archdukes. The daughters of barons, viscounts, and courtesy lords will have their eyes on you. How did we get onto this dreary topic?”
“The at home, though Mayfair matchmaking is more a matter of irritation than dreariness for me. I have no time for gratuitous socializing simply to amuse the matchmakers. I am so far behind on my correspondence that my head clerk is likely considering retirement, while the junior ranks foment insurrection among the new recruits.”
He took his business obligations seriously. Chanderton would approve of that.
Sorcha approved of that too. “Avoid linen closets and young ladies who claim to have pebbles in their slippers. Another common ploy is to fret miserably over a lost brooch, ring, or bracelet last seen in a secluded location. In the park, well-trained puppies run away with perplexing frequency. Next thing you know, the young lady will be searching your figurative pockets when the chaperones are likely to find her at her treasure hunt.”
“You aren’t trying to rattle me, are you?”
He was rattled, if his air of weary impatience was any indication. Discomfiting Mr. Huxley was not as gratifying as it should have been.
“Not this time. Be careful, Bernard.”
He sat on the steps, a cold, hard bench, on which he looked utterly at ease. Sorcha took the place beside him.
“I ought not to need the warning,” he said.
“My mother thought to snabble Lord Jerome by sharing her favors with him. She neglected to account for her own family’s appetite for coin.
By mutual agreement, she was consigned to the arms of a baron’s spare.
The Dolforths augmented her settlements and made a generous provision for me in the bargain.
Mama’s relations were spared the expense of more Seasons and the scandal she courted. All very tidy and pragmatic.”
As Mr. Huxley tried to keep his affairs tidy and pragmatic. He wasn’t Scottish, but he did know what it was to dwell under an invisible cloud.
“Have you told anybody else that story?”
“Lorne certainly knows of my past, as does St. Didier, but no. I do not bruit ancient history about. Now we truly are on a dreary topic.”
And yet, he’d told her. Confided in her. “Bernard, do you have friends up in Yorkshire?”
“I consider Lorne and his baroness my friends.”
Such good friends that they’d consigned him to Paris, London, and the City, while they embarked on wedded bliss, somehow already complete with an enormous brood of offspring.
“Anybody else?”