Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“We have hill races in Yorkshire.” No way to start a conversation, but Bernard was quite out of small talk.
“After fifteen minutes in Annette’s company, I felt as if I could have scaled sheer vertical inclines at a dead run and gone for miles at high altitudes thereafter.
A gentleman ought not to say such things. ”
Sorcha closed the door behind him, kissed his cheek, and led him to the library’s reading table.
“And yet, I still account you a gentleman in every particular. Did she chatter?”
To be greeted thus, with a sympathetic smile and a kiss, was stupefyingly sweet.
“Annette chattered, and giggled, and chattered some more with occasional odd sounds sprinkled throughout, probably meant to resemble French. ‘Dear Cousin Bernard, might we stop for an ice?’ ‘Cher Cousin Bernard, we approach the very best confectionery in all of creation.’ ‘Bernard’—she addressed me simply as Bernard before we’d traveled three streets from the park—‘might you not relent for one teeny-tiny little stop at the pie shop?’”
“You stood firm?”
“Even in the face of her French. ‘Chair Coo-soon’? Whatever could that mean? When I denied her importuning, I felt like I was both a bully and being bullied. No wonder Coraline is so anxious to see Annette married. If Annette’s sisters imitate her example, the bachelors will flee Mayfair for the Continent. ”
Sorcha took the place at the head of the table. Bernard held her chair, then seated himself at her right hand. She was in wonderful good looks, all serene and amused and kissable.
“I am whining.” He gazed around the library, noting the open curtains, though the view looked out onto the darkening garden. One could sit with one’s intended in a shadowy garden… “Whining is unbecoming. I beg your pardon. How has your day gone?”
“Do you know, my husband never once asked me that?”
Bernard risked a stroke of his fingers over the back of her hand.
“I am asking because I want to know. I can tell you I sat at my desk this afternoon grateful to attend to my work rather than endure hat shops and cousinly presumptions.” He’d also sat at his desk wishing he’d been able to linger in the park.
“My day has been peaceful,” Sorcha said. “The children tired themselves out chasing dragons through the sky, and Gilchrist and Miss Gelling could not be happier. Why did you suggest I sack Entwhistle?”
Bernard hadn’t had to suggest it. Sorcha had leaped to the accurate conclusion all on her own. Entwhistle made him uneasy, but that was hardly evidence against the man.
“My primary complaint is that he lacks the imagination and experience to keep up with a lively little fellow like Jordy.”
Sorcha rose and tugged the bell-pull three times, then resumed her seat. “That wasn’t your only complaint.”
“This has been on your mind?”
“Jordy isn’t himself of late. The bump on the head might be to blame, but today was not Entwhistle’s half day, and there he was trotting about with Annette and Eglantine.
He and Jordy have been having great fun with sums, though that was your idea, not his.
Why did Coraline sing Entwhistle’s praises when he’s less than adequate for the post? ”
Not quite the same thing as admitting that Entwhistle was a spy, or even that he had divided loyalties. Nonetheless, Sorcha was worried—perhaps a good thing—and managing the whole burden of that worry on her own.
Definitely a bad thing. “We would not have left Mirobello without Jordy, Sorcha. I would have mustered the whole village to join the search, and we would not have relented until he was safe. As it is, we located him after less than ten minutes of concerted effort.”
“You found him.”
“With Eglantine’s assistance, yes.”
Sorcha held out her hand, and Bernard laced his fingers through hers. Serious talk, indeed.
“Bernard, I suspect Jordy is afraid. This is pointless, of course. He’s merely a little boy growing up in the normal fashion with a normal complement of scrapes, bruises, tummy aches, and falls.
Nonetheless, when I mentioned the Duchess’s Day at Chanderton, he announced that he didn’t want to go.
Jordy loves Duchess’s Day. We all do, even the staff. ”
“What is the Duchess’s Day?” And if the Greers were in attendance, Bernard might have to come down with a roaring case of the Vicar’s Lament, a mysterious ailment known to strike on fine spring days, curable by fresh air and proximity to an unbaited fishing pole.
Jordy and Bridget could suffer a touch as well. The young were not immune simply because they hadn’t taken holy orders.
“Two days before the ball, Her Grace of Chanderton opens the Chanderton seat to family and neighbors, and we gather for a grand picnic. The village has a fete in the morning, and the afternoon is for playing pall-mall, paddling around on the lake, stuffing ourselves with good food, and ambling about the park. We toddle back into Town the next morning fortified for the ball and quite in charity with Their Graces.”
“And Jordy does not want to participate?” Bernard liked the sound of this outing, but for the possible guest list. “I take it the Greers attend?”
“Of course. Your brother might even turn up.”
Bernard was growing very curious about this brother of his. “I’ve written to him. Her Grace gave me his direction. No reply yet.”
Bernard wanted to meet his brother, and a family gathering was the ideal place for that. He did not want to attend Duchess’s Day. Rather, he did not want Jordy and Bridget to attend if the Greers were on hand, which they were sure to be.
The matter wanted thought. He extracted a small folding calendar from his pocket and laid it open on the table. “How many of these irritations can I delete from my calendar without being banished from Mayfair altogether?”
Sorcha leaned nearer, bringing with her a hint of jasmine. “You are in demand, Bernard. Any other bachelor would be flattered.”
“This bachelor fell asleep at his beloved’s breakfast table.
Not well done of me. I have been reminded that I need sleep.
Ergo, some of this,”—he waved a hand over the calendar—“must go. Lorne explained to me that I will be approached in the clubs with discreet inquiries regarding investment opportunities, but I must first pass muster with the hostesses.”
She drew the calendar toward her. “Then you can send all the regrets you please to Lady Bloomton. My gracious, she is entertaining as if… Well, she does have three daughters and a horde of nieces and goddaughters to launch.”
“Forget all about hill races. I will soon be flying high above London like an errant dragon. Do I send regrets because the family is well fixed and avoids commerce?”
“You send regrets because they are not well fixed. They cannot be a business asset to you, and you cannot be a social asset to them.” Sorcha rose, went to the desk, produced a gum eraser from a drawer, and returned to the table.
She began delicately eliminating Lady Bloomton from Bernard’s social life.
“Will she be offended?” he asked.
“Exceedingly. She might even treat you to the cut direct, though even for her, that would be imprudent. You can also send regrets to Mrs. Culver, though she’s a perfectly gracious hostess with no unmarried daughters.
Her challenge is her sons. One of them ought to marry well, but they are both inveterate scamps.
If they approach you about investment opportunities, they are looking for unrealistic returns. ”
Three more outings fell to the gum eraser. With each rubbing-out, Bernard felt his heart and mind growing lighter. Sorcha excised several more hostesses from Bernard’s calendar, and he began to feel positively jolly.
All that time to spend with Sorcha and the children. All that time to train an assistant, whose earnest labor would free Bernard yet still more to spend time with his loved ones…
“You have an objection?” Sorcha paused with the eraser poised above yet another wasted evening.
“No objection at all, except… Would any of these entertainments appeal to you?”
Sorcha beamed at him, favoring him with the smile he classified as her Highland Houri expression. Full of mischief and warmth.
“Mrs. Culver’s card party. The high sticklers aren’t invited, the play is modest, and the company is often hilarious.
Her sons are witty, and their friends are witty.
The elders get into the spirit of the evening—you would be surprised at how Their Graces of Moreland can banter when the duchess is inclined to flirt with her spouse—and the buffet is magnificent. ”
“Will you come with me?” Bernard’s question was far from casual.
Sorcha added a note to the calendar. “I believe I shall. The proceeds go to charity, of course, and Mrs. Culver ensures there are proceeds and that they truly do go to charity.”
“Might you choose another outing we could share?” In for a penny…
Sorcha set down her pencil and rose to pull the drapes closed. “I know what you’re about, Bernard. I’m flattered.”
He got up and started on the curtains at the other end of the room. “What am I about?”
“You are courting me. Therefore, we must be seen together in public. That is doubtless how it works in Yorkshire, but it wasn’t true for me here in Mayfair.
I’d dance the occasional dance with Lord Barclay, we hacked out together a few times, but I danced and hacked out with any number of bachelors. One did as one was told.”
One had regrets about that, apparently. “You are in charge of yourself this time around.” And reluctant to exchange her freedom for the bonds of matrimony. Bernard closed the last of the drapes, which left him standing two feet from his beloved.
That was the word. That was the exact, right word. “How would you like to be courted, Sorcha?”
“Affectionately?” She crossed her arms and became fascinated with the calendar sitting open on the desk. “Quietly?”
Bernard plucked an idea from the growing pile of insecurities weighting his heart. “Sincerely?”