Chapter Five
Any judicious Reader may by the reading thereof much instruct himselfe.
It had been three years since Frances set foot in Greenwood Hall.
Before her sister Jane’s marriage to Philip Egerton, Frances had attended a card party and a ball there, hosted by Mr. Alexander Beck, the infrequent tenant to whom Iffley now only referred in disapproving undertones.
On those two occasions she had seen the candlelit drawing room and the long gallery which served for the ball, but now she supposed she would become intimate with the house in its daytime moods as well, beginning with that very dinner.
It being the end of June, when the Barstows descended from the Dere coach at three in the afternoon, another full six hours remained before the summer sun would set.
Frances had chosen her new round gown of flowered calico, her front hair curled and her back hair wound up and held by combs.
Even Maria had to confess she looked very well, and Mrs. Dere seconded this opinion with smiling approval.
It was perhaps premature on Frances’ part, based only on the pony-cart incident with Messrs.
Tilson and Hearne and the glimpse of Mr. Midgecomb at church that morning, but she suspected she would be well able to resist the charms of all three gentlemen.
She was determined to do justice to her benefactress, however, by going through the appropriate motions.
Therefore the new gown and the care taken with her appearance.
When ushered into the drawing room, the Deres and Barstows doubled the size of the gathering, and Frances thought with relief that the dinner would not be so very uncomfortable.
Those familiar to her outnumbered the newcomers by far, and of the latter, she already liked Miss Eveleigh and Miss Jarvis.
Indeed, it was the three Oxford dons who must be fighting apprehensiveness.
Only look at Mr. Midgecomb, who, after straightening from his bow, resumed fiddling with a paper spill in his fingers.
Mr. Tilson did not fidget, but he stood stiff as a tin soldier, a set half smile on his face.
Mr. Hearne alone regarded them all with utter serenity, blinking and turning his head from side to side as if he were a cat reviewing an army.
What a ridiculous man! thought Frances with a grimace, only to note something almost as ridiculous. For there stood Miss Jarvis beside Miss Eveleigh—beside Jane, rather—with a patch over her good eye!
“Miss Jarvis,” Frances addressed her, when she made her way to the pair. “Are you all right? Did you injure yourself since this morning?”
“Nothing of the kind,” returned the older lady crisply, her wandering eye failing in its attempt to meet Frances’ gaze.
“You will never guess, Frances,” Jane Eveleigh spoke up. “It was a most marvelous coincidence! You see, Annabel and I were in the library after church this morning, and what should be lying on one of the tables but a volume of Buffon’s Histoire Naturelle? You are familiar with it?”
“The baron has several of the volumes at Perryfield, but I confess I have never looked into them,” she said.
“Nor would we have,” rejoined Jane, “only this particular volume was open to a section entitled, ‘Dissertation sur la cause du Strabisme ou Des Yeux Louches.’ Strabismus is the condition affecting poor Annabel, don’t you know.”
Frances did know. It would be impossible for anyone who saw Miss Jarvis not to know.
Here the afflicted Miss Jarvis took up the thread, pointing to the patch over her eye. “Of course I seized the book and read the article—I had to.”
“And the Comte de Buffon suggests wearing a patch over the stronger eye, in order to strengthen the weaker one!” finished Jane triumphantly. “We no sooner read this, than we rushed away to fashion Annabel a patch.”
“Of course the comte says it must be worn regularly for quite some time before the muscles will strengthen,” sighed Miss Jarvis, “and I fear I can hardly read or do needlework with it on, but we thought it could not hurt to try.”
“That’s splendid,” said Frances sincerely.
“What serendipity to stumble upon such information. I wonder if it was Mr. Beck who left the book there, or perhaps one of his guests, when he was here most recently.” Her brow furrowed.
“It must have been one of the guests because Mr. Beck did not strike me as someone who reads much, to himself or for others’ entertainment.
” Another possibility occurred to her, when she remembered Mr. Hearne in the sheepwalk, watching the butterfly’s erratic flight.
But that seemed even less likely than Mr. Beck.
If Frances had not been told Mr. Hearne was an Oxford don, she might have doubted whether he was even literate.
Perhaps he perused Buffon to admire the many illustrations?
“I wish you would inspect the library collection, Frances,” urged Jane. “Then we might ask the young men to read to us after dinner. There is always pleasure to be had in good reading, and it would give us something to fall back on this summer when other activities pall. Activities like music.”
“What very good advice,” said Frances. “I’m afraid that if I am called upon to play often, my entire repertoire will be run through in a week!
It is not for lack of practice, but I sadly lack the facility to read unfamiliar music at speed, so I can only play the same pieces over and over, if I don’t want to disgrace myself. ”
“I know exactly what you mean! My reading is slow as well, and I positively cannot play anything new if anyone is watching me,” Jane agreed. “I daresay we will both be called upon to play tonight, and then what will we do the remaining weeks?”
Both girls could not repress a shiver of dread, and then they laughed.
“Will you go and look now, Frances? Before dinner? I can’t go with you because Mama will say I am shirking my duties as hostess. Or daughter of the hostess.”
“Mm.” Frances thought it equally likely Mrs. Dere would raise similar objections, but Mrs. Dere was a reasonable woman, and once Frances explained her thinking…
“I’ll be quick as I can,” she promised, half to herself.
With Jane’s directions and a last glance to see Mrs. Dere in conversation with the elder Eveleighs, Frances stole away.
As she would have guessed, the Greenwood Hall library was not so well-stocked as Perryfield’s, and many of the books still had unopened leaves.
There was a set of Bell’s Shakespeare in red morocco, Mr. Johnson’s Dictionary, an atlas, the few volumes of Buffon—the “serious” books—above a shelf of novels, some of which Frances recognized from the circulating library.
Interesting as the latter might be, they might not do for reading in company, if Mr. or Mrs. Eveleigh held with Mr. Vicesimus Knox in believing that sentimental fictions might “pollute the heart” and “give the mind a degree of weakness.” Or if the company were made to hear a ticklish passage.
It had better be Shakespeare. But even then everyone would have to take the trouble to find their favorite extracts in the octavo twenty-volume set!
Wandering past the red velvet sofa, Frances peeked into the escritoire and clapped her hands to discover two books leaning against the side which might serve better: The Devil on Two Sticks, which always had humorous bits in it, and Enfield’s The Speaker.
At the school in Oxford run by Frances’ sister Adela and her husband Gerard Weatherill, they frequently chose passages from The Speaker for the boys to recite.
Gordon and Peter likely already had some by heart!
Taking up the copy, Frances was on the point of returning to the drawing room when she paused again before the shelf of novels.
She had never read Mrs. Davys’ The Reform’d Coquet, being too shy to suggest such a title when Lord Dere took their requests.
Perhaps she might venture just a peep inside?
She was not surprised to discover this was one book where the pages had already been cut—
“‘Come to my Arms my lovely Charmer,’” Frances read furtively from the first place the book fell open, “‘and let me whisper out my very Soul upon thy lovely Bosom. Hold, my Lord, said she, before you run into those violent Raptures, let me know your Designs—’”
The library door opened.
Caught in the very act, Frances froze with breath held, still clutching The Reform’d Coquet.
It was Mr. Hearne.
Without a glance toward the bookcase, he strode to the escritoire, opened it, and gave a muffled exclamation. He snatched up The Devil on Two Sticks and looked behind and under it. Tossing it aside, he searched a few of the drawers and then backed up a step to inspect the carpet.
It seemed Mr. Butterfly could concentrate his attention if he chose, for there was nothing stupid in his expression now, but Frances failed to note this, occupied as she was with fear of being detected.
She must get rid of the incriminating evidence.
In one swift motion, she thrust The Reform’d Coquet behind her on the shelf, turned her back on it, and snatched up Enfield’s volume again.
Such a whirlwind of movement naturally drew Adam Hearne’s eye, and he gave a start. “Why, M-Miss Barstow! That is—Miss Bargrove! Miss Bilbo!”
“You were right the first time. It’s Miss Barstow.
Please pardon me, I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy.
Miss Eveleigh sent me to fetch something for the company to read after dinner, if we like,” Frances babbled.
“Perhaps you were too? Perhaps you were—er—seeking this?” Guiltily she held out The Speaker.
“I thought it might do, as it has such a varied selection, and-and-and my sister—that is, I know they use it at Keene’s.
The school. The boy’s school in Oxford.”