Chapter Five #2
That was a near one, thought Adam. And a good reminder that, even if I think a room is empty, I had better assume it’s not. His shock aside, he wasn’t sorry to see the pretty Miss Barstow again. He had wondered where she disappeared to a few minutes earlier.
“Wondered” was perhaps too strong a word.
But he had noticed her absence. Just as he had noticed that she didn’t look at him after church.
Not that she should have looked at him, but, truth to tell, Adam Hearne was so used to being stared at by all ages of the female sex that exceptions were conspicuous to him.
Even poor Miss Jarvis’ good eye could always be found locked upon him until she covered it with the patch.
Well, he had made his promise to Midge and would abide by it, Adam reminded himself, and if he had already alienated Miss Barstow by his silly pretense, so much the better.
Had not the entire point been to alienate young ladies?
Because young ladies meant marriage, and heaven knew he wanted nothing to do with marriage.
Therefore let him find what amusement he could in playing the fool and getting up his amateur theatrical, if possible.
Though—he could not prevent the thought darting through his head—depending on the part assigned Miss Barstow, surely there would be no harm in ensuring they had a scene or two together?
He came to these conclusions in an eyeblink, in the time it took him to cross the room in long, slow steps. And by the time he reached her, his thoughts had moved on to her obvious discomfiture. Her flustered speech, her heightened color, her lowered gaze fixed on the topmost buttons of his coat.
Without taking the proffered book, he cocked his head to inspect its spine. Then, neck twisting another degree, his eyes flicked upward to catch hers.
“Oh!” squeaked the startled Frances, drawing back. At once he took up the volume she had stashed behind her, which lay across the tops of its fellows.
“The Reform’d Croquet,” he sounded out, running a gloved finger along the gilt lettering. “Is it a cookbook? I do love croquettes, whether made from potatoes or rice, so long as they are stuffed with meat.”
With difficulty Frances hid her incredulity. “I believe it says ‘coquet,’ not ‘croquette,’” she murmured. Then she could have kicked herself. Why not let the dunce think she had indeed been consulting a cookbook? Now she only opened herself to further embarrassment—
“Oh, dear me,” he said, his face crumpling in dismay.
“‘Coquet,’ not ‘croquette.’ I always think I am improving, only to find how far I have still to go. But I should have known. A ‘reformed croquette’ would be an odd thing, would it not? As if the cook had dropped it on the floor and tried to reshape it before putting it back in the dish. Which she oughtn’t to do, if it fell on the floor.
It had better just be given to the chickens or the pigs, then. ”
“Just so,” she returned faintly. The man was so very, very peculiar!
“But a ‘coquet’—yes. A ‘coquet’ could be reformed, perhaps, but had better not be stuffed,” he rambled on. “One hears of animals being stuffed, Miss Backthrow, but not people. Remember the alligator in the apothecary’s shop?”
Frances shook her head, bemused. Being puzzled did have the salutary effect of lessening her embarrassment, at least. “I’m afraid, sir, that I haven’t the pleasure of understanding you.”
“Goodness! I refer to Romeo, you know. When he seeks an apothecary to sell him poison, he recalls one shop wherein ‘a tortoise hung, an alligator stuff'd, and other skins of ill-shaped fishes.’ But no stuffed people, Miss Banjo.”
“Ah. I see. Yes, stuffing is not for people,” answered Frances, thinking the conversation grew more and more nonsensical. “I am amazed, Mr. Hearne, that you can recall so obscure a passage.”
He tapped his beautiful temple. “Once something goes in, you know, it never goes out. It is only the tremendous difficulty, you understand, of making it go in.”
“I see,” she said again, not entirely certain she did. “Well. I had better return to the company. Miss Eveleigh and my family will wonder what became of me.” Again she held out The Speaker. “Did you want this, sir?”
He bowed. “Ladies first. I hope I will have the pleasure of hearing you read. Of hearing everyone read, that is. It is my chief delight. And perhaps I will look at your other book instead, though I am sorry it is not a cookbook.” He gave The Reform’d Coquet a tap before tucking it under his arm, and Frances could only run away (while trying to appear as if she wasn’t, in fact, running away), praying the book would not fall open for him at the same vivid passage she had been examining.
If only she hadn’t thrust it behind her as if ashamed! If she had nonchalantly slid it back onto the shelf with its brethren, he would have been none the wiser.
But perhaps Mr. Hearne would arrive at no conclusions.
Surely someone who mistook coquettes for croquettes would be incapable of forming critical opinions…
? This was some comfort, though Frances feared the man’s very simpleness might lead him to remark on the book even without having formed critical opinions.
Blast, she cursed inwardly. If he does, I will just have to say I opened it almost at random, out of curiosity. Which is mostly true. Prurient curiosity, perhaps, but curiosity all the same.
Mrs. Dere had only been waiting for her reappearance to announce dinner, for she raised an imperious eyebrow at Frances, who guiltily set The Speaker on the pianoforte.
The size of the company made general conversation impossible.
Frances was flanked by Mr. Tilson and Maria, opposite Miss Jarvis.
That poor woman had the silent, cheerful Mr. Hearne to her left and young George Denver to her right and might not have enjoyed any talk at all, had Frances and Mr. Tilson not occasionally addressed her.
Frances was glad to find Mr. Tilson willing enough to engage with her, and he was much safer to look at, being perfectly ordinary.
“Have you been friends long with Mr. Midgecomb and Mr. Hearne?” she asked, to set the ball rolling.
“Forever. Since our first year at Christ Church. The three of us have been chamber-fellows at times and are now graduated to private quarters and the senior common room and donship until we die or marry, I suppose. For Midge and me it will be marriage, I would lay odds, and for Adam it will be death.”
“Goodness,” said Frances, throwing the odd Mr. Hearne an involuntary glance. He was blinking in his foolish manner at Mrs. Dere, and Frances wondered what she was saying to him. “Why do you imagine Mr. Hearne will die?”
“I don’t,” returned Mr. Tilson. “I only say he is likelier to die than to marry, though, as you might guess by looking at him, plenty of young ladies would take my odds for a chance at him.”
“He is indeed quite handsome,” Frances said frankly, “and I am not a bit surprised that he would be popular. He would be like a work of art you might hang above the mantel and stare at with great satisfaction. Like Gainsborough’s painting of his daughters chasing a butterfly.”
Mr. Tilson choked on his soup and had to cough into his napkin, but when he mastered his amusement, he replied, “I do not think even so good-natured a fellow as Adam would thank you for comparing him to young girls chasing a butterfly, but I suppose after the pony-cart incident it is unavoidable. He might like it better if you called him a painting of Hector. At least until he grows heavy and bald, or withered and wizened, two consummations devoutly to be wished among his jealous friends.”
It was Frances’ turn to stifle a giggle, and the pair drew curious glances from those more staidly occupied. “Is that why you think him unlikely to marry?” she asked. “Fear of disappointing others, as all must, who trust to youth and vain beauty?”
“That’s not it. Because I think most beautiful people don’t anticipate the inevitable loss until it is already half gone. No. In confidence, Miss Barstow, I’m afraid his parents’ marriage did not make old Adam especially eager to ‘take hands in Hymen’s bands,’ as Shakespeare put it.”
“Goodness,” said Frances again. “How you dons do love your Shakespeare!” The moment she said it, she ducked her head and began sawing at her roast cutlet to hide a blush.
Mr. Tilson did not know of her library encounter with Mr. Hearne yet, so she hoped he would not notice how she spoke of “dons” in the plural.
He didn’t. Instead he offered another interesting tit-bit: “How could it be otherwise? Hearne has been coercing us into plays and shows for years, and if one can be a Popean or a Miltonian, he can absolutely be called a Shakespearean—” Breaking off suddenly, it was Mr. Tilson’s turn to saw at his cutlet to hide his discomfiture.
Fool! How could this version of Adam coerce anyone into anything requiring two wits to rub together?
What if you’ve let the cat out of the bag, you dunce?
And Frances was indeed perplexed by this description of Mr. Hearne. Why, the man did not have the sense to keep himself out of the rain, much less to exact things from others! But—well—she supposed if he did find satisfaction in making things “go in” to his head, what better than Shakespeare?
More interesting than Mr. Hearne’s acumen or lack thereof was the bit about his parents.
If only Mr. Tilson could be brought to say more on that subject!
It would be very bad for the Eveleigh plans if Mr. Hearne truly opposed marriage, leaving only Mr. Midgecomb or Mr. Tilson to win Jane and to be won.
Frances’ gaze swept the opposite side of the table again, and she had the peculiar sensation that she had just missed Mr. Hearne looking toward her.
But, no, it must have been Mrs. Dere, for her benefactress gave her a smile which told Frances as clearly as if she had spoken, “Well done, my dear. I see Mr. Tilson already finds you charming.”