Chapter Six
Love and mischeefe having made a wager, which should have most power in me.
“Well?” Midge prodded his friends when the dinner had ended and the guests dispersed.
The three young men were ensconced in the Greenwood Hall library, the long window open so that Midgecomb and Tilson might smoke their cheroots.
“Do you not want to thank me for bringing this about? Lovely young ladies, food, lodging, amusement…Ah, when Miss Eveleigh sat at the instrument while I turned pages for her! I would never have dreamed of such fortune a fortnight ago.”
“Delightful,” said Tilson mildly. “Though do you suppose I will be missed if I ride over to Ascot Heath for the Members Plate on Wednesday and Gold Cup on Thursday? Garforth’s Marcia has high odds.”
“You cannot possibly take yourself off so soon!” Midge glowered at him. “If they think you such a gambler that you disappear to the races directly after arriving, it will do all of us irreparable harm.”
Tilson groaned. “But then there will be nothing nearer than Stockbridge in early July, followed by Winchester.”
“I beg you, John. Local amusements. Perhaps you might get up a little race of our own. A sheep drive. A footrace, even. Adam might have his play, if things go according to plan, and you might have your contests.”
“But what about the betting, which is the best part?” insisted Tilson.
“Or the worst part, from the perspective of your pocketbook,” spoke up Hearne from the depths of the armchair where he sat with The Reform’d Coquet open on his lap.
Tilson gave a rueful growl.
“You must satisfy yourself with winning pins at cards,” Midge counseled him. “And maybe a few games for money, at least with Adam and me.”
“Look here—we’ve all been invited to Greenwood Hall to give the young ladies a chance to enchant us,” Tilson said. “Why don’t we bet on which of them will succeed?”
“Because that is the sort of thing which would miscarry badly if we left our betting sheet anywhere it might be found,” Adam pointed out.
“I could carry the odds in my head, and no one would know but us three.” Crushing out his cheroot, Tilson began to pace in excitement.
“Let me see…Miss Eveleigh has the best chances, obviously, because Midge will ask her when he has the least encouragement, and she will either say Yes or No, and there’s an end of it.
Even money and therefore not very interesting. ”
“We could have a bet for how long it will take him,” suggested Hearne. “What if we say, if you can manage it by the end of the week, Midge—”
“End of the week!”
“—You will win ten pounds from us, but for every day thereafter we will deduct one crown. That would give you a total of…forty-six days to make a profit. But if you fail, Midge, you owe John and me ten pounds.”
“All right,” said Midgecomb with a gulp, “I’ll take that wager. But I hope you won’t try to undermine me, just to save a little money.”
“As for poor Miss Jarvis, she’s definitely a long shot,” Tilson went on, “unless her strabismus resolves rapidly and she inherits a windfall. I’d put her odds at fifty to one.”
“Put me down for a pound there,” said Midge. “I wish the old girl well, as she’s related to my dear one. And Adam even helped her along already, leaving Buffon out for her to find.”
“So much for Miss Eveleigh and Miss Jarvis. What odds would you give Miss Barstow, then?” Hearne prompted quietly.
“Miss Barstow, now…she’s a curious case,” Tilson ruminated. “I quite enjoyed talking with her at dinner, finding her both sensible and amusing.”
“Well, there you go,” said Midge. “If you think you can like her, you may bet on yourself and win a little wedding gift from Hearne and me. Though I suppose if you really wanted to profit off of us, you would do better to pursue Miss Jarvis.” He whistled, repeating, “Fifty to one!”
“Sadly, Miss Jarvis’s poverty ill accords with my love of gambling, so it had better be Miss Barstow.”
More sharply than he intended, Adam said, “Not so fast, John. I fear Miss Barstow is no wealthier than Miss Jarvis. I sat beside Mrs. Markham Dere at dinner, and she was at pains to make it sound as if Miss Barstow had anything in her purse besides the Deres’ goodwill.”
“Thank you for the warning, Sir Snappish,” returned Tilson.
“If you don’t like Midge and me fleecing you, there’s one failsafe way to sweep the table: you might court Miss Jarvis or Miss Barstow yourself.
(I excuse you from Miss Eveleigh, remembering your solemn vow.) Though you would likely have better success with Miss Jarvis, for Miss Barstow does not seem the type to suffer fools gladly. ”
Midge glanced from one to the other, fascinated. “Neither of you can be in earnest. John, only Miss Eveleigh has a portion sufficient to cover your love of the races, but her father being such an apostle of temperance, I don’t suppose he will look kindly on your gambling. And Adam…”
“And Adam,” echoed Hearne, rising. “Have no fear for me, dear chucks. I am the ‘plainest harmless creature/That breathed upon this earth a Christian.’ And I am required to be the stupidest as well, an imposture that has exhausted me. Good night.”
When he was alone in his chamber, however, Hearne was in no hurry to blow out his candle.
Instead he unfolded a letter from his pocketbook.
He had read it when he received it, rapidly and carelessly, for it contained nothing not already long familiar to him, but now he read it again, this time almost as a protective charm.
15 June 1805
Chesterfield Place
Weymouth
My dearest Adam,
Mrs. Blondell and I are installed at Weymouth for the summer, but I was unable to bathe this morning or to enjoy the mild weather because I have been weeping ceaselessly.
And now, though my head aches abominably, I take up pen to write to you.
For yesterday I received a letter from Stubbes the lawyer, and he tells me that your father still refuses to budge on the matter of granting me Hepworth Lodge!
It would be the least he could do, considering his shocking cruelty to me.
I cannot see how this small concession would cost him anything, it not being part of the Hearne legacy and having only come to him through the death of an unknown and unmourned great-uncle!
I had even told Stubbes that if your father absolutely insisted, I would take title to the lodge but remit to him an annual payment to compensate for the loss of the tenants.
To my eternal grief, however, I have learned there is no reasoning with the man.
Elias Hearne stole from me the lion’s share of the money and property I brought to the marriage, and if not for the foresight of your grandfather Loveridge in drawing up the terms of the settlement, I would be even more at his mercy.
Without a doubt, if left to himself, your father would never have countenanced providing me with any maintenance at all, or you with your allowance, after we left his roof!
As it is, the means we are afforded by law are slender indeed, but such are the injustices of the world.
All this, however, would be nothing to me, you know, if I might have retained the affections and loyalty of your older brother Reginald.
But your father has thoroughly succeeded in poisoning him against me.
Reginald will neither respond to my letters (if they even reach him) nor write to me himself, and if a mother’s heart can break, mine has broken for him.
Oh, Adam, why do you not come to Weymouth soon?
I have not seen you since Easter at Hoppington, and now you tell me you have promised away your long vacation, leaving me to the sole company of tiresome Mrs. Blondell!
Charity is a good woman, of course, but she talks of nothing but her aches and pains and woes, and one does grow weary of the same litany, day after day—
There was more to the letter. Another entire page, as it happened, of Mrs. Elias Hearne’s threadbare rehearsal of the wrongs done to her. The battle over Hepworth Lodge was merely the latest piece of ground over which Adam’s parents contended.
Adam had been eight years old when war first broke out between the elder Hearnes.
Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he had been eight years old when he first became aware that his family’s unhappiness was not typical of every family.
There had been no one to discuss the state of affairs with, his brother Reginald being ten years older and never having been sympathetic toward the little boy who came along so much later to steal away his mother’s attention.
If the child Adam had no confidants, unfortunately neither did his mother, and she chose instead to burden her younger son with the full weight of her complaints and emotions.
As King Saul encumbered David with his own overlarge armor to face Goliath, Pamela Hearne tried to invest Adam with her own grievances, telling herself it would protect him from an unkind family and unkind world.
He would be her tiny supporter, one day to grow into her knight.
In turning him against marriage she succeeded.
The grown Adam Hearne shuddered at the thought of having a second woman locked about his neck, pouring out equal parts bitterness and affection upon him because she had no other ready recipient.
Unsurprisingly, Pamela tended to drive away other possible friends for herself, leaving only paid companions and servants like Mrs. Blondell and the lawyer Stubbes.
And him.
It was not that Adam Hearne did not love his mother. But after all this time, it was a dutiful love. Or simply a duty.
He visited her perhaps three times a year. He wrote lagging replies to her letters. He wished her every blessing.
But there was no denying he found her company wearisome.
And there was no denying that, as he grew, he began to feel unexpected curiosity and sympathy toward his estranged father.
Whatever monster Elias Hearne might be, his wife Pamela was no spotless victim.
Nevertheless, Adam did wonder at their ongoing wrangles.
In his opinion, he and his mother had enough to live comfortably and needed no more from his father.
On the other hand, why on earth did his father always resist his mother’s requests out of hand, whether they were reasonable or not?
I would give her Hepworth Lodge and who knows how much more, just to have a little peace.
Thoughts like these were not rare. A stab of guilt always followed, but one consequence of being Pamela Hearne’s son was that Adam contrarily endeavored to view himself as clearly as he could, resisting willful blindness, even if it should place him in an unflattering light.
Take his presence at this house party, for instance.
Adam knew he was there under false pretenses.
He knew the Eveleighs (and likely the Deres and Barstows as well) hoped he might be caught by one of the young ladies, and to that end they were willing to house, feed, and entertain him for weeks.
He might have told himself that pretending to be a simpleton was for their protection, but he knew that had nothing to do with it.
If not for the promise he made to Midge, Adam would have dropped the inconvenient act at once, come what may.
And then if Miss Eveleigh or Miss Barstow fell in love with him—
He frowned, snuffing the candle and climbing into his bed.
Miss Barstow.
He had seen pretty girls before, of course, and Miss Barstow was no prettier than the average pretty girl.
No prettier than Miss Eveleigh, for instance, unless one’s taste ran to taller young ladies with dark blonde hair and unusually dark, intelligent eyes.
What had John called her? Oh, yes. “Sensible and amusing.” Indeed, Adam had wondered what the two had found to talk about at dinner, while he himself was attending politely to Mrs. Markham Dere’s questions.
That woman had skillfully managed her way around his assumed blankness by venturing her own guesses and forcing him either to acknowledge or correct her answers.
“You tutor the undergraduates assigned to you in the usual subjects, I suppose?”
“Subjects.” He chewed on this mentally some moments. “Yes, madam.”
“Classics, I would venture. Mathematics. Perhaps divinity? Literature?”
“Oh, literature. I like literature.”
“I hope we will have the pleasure of hearing you read, then, Mr. Hearne.”
He nodded at this, smiling at his plate.
“I often ask Miss Barstow to read to me, for the pleasure of hearing her. She reads like an angel, with admirable sensitivity and enunciation.”
“Like the Angel Gabriel, then.”
“Pardon me? Oh—certainly. Yes, indeed.” But if she caught or understood his (admittedly weak) “annunciation” pun, it failed to amuse her, and she turned to address Mr. Eveleigh.
Tilson would have chuckled over the little joke, but he hadn’t heard, being occupied with laughing over something Miss Barstow said.
She had been inarticulate enough in the library when Adam stumbled upon her there.
Inarticulate and blushing over having been caught looking into an antique novel like The Reform’d Coquet, which, if somewhat broadly written, nevertheless made claims to being morally instructive.
Without knowing why, he had taken up the volume himself.
Did he do it to tease her, because she blushed all the harder, or did he mean to make other use of it later?
Certainly he would have had no interest in the book under other circumstances.
After dinner the company repaired again to the drawing room, where the young ladies took turns performing on the pianoforte: Pleyel, Dibdin, Haydn, and so forth, Midge making himself useful by turning their music.
Miss Eveleigh could play the harp as well, but that delight was put off for another day.
Enfield’s The Speaker remained on the instrument, though Midge held it up obligingly between pieces, saying, “I do hope we will hear everyone read from this at some point. I have a secret motive in asking, but you must not question me about it yet.”
Titania, Adam thought as he drifted. Suppose Miss Barstow were Titania to his own Bottom the Weaver?
Adam had intended to play Bottom, in any event, to Pendergast’s fairy queen, and how much more appealing it was to imagine Miss Barstow draped in diaphanous gauze, a circlet of flowers in her tawny hair, cradling his head in her lap.
That would make her Hippolyta as well, but the scenes she would share with Midge’s Theseus and Oberon involved no embracing.
Let us hope Miss Barstow reads well.
A smile on his lips and his mother’s never-ending complaints forgotten, he fell asleep.