Chapter Thirteen #2
It was during one of these tiresome leans that Mrs. Eveleigh entered with her work basket, claiming the armchair Frances vacated some minutes earlier.
The gentlemen had all to bow and greet her, but she said amiably, “Please, please. Ignore me. Pretend I am invisible, and you see nothing but a baize curtain stitching itself.”
Maria was too discomfited by the matron’s presence to do more than mumble Hermia’s accusations of Demetrius, and Mr. Tilson’s Demetrius was never anything special, but when they reached Oberon upbraiding Puck for his mistakes, the baize curtain lay neglected, and Mrs. Eveleigh was all eyes.
But here—ah!—to Frances’ aggravation, Mr. Midgecomb needed prompting every second sentence, coming repeatedly to loom over her, and it was all she could do to provide the appropriate hints without roaring in impatience.
Still, after an unseen struggle, she put away her urge to kick at him and instead rewarded him with a wide smile, even while she thought, Surely this fools nobody.
If it was stupidity I liked, I would be head over ears for Mr. Hearne!
When the rehearsal ended, Mrs. Eveleigh gathered up the baize and said crisply, “Come, girls. Let’s go to the long gallery and count if we have enough rings.”
“Shall we join you, madam?” asked Mr. Midgecomb eagerly. “We might check on the progress of the carpenters.”
“No, no. You gentlemen go and enjoy yourselves after such dedicated work, and we will see you at dinner.”
“That was not very courteous, Mama,” Jane laughed, when they were alone. “Mr. Midgecomb looked like a scolded dog to be thus banished.”
“Mm. Well. Take this,” Mrs. Eveleigh said, thrusting the pile of curtain at her daughter. “You and Miss Jarvis go and see about the measurements. I must speak with Miss Barstow.”
“What? Now I am the scolded dog?” protested Jane. “What can be so secret? No—don’t tell me, for I know what it is.”
“Hush, child.”
“Mama is going to interrogate you about Mr. Midgecomb, Frances.”
“Hush!” hissed her mother again, drawing them out of the passage into the nearest room and shutting the door behind them. Their entrance interrupted Treadle and Maggs laying the table, but Mrs. Eveleigh pointed a majestic finger, and they scurried out.
“Here, Mama,” Jane said, thrusting the heap of baize back at her. “You be seated, and I will do the questioning for you because I know precisely what you mean to ask.”
“Saucy girl!” Her mother reproved. But she sat, her brow fretful. Miss Jarvis, too, glanced from one Eveleigh relation to the other, both of whom she was bound by her poverty to please.
Frances felt hardly less alarmed. Of course her changed conduct toward Mr. Midgecomb had been noticed.
She had intended it to be noticed. But that did not make this moment any easier.
She and Miss Eveleigh had thus far enjoyed the comfortable acquaintanceship of being daily in each other’s company, but always with the play or its preparations to work on or discuss, and rarely alone.
In their last almost-tête-à-tête Jane claimed she did not dislike Mr. Midgecomb, but the ubiquitous Miss Jarvis had been present after all, and perhaps Jane had been unwilling to admit the strength of her feelings?
“I needn’t tell you, Frances, that young unmarried girls are always being watched,” began Jane.
“For what else is chaperonage, but constant watching? Otherwise, who could say what mischief and misfortune we might get into? In short, I suspect it is not Mama alone, nor Mrs. Terry, nor Mrs. Dere, nor Annabel here, nor even your own family, possibly, but also I, who have observed that you show a growing fondness for Mr. Miles Midgecomb.”
Frances felt as if she had tried to swallow Poppet’s ball, only to have it lodge at the back of her throat. “I—er—ahem—I”
Jane’s little mouth popped open. “You do, then! You like him now.”
With their eyes upon her, Frances shut her own briefly, but then she swallowed and managed one nod and even one vapid, “He’s v-vastly agreeable.”
Mrs. Eveleigh drew a sharp breath, rising from her chair, but her daughter gently pressed her back down.
“Now, Mama, you mustn’t blame Frances. Not when you were the one singing his praises all this time.
If you think he would make such a good match, why shouldn’t Frances begin to think so as well? ”
“That is exactly what Alice—what Mrs. Markham Dere said! I could not believe my ears. I could not believe she would serve me so.”
“You spoke to Mrs. Dere of this?” croaked Frances. Oh, heavens. If Mrs. Eveleigh had already done that, Frances must look forward to doing the same with her benefactress in the very near future.
“Of course I did. This summer party has been our mutual idea, and I had told her particularly of Mr. Midgecomb’s interest in Jane and how I approved of it.”
“Wh-what did Mrs. Dere say to that?”
“That unfortunately there was no preventing two girls finding the same gentleman agreeable.”
Frances’ shoulders drooped in relief. How very reasonable of Mrs. Dere! Could it be possible that she would so easily give up pushing Frances toward Mr. Hearne?
There were still the Eveleighs to be dealt with, however, and Mrs. Eveleigh now raised an accusing finger.
“Never mind what Mrs. Dere said, Miss Barstow. You yourself told Jane she might have him! And it is no use looking at me like that, Jane. All mothers and daughters have their confidences. I daresay Miss Barstow and Mrs. Barstow have had theirs. No doubt they have been plotting how to steal Mr. Midgecomb’s affections from you! ”
“Mama has done nothing of the kind!” Frances fired up, before she could think that it would have been better, first, to object to a word like “plotting.” Too late now.
“That is, I have not even told her of my feelings. We have not discussed them. Or him. I would not have admitted anything to anyone at this point, if you had not asked me point blank.”
“There, Mama,” said Jane Eveleigh. “I have got from her the confession you wanted, so I hope you are satisfied.”
“I am not satisfied,” Mrs. Eveleigh declared, attempting once more to rise, and this time swiftly stepping out of her daughter’s reach. “If Mrs. Barstow played no part in the matter, that does not excuse Miss Barstow’s disloyalty.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mama,” groaned Jane.
“This is ridiculous. As a matter of fact, I agree with Mrs. Markham Dere that no one should be blamed for liking who they come to like, or for not liking whom they don’t like.
Frances might have had the very best intentions, but if she came to like Mr. Midgecomb in spite of them, well, there it is!
Not to mention, I pray the gentlemen never overhear us, dealing away their futures like a hand in whist.”
“Then you—don’t mind, Jane?” asked Frances, troubled in spite of herself by her new friend’s nonchalance.
“Why should I? I told you I hadn’t made up my mind about him, and I can only be grateful that your attention seems to have cured him of his tiresome speech impediments whenever he addressed me. No, indeed. I must say, in waiting for love to sweep me away, I have had time to look about.”
Mrs. Eveleigh gasped, clasping her hands to her bosom. “And? What? What are you trying to say, darling?”
Rolling her eyes, Jane laughed ruefully. “I am saying, Mother, that, in the unlikely case that all three of the candidates you put forth were clamoring to marry me, I think today at least I would choose Mr. Hearne.”