Chapter Fourteen #2
She held up the item in question, which, indeed, had only the space cut out for him to speak through, two eye holes Gordy helpfully gouged, and a strip or two of squirrel fur adhered with Flanders glue.
“Oh. I’m afraid I came on my own,” said Mr. Hearne. “After much thought, I decided something so inflexible as a wicker basket had better be tried on first, before too much trouble is taken with it. I’ve been told I have an unusually-shaped noggin.”
For one terrible second Frances thought she might giggle. Could poor Mr. Hearne have thought all this time that, when his friend Mr. Tilson unfeelingly called him a blockhead, he was referring to the shape of that item, rather than to its woodenness?
“I see,” she said, her voice shaking just a little. She held the basket out to him. “If you please.”
Solemnly, he donned it, his dark eyes peering from the holes like a wolf’s from the undergrowth, and his beautiful mouth framed by the opening. He ought to have looked ridiculous, but somehow he…didn’t. All she knew was that her urge to laugh vanished as if it had never been.
“Well?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Er—is it comfortable? Is it too tight or too loose?”
“It is as comfortable a basket as I have ever worn on my head,” he answered gravely. “But you must be the final judge, Miss Barstow, because you will be the one—caressing—it. Come. Give it a joggle.”
Thus bidden, she could hardly refuse without revealing her discomfiture, so Frances screwed her courage to the sticking place. You can do this. Steady and sensible, girl!
Marching up to him, she grasped the basket between her hands and gave it the tiniest shake, side to side and then back and forth, the wolf eyes fixed on her throughout.
It might have been a trick of the light, but she thought their habitual blankness had yielded to something else. Something quick and—keen.
Her heart stuttered in her breast, like a leveret’s would, had it hopped right into the wolf’s path, and she had just enough self-command to be glad the Eveleighs and Miss Jarvis weren’t there to witness this scene.
If they had, Frances would surely have been dragged away to be told another piece of Mrs. Eveleigh’s mind.
Steady and sensible.
In her most businesslike manner, therefore, she released him and dusted her hands off. “It will do, it seems.”
“But what of the fur?”
“What about the fur? Sarah thought at first she would sew the strips to the wicker, but I’m afraid we haven’t the proper sort of needle and thread, so then she experimented with Flanders glue, and I believe it will serve very well, if nobody tugs on it.”
“You would be the only one doing so,” he murmured.
“Exactly,” was her brisk reply, “if we can keep it out of Bash’s reach. Everyone else would be more likely just to—er—stroke it.” Heaven knew what possessed her then, for she reached up and did just that, running her fingers the length of the strip.
What are you doing, Frances Barstow?
“See?” she squeaked. “Secure enough for the purposes. And we will construct ears for you, naturally, out of wire, as we are doing for the fairies’ wings—”
Seizing upon this excuse, she dashed across the room to take up her set, slipping her arms through the ribbons. “They are not as fragile as they look, as long as nobody sits upon them.”
Slowly, with no appearance of hurry, he pulled the basket from his head and set it on the mantel, leaving his dark hair ruffled. Then he closed the distance between them. “May I?”
Frances gulped, nodding, tempted to lean away from his nearness and at the same time to comb her fingers through his ruffled locks.
Raising his long, elegant hands, he took hold of each wing, gently pulling her toward him and away and toward him again. Then, with one light fingertip, he just touched the ribbon where it rested on her collarbone.
“You look like a fairy queen,” he said.
“Good. Because—because that’s what I’m supposed to look like.”
“I am to look like an ass, but you, Miss Barstow, like perfection itself.”
“Mm. I suppose therein lies the humor,” she replied, rather breathless. Did he really think she looked like perfection?
Having fled to this corner of the parlor, there was no escaping it, short of asking him, please, to stand aside, but the next moment he did exactly that.
He clasped his hands behind his back and paced away from her, his gaze wandering over the Barstows’ furniture and pictures, the ladies’ work baskets, Bash’s toys, the cat dozing in the window seat.
“I like it here,” he said.
“I am glad,” answered Frances, removing her wings and taking the nearest seat before her limbs failed her. She was…trembling.
“I like Iffley Cottage, and I like its inhabitants.” He turned back to look at her, the wolf’s eyes gone, replaced by the more familiar bland blankness.
When he did not appear on the point of saying more, Frances shifted in her chair. “Thank you. We are very grateful to Lord Dere for his generosity to us.”
His pacing took him to the mantel, where he retrieved the ass’s head, tucking it under his arm and scratching the strip of squirrel fur absently. Then he selected a chair opposite to her, perching the ass’s head on his knee and regarding her with slow blinks.
Here we go again, she thought. When he does that, I wish he would take a leaf from Miss Jarvis’ book and cover both his eyes with patches!
Suppose she were to leave him and go and see about the orange wine? She could force someone to return with her—anyone—because she and Mr. Hearne had spent quite long enough alone.
But no sooner did she place her palms beside her to push to her feet than he spoke.
“Perhaps you would like to marry me, Miss Barstow?”
“I—what?”
Blink.
Blink blink blink.
He cleared his throat and smiled cheerily. “I said, perhaps you would like to marry me.”
Astounded, she could only stare. What was the man about?
“I—cannot think why you would say that, sir.”
He looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written in the decorative plaster. He looked so long, in fact, that Frances turned her eyes upward as well, in case she had missed something.
“I like it here,” he repeated, finally regarding her again, though clearly not any the wiser. “I like your family.”
“Yes. So you said.”
If that was as clear as he could make himself, Frances judged it would be best to pass off the entire matter as idle conversation.
“I am so glad,” she, too, said for the second time.
“Er—mutual enjoyment makes things so much more pleasant.” An idiotic remark, to be sure, but passable, as conversations with Mr. Hearne went.
“And wouldn’t it be even more pleasant if we might have some of that orange wine?
I think I will go and see about getting us some. ”
“But Miss Barstow, what about my question?”
“What question?”
“My marriage question.”
Her hands curled in fists. Oh, dear.
“You—did you ask a question, sir? I recall you saying something about my possible… propensities, but I thought—indeed, on such subjects, I think it better not to anticipate what you imagine another person might be thinking. And I lay stress upon the word ‘imagine.’”
It was his turn for the perplexed stare, his beautiful lips parting slightly. “I’m afraid I did not follow that. Did that mean you did or did not want to marry me?”
“That meant, Mr. Hearne, that, when it comes to subjects such as wanting to get married, it is better to ask questions than to make assumptions.”
“So…yes?”
“What?”
“Yes, you want to marry me?”
“No! That is not what I said at all!” Frances lost patience. “I said, on such questions, you would do better to ask the lady than to tell her.”
“Tell her—oh, dear. Could I perhaps trouble you to give me an example?” he asked humbly.
An example? Frances was more tempted to give him a buffet with a bolster! But she only clenched her fists the more tightly, pressing her lips together until she could school her temper.
“For example,” she began through a stiff jaw, “you might say, ‘Miss So and So, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?’ instead of saying, ‘Miss So and So, I suspect you want to marry me.’”
“Ah. Thank you for your counsel. Miss Barstow, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife? I like it here, and I like your family.”
“What?” she almost yelped. “After what I just said? I already said no.”
“You said no, I shouldn’t use statements, I should ask questions.”
Putting a hand to her brow, Frances rubbed it vigorously. “Well. I have a hard time believing you are serious, but if you are, I thank you, sir, but I must refuse.”
“Even though I like Iffley Cottage and your family?”
“Perhaps you would like to propose to Iffley Cottage and my family,” she muttered, but he heard her.
“I suppose, yes, I might ask Miss Maria in a few years,” he mused, “or Mrs. Barstow now. She is still quite handsome, you know, though being some years older than I, she might be more inclined to view me as a son.”
But Frances had had enough. Rising, she swayed a moment, and though he put out a hand to steady her, she ignored it and, without a backward glance, strode from the room.