Chapter Fifteen
You may demand whether it be midsummer moon with him or no…Can you blame him in so doing?
It had been a fit of midsummer madness. There was no other way Adam could explain it to himself.
There had been no reason to walk to Iffley Cottage in the first place, the unfinished ass’s head notwithstanding, except that it was a fine day to call again on the lively family.
That he might see more of Miss Barstow there did occur to him, but he considered that simply as one more benefit of a visit, and he was conscious of a lowering of spirits when he followed the voices to the kitchen yard and did not find her among the others.
“Mr. Hearne!” they all cried when he appeared, and Mrs. Barstow hastened to apologize that he found them so occupied.
“We should have bottled this wine weeks ago as the weather warmed, so I hope you will forgive us if we continue with it now. It’s a much easier task with all the children to help me, especially as Irving strained his back recently.
Careful with that, Gordy! Perhaps you and Reed might take the one side. ”
In an instant Adam was shrugging out of his coat, offering his assistance to lift the runlet, and was duly rewarded by both the Barstows’ gratitude and the arrival of Miss Barstow herself shortly after.
All well and good, but what lunacy made him offer for her?
And it had been lunacy. He who had no intention of marrying and repeating his own family’s errors!
After a mere fortnight’s acquaintance, this happened?
Ten minutes alone with her, wearing a basket on his head, no less, and suddenly he was gone off at the nail?
It must have been the proximity of her questioning, dark eyes, so shrewd and intelligent. Or the vital sensation of her nearly touching him and him nearly touching her, separated by only a hairsbreadth of wicker or fur or silk. Or the fact that speaking with her set his nerves tingling…
Whatever had been the cause or causes, the words burst from him, barely framed in his assumed wooden tones, and he could not take them back if he wanted to.
And he soon wanted to. Because had he not put them in an impossible situation? Had he not, in fact, checkmated himself?
If she accepted him, would he not think the less of her for assenting to such an ill-assorted match? And, if she refused him, well, he had hardly put his best foot foremost. “A fool’s bolt is soon shot,” he would reproach himself later, and maybe he really was a fool, to act so precipitously.
Fortunately or unfortunately, Miss Barstow clearly thought him deranged, and it allowed him to transform a possibly fatal moment into no more than another puzzling instance of his mental shortcomings.
So there it was.
Che sara sara.
But instead of relief, on the walk back to Greenwood Hall Adam felt only growing frustration.
He should not have left the cottage when Miss Barstow fled the room.
He should have remained to ask the reason for her refusal.
It was only common courtesy that she provide one, even if the gentleman’s offer had been…
unconventional. Now it would have to wait until he found another opportunity to speak to her alone.
Frances was hardly in a better state, and she had been obliged to plead a headache to escape to her room.
What did it all mean? Had offering for her been an empty-headed whim?
Had he merely been thinking out loud? It could not have been a decision he arrived at after long study.
Only see how, once refused, he appeared more curious than cast down, more inquiring than aggrieved.
And why, after such a strange scene, did she feel bewilderingly like crying?
In spite of her turmoil, the events of the day had taken their toll, and Frances dozed, only to be awakened an hour later by Maria’s tiptoed entrance.
“How are you feeling? Shouldn’t you dress for dinner at Greenwood Hall?”
“No. You and Gordon go. Then you might even take the pony cart. Or you and Sarah might.”
“Sarah has asked to be excused as well. I think the wine-bottling knocked her up, and she says she will save her strength for Perryfield tomorrow because Mrs. Dere suggested dancing after dinner. You will be better by tomorrow, won’t you, Frances?
Do you suppose Mr. Hearne dances well? He is so very handsome I might trip over my own feet and tumble down in a heap. ”
“And you’ll be even more likely to if he’s a poor dancer,” mumbled Frances into her pillow. But when her younger sister lingered, she groaned, “Yes, I’ll be better after a good night’s sleep. Now go away.”
A quiet evening at home was the best cure for what ailed her. She and Sarah worked at the costumes (Frances averting her eyes from the ass’s head), while Mrs. Barstow tested them on their speeches, Bash piping up regularly.
“Only see how well he will do at reciting when he begins lessons with Mr. Terry in September,” his fond grandmother observed.
“I will recite for Papa, when he is next at home,” Bash declared. “When will that be, Mama?”
“We don’t know yet, sweeting,” answered Sarah, a cloud passing over her features. “Papa’s ship the Gazelle is off Ushant, which is very far from here.”
She did not say what the others already knew from the newspapers—that when the French fleet slipped out of the Mediterranean in May, no one knew where Villeneuve had gone, and the Admiralty could only fan its ships out from Ireland to the northwest tip of Spain, to guard all approaches to the Channel.
Yes, it was good and salutary to think of other things besides herself, though when it was not her turn to recite, Frances’ thoughts still strayed Mr.-Hearneward.
One thing is certain, she thought as she stitched the gauze of Peaseblossom’s fairy wings, no one must ever know of this.
How could it be that, the very day she passed her word that she would not interfere with Jane Eveleigh’s liking for Mr. Hearne, Mr. Hearne should put her to the test?
Not only that, but if Mrs. Dere learned that Frances had refused an offer from him, there would be her displeasure to face.
But what now? Now there was still the problem of Mr. Midgecomb.
If Jane Eveleigh didn’t want him, would there be danger of him beginning not to want Jane?
Would there be danger of him transferring his affections to Frances?
The only thing worse than Mrs. Dere learning Frances had refused Mr. Hearne would be Mrs. Dere learning Frances had refused Mr. Hearne and Mr. Midgecomb!
He must not propose to me, Frances determined. She would abandon that scheme. There would be no more mooncalf looks or particular encouragement. And if Mrs. Dere questioned her about her abrupt cooling, Frances would just have to say…she would have to say…
That perhaps I now prefer Mr. Tilson! Frances straightened, needle falling from her surprised fingers.
Outlaw the cat woke from a dead sleep to pounce upon it, and there followed a brief struggle to recover it without the cat’s claws catching on the gauze.
Surely, surely Mr. Tilson would be safe, would he not?
He showed no signs of falling in love with anybody.
That is, he had been seated beside her at a half-dozen Greenwood Hall dinners and conversed sensibly with no discernible ill effects.
Let Frances now train her mooncalf looks upon him, and, if nothing came of it, Mrs. Dere could not say it was for lack of trying!
She might call Frances fickle, yes, but there were worse things.
And fickleness could be excused by her youth.
Mr. Tilson’s present indifference notwithstanding, Frances thought she would do best to plan for all eventualities.
She was not vain enough to think she had only to smile at a man to win him, but if Mr. Tilson should surprise her and prove susceptible, it would be better to be prepared.
This time she would limit her efforts solely to the mooncalf looks.
She would not seek his company or do anything in addition, and if Mrs. Dere questioned her about it, she would say she was ashamed of how soon her affections had leapt from one man to the next and therefore hesitated to make them known.
Thank heavens Demetrius and Titania shared no scenes in the play, and Hippolyta hardly said two sentences together at any time, never mind speaking to Demetrius.
Yes. This new plan must serve to keep everyone about her happy.
And herself?
She could not prevent a sigh.
As he usually did when all the Barstows were invited to Perryfield, Lord Dere sent the coach to Iffley Cottage to collect them. And though the occasion was neither a ball nor an assembly, the promise of dancing meant that the family dressed with special care.
“I count sixteen of us altogether,” Maria said, poking at the bandeau of ribbon and seed-pearl beads nested in her brown hair, “but someone must accompany the dancers, so that means possibly seven couples, and there will be enough gentlemen if the baron dances.”
“I’m sure he will, to please you all,” Mrs. Barstow replied, “though there is no need to be so formal. You might dance with anyone you please tonight, if there is no gentleman to hand.”
“You mean, if they are all fighting over Frances and Miss Eveleigh,” sighed Maria.
“‘Fighting’? Nonsense,” Frances said. In contrast to Maria, she wore nothing in her hair, but she wore the white muslin for the first time and thus felt conspicuous.
When word had traveled that Frances was recovering from a headache, Mr. Midgecomb put off that day’s rehearsal, and a basket of fruit was sent from Greenwood Hall, along with hopes that her health would not prevent them seeing her at Perryfield.
An altogether unnecessary message, as Frances was determined to adopt her new measures at once.
Following Wood into the drawing room they found the Greenwood party had preceded them.