Chapter Sixteen #2
“Oh, yes. Jane is quite talented at such things,” agreed her mother at once. “Many are the little performances she has given Mr. Eveleigh and Miss Jarvis and me at home.”
“Oh, Mama.”
“I don’t doubt it,” rejoined Mrs. Dere. “And I am certain my Peter will participate in whatever is decided.” (She stated this so decisively that anyone else suffering qualms must swallow them now.)
Mr. Midgecomb thumped a triumphant fist on the back of the sofa. “Then Miss Eveleigh’s resolution is passed! We will have a fairy dance. At this rate, I would not be surprised if people outside our circle beg to be allowed to see the production.”
At this point Mr. Hearne lifted two fingers, as if he were testing the wind. “Pardon me. Miss Barstow, where in the play will this dance take place?”
“I—” Frances looked to Jane, but Jane threw up her hands with a laugh. “I don’t know. That is for you acting managers to decide. Mr. Midgecomb? As the head of that many-headed hydra, what would you propose?”
But this appeal, instead of feeding Mr. Midgecomb’s newfound self-assurance, seemed instead to sap it. “Er—wherever the entire fairy court is gathered, naturally. Which is—which is—” His nose slashed the air as he whipped to regard Mr. Hearne. “Adam?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Hearne. He took up Peter’s playbook which lay splayed face-down on the table at his elbow. “Perhaps I could leaf over it, and Miss Barstow will report my findings in her clear and cogent manner?”
This was agreed to at once, and the others rose, pleased to leave the work to them while they enjoyed the refreshments.
“Let me fetch you some tea while you look through the book,” said Frances.
“A moment, Miss Barstow. This might be a good opportunity to finish our discussion.”
Alarmed, she gaped at him, but his countenance remained imperturbable as ever.
“What discussion?” she whispered. “There’s nothing more to discuss.”
“My blundering,” he reminded her politely. “Let me see…my mind is neither so clear nor so cogent as yours, but I believe you were saying, yes, you were surprised by my pitiful attempt at proposing to you, but even upon further consideration, you have not changed your mind.”
“Yes, that is it,” she agreed quickly. “Though I would not have been so rude as to call it ‘pitiful.’ You have understood me correctly, however. Now, would you like a biscuit or candied fruit with your tea?”
“Yes, biscuit, and no, candied fruit, thank you. But first I would ask you for your reason or reasons, in the plural.”
Frances all but squirmed. Astonishing as it might be, his brain still jogged on in its rut, and clearly the only recourse was to have this conversation to its end!
She made one last attempt to extricate herself. “Mr. Hearne, remember the play. They expect you to suggest a place for the dance to be inserted.”
“Act Two, Scene One,” he answered, “when Oberon enters on one side and Titania and the fairies on the other. We can send Denver off, but Puck is there, so Miss Eveleigh may have her dance. But it might have to be a warlike one because the two sides are at odds.”
“Oh!” It was Frances’ turn to blink in wonderment.
“And now your reason, Miss Barstow?”
Helplessly she shrugged. “All right. I-I suppose there are a few, besides the surprise of it all. Er—one: I feel no need to marry at this time, being only twenty and content with my situation. Two: I hardly know you.” She hesitated over the third, but if she left the reasons at two, neither object was strictly insuperable.
And what if, incredible as it seemed, wanting to marry her became a new rut his brain would stick in?
“And-and-and three: I always thought, if I did marry, it would be to—someone of similar mind. That is, our minds would be sympathetic. Consonant.”
There, she thought. That wasn’t so bad. I didn’t bounce out and say I thought he was a dunce, as Mr. Tilson is too disposed to do.
“I have an unsympathetic mind?” he murmured, sounding…hopeful?
“No, that makes it sound as if I were finding fault,” she returned warily. “Whereas I mean there are all different sorts of minds, just like there are all different sorts of people, and some minds and people are naturally more congenial to each other than others.”
“My mind.” repeated Mr. Hearne to himself.
“My mind is uncongenial.” He said this as if she had told him she deplored the cut of his waistcoat.
“That is your reason, and not any of the usual things, then, like, Sir, you are poor, or, Sir, you fill me with repulsion, or, Sir, your reputation disgraces you.”
Frances hesitated. Was he in earnest? She could hardly reply that Mrs. Eveleigh and Mrs. Dere had made certain he was neither poor nor of evil reputation, and as for repulsing anyone…
At last she settled on the inadequate, “Ah—no. I probably should mention that I, at least, am poor, in any event.”
“Mm.” He traced the letters on the playbook spine. “I do like your mind, Miss Barstow.”
“Oh. Thank you.” She should have stood then to fetch the tea, but something—was it youth? vanity? both?—made her ask, “Is that why you asked me, Mr. Hearne? Because…you like my mind?”
Setting the book aside, he folded his hands in his lap, apparently not the least disturbed by her question.
“Yes, indeed. You have a very agreeable mind. I almost said ‘congenial,’ but, of course, you don’t think our minds are congenial.
Which is just proof I suppose. Because if our minds were indeed congenial, we would agree that they were congenial or agree that they were not congenial. ”
“Just so,” said Frances faintly. Sometimes she could not decide if what he spoke was utter fiddle-faddle or if there was underlying sense to it. It’s your own fault. You should have left to fetch the tea!
“I will try to imitate you, however, and be clear and cogent,” he sighed, as if reading her mind.
“How did you go about it? Yes. You said, ‘one,’ and then you gave your first reason. I think I can do as much. Yes. Therefore, to address your question, why did I ask you…one: your uncongenial but admirable mind. Two: your appearance. You have a very pleasing appearance, Miss Barstow. Three: your family. I like them very much.”
If Gordon called Frances red as a plum when she danced, it was good that he did not see her now. It would not surprise her if her face actually combusted.
To have him praise her mind was nothing.
Doubtless most minds amazed him. To have him praise her family left her equally unmoved.
Apart from their narrow means, she thought she had the best family in the world.
But to have someone so beautiful as Mr. Hearne declare her appearance pleasing—?
Frances could not help but deem it a feather in her cap.
“Goodness!” came Jane Eveleigh’s voice. “Are you still overheated, Frances? We had better rest longer from our exertions. But I hope we may hear the verdict on the fairy dance, Mr. Hearne! I gave you as much time as I could bear for your research and have brought tea and sweets, seeing Frances neglected both you and herself.”
Jane was followed by the others, and at their intrusion, Frances’s so-called admirable mind struggled to veer from her strange, intimate talk with Mr. Hearne back to the wider world. Nor did having attention drawn to her blushes mend matters.
“Have we interrupted anything?” asked Mr. Tilson.
“We must have. You two look terribly serious,” Mr. Midgecomb said with a grin.
Frances concentrated her attention on holding her teacup steady.
She must master herself and show interest in Mr. Midgecomb.
No—not Mr. Midgecomb, Mr. Tilson! Wait a moment—why?
It was all so confusing. She must say something at once, or Mr. Hearne in his unawareness would happily tell everyone exactly what they had been discussing!
Her fears were realized the next second when he chirped, “Miss Barstow and I were just talking about our reasons for—”
“For choosing the scene we chose,” broke in Frances with haste, her tea oscillating dangerously as she set down her cup. “Which was Act One, Scene Two.”
He turned owlish eyes upon her. “I beg your pardon, Miss Barstow, but it was—”
“So contentious!” she screeched. “So-so-so controversial that I got quite red in the face. So passionate in my opinion, I’m afraid. Quite unladylike.”
“Then there is to be a dance?” asked Jane, at the same time that Mr. Tilson said, “Are you saying Hearne overruled you?”
At which Frances said, “Yes” to Jane, only to have Mr. Hearne reproach his friend with “You wrong me, John. Of course I let Miss Barstow have her way. I only thought—”
“He only thought dances had better be private things. Private things, not things to be shared publicly.” Frances widened her eyes at him, feeling she would hold a cushion to his face and smother him, if he did not take this hint.
(Hint? More like a boulder dropped on his head!) “And I said that was nonsense,” she hurried on, “and it would only be our friends and family in the audience, and what was the difference between play-acting and dancing? So—so he yielded to me. And that is the end of the story. Finis.”
“Well done, Miss Barstow,” declared Mr. Tilson. “I admire a young lady of firm mind and opinion.”
Frances did her utmost to appear bashful and flattered, but she was afraid it did not pass off very well. One had only to compare it to her genuine response when Mr. Hearne complimented her looks to see the difference.
At least she had succeeded in jolting his mind out of its rut because he subsided meekly enough now, only murmuring, “Admirable, admirable.” And when his friends abused him for his supposed objection, Miss Eveleigh even adding her portion (delivered teasingly), he bore these travails in silence, only taking up Peter Dere’s playbook and turning the pages. Then he held the book out to Frances.
“I meant merely to say you had mistaken yourself, Miss Barstow,” he said humbly. “Not Act One, Scene Two, but rather Act Two, Scene One.”