Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“Chin up,” Hermione whispered as they stepped into the assembly room.
A reminder to breathe might have been more suitable.
Blythe needed the encouragement, here even more so than during her forays in London society.
The good people of Risley and the surrounding environs had made their feelings toward the inhabitants of Risley Manor very clear, including the one inhabitant who resided most of the time at Bluebelle Lodge.
Perhaps especially her, since… What was it she’d heard whispered? She was no better than she ought to be.
A vigorous country dance was underway, so their appearance was not immediately noted.
“What a lovely setting,” Hermione said loudly. “Much like the assembly rooms where I live. And the spring flowers—someone in Risley has a very nice garden.”
“I see Jarrow is dancing,” Graeme said from Hermione’s other side, so affably Blythe wanted to reach around Hermione and poke him.
That afternoon, he’d thought she’d gone pale because of this event. It was true, she supposed, that attending the assembly was part of the reason. To be cut by the likes of Mrs. Jarrow was one thing, but for her to do it in front of Graeme and Hermione would amplify the humiliation.
The other, truly more worrisome reason why she’d gone pale had to do with him hiring an investigator to search for Lunetta Casale. If Graeme’s man found her before Blythe’s brother did… If the horrible woman had the will…
Heads began turning their way, ladies in their country finery and men in their evening frock coats.
Her own gown was the one she’d had made by Madame La Fanelle for her ball, a pale blue silk with capped sleeves and decorative tucking, and a lace trim along the hem, with a hair piece to match with an ostrich feather.
Radley had unexpectedly packed it, and Hermione’s best gown as well.
They wouldn’t shame Graeme with their dress. He, on the other hand, had not had time to visit a tailor. Perhaps no one in this crowd of gentlemen would notice that his coats weren’t the first stare of fashion.
He’d returned to Risley Manor later than expected and was so encrusted with grime he’d needed to soak for a while before dressing. They’d not had a chance to speak about what he’d gleaned from Mr. Jarrow.
He’d learned about Lunetta, but what about Sir Morris Pierpont’s death?
She had committed no murder—not Pierpont’s or Archie’s—and yet guilt ate a hole in her nerves.
“And there is Jarrow’s sister,” Graeme said. “Dancing also. I’ve promised a dance with her.”
Blythe’s back stiffened with a sudden spurt of…
jealousy? Good heavens. What was wrong with her?
Of course, Graeme was an enticing morsel for the single ladies here.
Providing their papas could find that his character was better than his predecessor’s, they would be queueing up for the countess sweepstakes.
A few of them wouldn’t care about character, they’d simply look at him and see a handsome, virile man in his prime.
That would certainly be the case with the widows and unhappily married matrons.
She didn’t care. Of course she didn’t. As long as she had what was promised to her in the marriage contract signed by the Earl of Chilcombe.
And as long as she was never accused of murder.
She pulled her thoughts together, reminding herself that they were here to introduce the new Earl and to learn whatever they could about the activities of the nefarious Diddenton.
As well as to survive an evening with a community of people who hated her.
“Do you know any of the older ladies in that group by the second pillar?” Hermione asked. “They have turned their attention our way.”
“The large woman in the gray dress is Mrs. Jarrow,” Graeme said. “I met her this morning.”
“She looks displeased,” Hermione mused. “Are you acquainted with her, Blythe?”
Mrs. Jarrow had induced the forever absent vicar to have the weak-kneed curate he employed ban her and the children from attendance at Sunday services. Archie had laughed off the insult toward her.
“It has been years since we’ve crossed swords,” Blythe said.
“I am intrigued,” Hermione said. “My lord, may we walk that way? Perhaps I’ll allow the introduction and I may cross swords with her as well. Blythe?”
She swallowed a sigh. “Why not.” Let the new Earl of Chilombe see what she was up against. He could show her what he was made of. She suspected the impeccable fellow would eventually yield to society’s judgments.
As they approached the cluster of matrons, the dance ended, and the dispersing couples scattered about the large room, blocking their path.
“Lord Chilcombe.”
Blythe recognized Mr. Jarrow from their afternoon encounter when she’d seen him without his shirt, coats, and neckcloth.
He looked considerably more polished now, though not quite as handsome as Graeme.
He surely must be turning the heads of the young ladies gathered here tonight.
Was there a younger Mrs. Jarrow? Graeme hadn’t mentioned one.
A young lady came to stand next to him, a curious smile on her face.
“Miss Jarrow,” Graeme said, and made introductions.
The girl curtsied prettily, and Mr. Jarrow bowed, an amused look on his face.
“I recalled after seeing you this afternoon, Mr. Jarrow, that we met many years ago, before I married, and just before you left to join the army,” Blythe said. “I had recently come to live at Bluebelle Lodge.”
“Ah,” he said. “That was a busy time, and I’m flattered that you remember seeing me. I suspect you saw rather too much of me this afternoon, Lady Chilcombe. My apologies.”
In anyone else, that would seem like gratuitous flirtation, but Mr. Jarrow’s open, friendly manners made it seem more like a brotherly sort of apology. He was nothing like his father.
“I thank you for your help today, sir,” she said. “It was very kind of you to labor so.”
“Stockwell is hopeful the crop may be saved,” Mr. Jarrow said. “That is all the thanks I need.”
She took a long look at him. Not only was he nothing like his father, but he might also be a man of integrity and… substance. A friend, perhaps, of a sort, to the residents of Bluebelle Lodge.
An ally against the marquess? Who could tell, and it was better not to trust too soon.
“You have arrived late but we are glad you have come,” Miss Jarrow said. “We also were late, delayed waiting for Edward.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Thank heavens he is wearing gloves.”
Her brother grinned, not at all discomfited by the teasing, and Blythe’s nerves eased further.
Out of the corner of her eye, though, she saw Mrs. Jarrow trying to elbow her way through the crowd gathered around them.
Others must have recognized Lady Chilcombe and made the leap to identify Graeme. He was quite the attraction.
The master of ceremonies announced a country dance to be followed by a waltz before the musicians broke for the supper on offer.
“Lady Chilcombe, may I have the honor?” Mr. Jarrow asked.
Though her heart sought out Graeme, she refrained from looking at him. He’d said he planned to dance with Miss Jarrow, and perhaps Mr. Jarrow would be the only gentleman here brave enough to dance with the scandalous countess. What harm could come from a country dance with the new local magistrate?
She looked to Hermione, who gave her blessing to being left alone, then bowed her head and said yes. Miss Jarrow very prettily accepted Graeme’s request to dance.
“Your waltz, however, Lady Chilcombe, is mine,” Graeme said, with that self-assured smile that had her heating inside from annoyance and… oh, she must admit it… desire.
Before they could step out, the crowd parted to allow in a gentleman, and Mr. Jarrow made introductions. The local curate, Mr. Tidwell, was a different one from the man who’d snubbed her and her charges.
“Go and dance, my dears,” Hermione said. “Perhaps Mr. Tidwell will introduce me to Mrs. Jarrow.” She leaned close and whispered. “Or I will introduce myself, bold chit that I am.”
Blythe laughed, and following Jarrow into the line, ruthlessly turned her mind to the dance at hand, ignoring the curious stares and whispers behind fans.
The same thing had happened in London and she had danced there, yes she had. Then, as now, the steps had come back to her, though she was so nervous she found she had to pay careful attention.
With the twin distractions of Mrs. Jarrow barreling down on Hermione, and Graeme flirting with Miss Jarrow, it wasn’t as easy here in Risley.
In the times they drew together in the country dance, Mr. Jarrow made polite conversation. Though they started with the weather and crops, he proceeded on to ask about her year of mourning, where she had stayed, and how she’d found London.
She answered his courteous interrogation as truthfully as possible without giving any real information. By the time the dance ended, her nerves were crackling and she was happy to be handed over to Graeme.
Across the dance floor, Hermione chatted, to all appearances amiably, with the curate and Mrs. Jarrow. Her face revealed nothing while Mrs. Jarrow’s bore a grim mask of disapproval. The curate was mopping his brow.
The Jarrows were an influential family in the parish with a family tie to the absent vicar who held the living.
Graeme took her hand and followed her line of sight. Hermione smiled their way and made a shooing noise as the quartet shuffled music and other couples paired up. Graeme faced her and continued to hold her hand.
“I never thought to ask it before,” he said. “Who is the patron for this parish?”
“You are,” Blythe said. “The Earl of Chilcombe.”
“And the vicar? Does he live in the parish?”
“He has several parishes. In the past, he would visit perhaps once a year. He’s had the living forever, or at least since the previous earl, Archie’s grandfather, appointed him. Your grandfather as well, I suppose.”
“No doubt the vicar is some elderly second or third son of one of Grandfather’s peers.”