Chapter Delaford, Dorsetshire #8
Apparently, Scottish lakes are called “lochs.” I would love to throw out my line on a foggy morning to catch a fish.
Colonel Brandon uses stew ponds to house fish over the winter, and I used to enjoy scooping out a fish with a net.
Lochs sounded much more sporting. To tell the truth, I felt sick with envy.
Before I could confess as much, the dance concluded, and I found Roderick at my elbow.
“I’ll escort Miss Dashwood in this country dance,” he said to Hugh (not to me).
Hugh said negligently, “Do just as you wish, old chap. I’ve no claim on Miss Dashwood.”
Which he didn’t, of course.
To make up for a lowering feeling in my belly, after dancing with Roderick I allowed Lord Dulloch to draw me to the side of the room and recite his poem instead—which still included a reference to my bosom, by the way.
In an amusing turn of events, later in the evening I encountered Feodora in the lady’s retiring room, waiting while a maid sewed up her hem.
A simple inquiry led to the revelation that she, too, had been praised for her “chaste bosom”—her poem was a match to mine!
She didn’t like her bosom being described as “chaste” any more than I did.
“Lord Lewes went on about pig-breeding until I was ready to collapse from tedium,” she said sadly, “and Lord Boucheron was insulted because I didn’t know he’d written a novel.
Did you realize that his subject is a merchant who murders people because he can’t get enough fat for his soaps?
Any large person on the street was in danger of being dragged off to his basement and boiled down. ”
I shuddered.
“His future wife might find herself scented with jasmine and sold to the luxury market,” Feodora said.
I grinned at her, because I’d been unfairly mean in my assessment. She had a sense of humor, which is the clearest indicator of intelligence.
“The only man worth balancing money and boredom is Lord Vaughan,” Feodora said.
I cleared my throat.
“And he’s yours,” she said, before I could comment. “We can all see it.”
“Poppycock,” I said, thinking with a pang of Squibby and Snaps.
“Whenever you’re dancing with someone else, he watches with great feeling.”
Which meant what, exactly?
Modesty meant that I had to insist she was wrong, wrong, wrong, and likely Hugh was staring at someone with a less-chaste bosom than either of us.
“I don’t think he cares about that,” Feodora said.
“Of course, he cares,” I said, somewhat crossly. “He once said that I have a tomato for a head, carrots for legs, and beets for feet.”
“How old was he?” Feodora inquired.
“Young,” I admitted.
“Then I would listen to Sir John, rather than to such a silly description,” she said comfortably.
“It’s a matter of self-respect, isn’t it?
My head was as bald as a billiard ball when I first appeared in the nursery, and my brother told Nanny to exchange me for a better-looking baby, but I don’t hold it against him. ”
It was good advice, and I took it. No more thoughts of tomatoes.
The rest of the evening, I watched from the corner of my eye, but I never saw Hugh stare at me broodingly, the way a romance hero might. He danced the night away with Feodora, who kept laughing, so I am certain that Sir John will decide to pair the two of them.
I had no chance to steal off to the library, because the business of courting took up every minute.
When we returned home, I ducked into Colonel Brandon’s library to search for poetry (one never knows), but found Roderick scribbling a poem.
I asked if he was inspired by jealousy of Lord Dulloch, but he insisted that the muse had struck him, and “he must obey.”
He won’t be joining us on the hunt tomorrow, because he had resolved that one shouldn’t kill foxes.
I thoroughly sympathized with the emotion, but it’s amazing how fast one’s convictions go out the window when considering a delightful day spent tearing around the countryside on horseback.
I told Roderick that the Colonel doesn’t think it’s sporting to search out foxholes beforehand, so I can’t remember the last time that we caught an animal. They are far too clever for us.
“It’s the ethics, not the death,” Roderick said, somewhat obscurely.
He only remembered the first line of “To His Coy Mistress”: “Had we but world enough and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.”
After that we discussed whether direct address—i.e., “lady”—was insulting or not. Roderick pointed out that the word was needed for the syllabic rhythm of the line.
I argued that perhaps “lady” was balancing out the “mistress” in the title, because if his beloved was well born, she would likely be peeved to find herself referred to with such a pejorative term.
“We should ask Vaughan,” Roderick said, after we thrashed the question for a bit. “He knows everything. Used to correct the Oxford dons on occasion.”
I flinched at the idea of Hugh learning about my inquiry regarding the poem that he said he would have used to woo me—except he isn’t wooing me. “Absolutely not,” I said fiercely, and excused myself.
The cultural content of our exchange was almost enough to make me reconsider marrying Roderick, but though he had quickly covered up his poem, I noticed that it was addressed “To Diana.” Since no Diana was invited to the party, I suspect the lady is back in London.
I am wildly looking forward to the hunt tomorrow. My mare, Bobbin, is in fine form, and Sally employed one of her admiring footmen to discover that Hugh had indeed brought Belial with him. Bobbin and I have raced Belial numerous times, and lost only twice.
What’s more, my riding habit is magnificent. Given Mother’s poor health, Marianne had accompanied me to the modiste, which meant Mother didn’t know that we frequented the establishment of a Frenchwoman.
My habit is daringly styled after men’s riding coats.
The sleeves go past my fingers, just as do gentlemen’s jackets.
The seams give it a glove-like fit on top, and the skirt has a long enough drape to cover my boots.
Plus, I have a darling little cap like a jockey would wear, the brim turned up in back.
All of it is dark emerald green, which flatters my hair.
Tomato-colored it may be, but I have to make the best of it.
August 14, 1815, sent by Baron Hugh Skelmers Vaughan to Miss Margaret Dashwood:
Dear Snaps, I’ve arrived in Salzburg. The musician Mozart was born here, though he lived most of his life in Vienna.
In his honor, they sell special cakes with violins etched in icing on top.
They’re the kind of cakes that look better than they taste, which is rather dry.
That’s how I feel about this Grand Tour. I’m coming home, Snaps.
Early Evening September 4, the Best Day of My Life
I’m home.
I’m not sure how to describe the day.
First of all, when we gathered in the courtyard, the sky began frizzling (such a better word than drizzling), so half the party turned around directly (Feodora in the lead) and returned to the house.
Colonel Brandon and Sir William never allow rainwater to stop their pursuit of a fox, so thankfully there was no talk about canceling the hunt, even when it turned out I was the only lady willing to ride.
“You won’t have a chaperone. Be sensible, darling,” Marianne said, trying to persuade me to return to the house—which was the final straw. Sensible I shall never be, and the grin on Hugh’s face when Bobbin and I pranced up beside him was worth her disapproval.
I suppose I ought to describe the hunt for my novel, but it’s all a blur, a glorious, happy blur.
We began by riding through the woods, the dogs braying like mad, but it turned out they had startled a flock of pheasants, not a fox.
We came out onto a grouse meadow with a low stone wall at the far end.
Hugh looked at me, and I looked at him, and then we flew across it.
Belial has longer legs, but Bobbin managed to win because she edged up to him and nipped at his ear.
Belial turned his head away rather than bite back (a gentlemanly mount, indeed!), which meant we were able to take the stone wall, and of course Hugh had to pull up or run the risk of running into me.
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing as I drew up on the other side. Hugh doffed his hat and counted it a win on my side. Have I noted that instead of a few strands combed across his head, his black hair is wildly unruly? It’s also surprisingly soft, with ringlets like silk.
I’m not sure what sort of novel I’m writing, but I’ll keep that detail for my memoirs. Private memoirs.
He and Belial backed up and neatly cleared the wall, which is when we realized that the hunt had taken a different route. Off in the distance, I heard the Colonel bellow “Tally-ho!”
“Do you suppose your brother-in-law actually sighted a fox?” Hugh asked, glancing in that direction, although the hunt was out of sight.
I shook my head. “The Colonel feels it’s unsporting to admit that all the foxes migrated to the next county long ago, so he shouts it once or twice an hour to keep people’s spirits up.”
Sure enough, no other voices echoed Colonel Brandon’s. The only sounds in the meadow were a lark singing and our horses snuffling each other in a friendly sort of way.
Hugh leaped off his horse and came over to me. I know I’m under the spell of romance novels, but I am telling the strict truth when I say that the expression in his eyes made me shiver, in a good way.
“May I help you to dismount?” he asked.
A moment of decision.
I suddenly realized that my future hung on my response. The future me hung in the balance. I either climbed down from the horse, or we kept riding, and he would never ask me to marry him again.
Hugh looked up at me without a trace of expression in his face: either I knew what was happening, or I didn’t.
I did know, of course.