Chapter One #3
His siblings were not, as far as he could see, reassuring Mrs. Salisbury.
And she—and he—had worked hard to show Parkhorne in its best light.
And Malcolm did think Mrs. Salisbury wise for having the party.
Parkhorne was not for every young lady, especially given how remote the location was and how retired George apparently wanted to be once he married.
Coming here, and spending a month in its environs with George, would allow each of his brother’s potential brides to see whether they could live here as its mistress.
“Thank you, Malcolm,” she said, smiling. “You are appreciated, especially amongst this rabble. And I must presume on you further, I’m afraid.”
All eyes swiveled to Mrs. Salisbury. Malcolm’s blood ran cold.
He knew it. He had known it. This horde, the only family he had ever known, would not take no for an answer.
“Mrs. Salisbury, I cannot—”
“It is Eleanora, Malcolm, for the thousandth time. And I know that you have refused to take part in the house party socially. But I have an emergency. A crisis, if you will, and you are the only one who can solve it.”
“A crisis?” Malcolm said. “Yes, I am sure it was quite spontaneous.”
His siblings met him with blank stares.
“There is no reason to be paranoid, Malcolm,” Beatrice snapped. “We aren’t the enemy. And I am sure no one here knows what Mother means.”
“Really, brother, I haven’t the faintest notion of what she means,” Severn said.
“Nor do I,” Sally said.
He sighed. It didn’t matter, anyway, what they knew. “What is it?”
“I forgot about a guest,” Mrs. Salisbury said crisply. “It is all my fault. Because it is a rather unforgivable oversight.”
“Who is it?” Malcolm repeated.
“And it is especially egregious because she is part of the Perkins party. You know, Miss Matilda Perkins, your brother’s—”
“Yes,” Malcolm said. “I am aware of the significance of Miss Tilly Perkins.”
He restrained himself from saying—yes, I understand ton English, even if I work beside men who speak West Country.
“Well, she has a sister, and I completely forgot her, I am ashamed to say. She attends Tilly everywhere. And it was only when Beatrice asked if the girl—a very nice young lady—was coming, that I realized I had completely left her unaccounted for!”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “Why did you forget about her? Is she not one of the five eligible young misses?”
It was very unlike Mrs. Salisbury to make such a mistake.
“Er, no,” Mrs. Salisbury said. “She is—well—a young lady, yes, but not as young—”
“What my mother is struggling to say,” Beatrice cut in, “is that Miss Scarlett Perkins has long been on the shelf. She is older than Tilly by six or seven years. She chaperones her sister when Tilly’s mother—who is often poorly—is indisposed.”
“How does any of this affect me?” Malcolm said, dread pooling in his stomach.
“Well, for one,” Beatrice said. “We’ve had to put her in the hunting lodge.”
“What?” Malcolm said. “You promised only servants.”
“We have to work with what we have,” Mrs. Salisbury said.
“Isn’t that indecent? A young lady all that way out there by herself? With me?”
“Oh, Malcolm,” Mrs. Salisbury said. “You’re hardly some reprobate. And she will have a maid.”
“And that’s not all,” Beatrice said.
Dear God, Malcolm thought, what could be worse?
“She needs to be attended into dinner by a gentleman,” Mrs. Salisbury said. “Especially because of her relationship with Miss Perkins. It would not do to slight her.”
“Any more than lodging her a half mile from her sister?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Salisbury said. “Particularly on this first night. We must even out the numbers. We must have the right amount of gentlemen to ladies. And you are the only gentleman left near Parkhorne available, Malcolm.”
“I am not a gentleman,” Malcolm grumbled, glowering at Beatrice, who looked far too delighted by this turn of events. “And I am not available. I don’t even have clothes for dinner.”
“We can find you something suitable,” Beatrice said. “And you have no choice, Malcolm. You wouldn’t want the poor young lady humiliated, would you?”
His sister had no notion of actual humiliation.
Humiliation was not being the odd lady at a country supper.
Humiliation was what he would experience pretending to be acceptable to London society.
Humiliation was trying to look and act presentable to people of fashion when he was just a coarse farmer.
“Please, Malcolm,” Beatrice scolded. “It will only be until Leith arrives later in the week. Then our numbers will be even once more.”
Beatrice, Mrs. Salisbury, and the others thought that because he knew them so well, he must be comfortable in their sphere.
And while he knew which fork to use when and how to offer a lady wine, and basically how to dance, it wasn’t enough.
Nowhere near it. All of these London people would read him instantly for what he was.
But he couldn’t say that aloud here. Not now.
Because while it was going to be humiliating to be trotted out as the last acceptable man available in twenty square miles, it would be even more mortifying to admit that it bothered him.
“Very well. I’ll do whatever I can to help, Mrs. Salisbury.”
Malcolm consoled himself that the arrangement wouldn’t be necessary for long. A week. A small eternity. But at least not the entire month.
“Eleanora,” Mrs. Salisbury corrected. “Please call me Eleanora.”