Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“Lady Jo wasted no time, did she?” Grandpapa muttered. “Every biddable belle in the shire on display for his lordship.” Grandpapa sipped his punch, hiding a smile behind his glass.
Alice was not amused. She’d flattered herself that Ca—Lord Lorne had issued an impromptu, informal invitation out of… what? Spontaneous graciousness? Fondness for a few old memories? Chagrin at having literally knocked a lady onto her tail?
Of course he’d simply included them in a scheduled gathering, a formality to be endured, and of course he would have left the guest list to Lady Josephine.
“The display of belles might be for Bernard’s benefit.”
“Bernard has had years to take a wife. As long as Lady Josephine rules the vicarage, no woman with common sense would give the vicar more than a passing wave of her fan.”
She would give him that, though. Bernard was the handsome cousin, as opposed to the charming cousin (Alexander) or the serious cousin (Cam).
Bernard was tall and fashionably slender.
He wore his blond hair swept back a la Brutus, and his attire was always bang up to the understated mark.
He was articulate in the pulpit, not given to lengthy oration, and not above a dash of humor.
Grandpapa was right that the primary impediment to marriage for Bernard Huxley was his own dear mama. Lady Josephine was an impediment to many things, chief among them sloth, idleness, impiety, personal privacy, and joy.
“I see the late baron has lost his mourning ribbon,” Grandpapa remarked, lifting his glass in the direction of the portrait over the formal parlor’s mantel.
“What was Eunice Shorer thinking? The man insisted we not mourn him with any great displays, and what does that woman do? Drapes the whole house in black.”
Grandpapa’s feuds with Mrs. Shorer were legendary, numerous, and fought with equal vigor on both sides. The footmen laid wagers, the housemaids informed against their superior, and the gamekeepers kept the tallies.
Grandpapa nonetheless invited Mrs. Shorer to dance at least once at every quarterly assembly.
On every occasion, he let it be known to Alice and anybody within earshot that he led the poor old dear onto the dance floor out of gentlemanly pity.
Mrs. Shorer made similarly audible remarks, citing a charitable responsibility to save lonely old widowers from the exclusive company of the wallflowers.
Across the parlor, Lord Lorne was bowing over Lady Josephine’s hand. She simpered prettily—she was a handsome woman, give her that—and beamed at him as if he were her long-lost son, not a nephew she had all but ignored.
“I believe I need another serving of this excellent punch,” Grandpapa said. “Might I top up your glass as well, my dear?”
“No, thank you. I suspect the punch of having a nefarious ingredient or two, Grandpapa. Tread lightly.”
“Quite tasty, isn’t it?” He sauntered off, one of the taller men in the room, though not as tall as the current baron. That worthy was being led around the room by his doting aunt, who had likely told each hopeful young lady where to stand, such that an order of precedence was created.
“He’s showing off.” That comment was offered quietly by the Honorable Blessington Peabody, who made it a habit to stand too close to Alice at every opportunity. He smelled of parsley and camphor, which compared disagreeably with orange blossoms and ginger.
Alice Singleton, get hold of yourself. She plastered a vapid smile on her face and began to swing her hips gently from side to side so her hems brushed at Peabody’s boots.
“I think his lordship looks quite well,” she said. “A bit pale, but then, he did lose his only brother not three months past.”
“Precisely, not three months past, and here he is, half the neighborhood making merry under his roof. If this is how one shows respect to a departed sibling in London, then spare me the sophistications of the metropolis.”
Blessington Peabody was a high stickler without portfolio, though he did command some expectations.
When his papa bid adieu to the earthly realm, Bless would inherit a tidy manor, considerable grazing acreage, and several tenancies—also two unmarried sisters whose greatest delights were shopping sprees in York.
Alice felt sorry for him, but not that sorry.
“Everything in London is sophisticated,” she said.
“All the fashion magazines say so. Grandpapa reads The Times, and that’s all the really important news there is.
” She tittered, like a schoolgirl who had just recalled a poetical quote correctly, much against all expectations.
“Miss Singleton, you must trust me that London is a cesspit of vice and venery, despite what the papers would have you think. I have been to Town and do not care to repeat the ordeal. A lady of your humble standing simply cannot grasp just how unhealthy a London existence can be.”
He was calling her backward, also very possibly stupid, and long might he regard her as such.
Alice opened her eyes wide. “I do wish I could go sometime and see all the sights. The lions in the menagerie, the bloody Tower, maybe even the Regent himself!”
Peabody patted her arm. “Such innocence in a lady of mature years is refreshing. Might I bring you another glass of punch?”
Now she was elderly. “No, thank you. I believe I’ll step out for a breath of fresh air.”
“A beautiful time of year. A pity it also brings so much hard work for some of us.” He aimed a fulminating glance at the baron and stalked off toward the punchbowl.
While the rest of us work hard year-round. Alice passed through the French doors onto the wide back terrace. Another footman presided over another punchbowl before the balustrade, and several of the young ladies who had already been introduced to the new baron were comparing notes by the steps.
“Not as handsome as Vicar,” Miss Dorothea Considine observed, and hers was considered the weightiest opinion among the local young ladies. “A bit brutish, in fact. Charming, though. Has Town bronze, as they say.”
“Not bad-looking,” Miss Annabelle Dingle countered. “You must admit he is not bad-looking, Dotty.”
“Dorothea, please, and I never said he’s bad-looking, but he’s not up to Vicar’s polish.”
“And he’s a bit vigorous?” Miss Davina Halbertson ventured. She was always venturing, suggesting, or positing, but she never actually admitted to an opinion or observation. She was the prettiest of the trio, in a delicate, retiring way, but she’d never see herself as attractive.
The other two young ladies considered her.
“He’s healthy,” Miss Halbertson said. “You are right about that. Poor Lorne—the late Lord Lorne—was not healthy. A pity.”
They observed a moment of silence for the late lord and his unsuitability as a spouse.
“Their chattering will drive a man mad.” Harrington Bottle murmured on Alice’s right. “Do they think of nothing more profound than who might be inveigled into marrying whom?”
Alice mentally swiveled her cannon, from brainless twit to bluestocking pedant. “Marriage is a serious matter, Mr. Bottle.”
He blinked pale blue eyes. “I agree, but to hear that lot discussing a man’s prospects, you’d think the issue no more momentous than the weekly livestock auction at Farnes Crossing.
If those women aspired to any sort of adulthood, they’d be reading the great works of the day, acquainting themselves with advances in herbology, and preparing for the weighty responsibility of motherhood. ”
“And how is it, exactly, that men prepare themselves for the weighty responsibilities of fatherhood? Enlighten me, please, because I doubt that public school pugilism or a few years of shooting at the French has served as proper preparation for the job anticipated by our revered scions.”
Poor Bottle actually shuddered. “Miss Singleton, the reply I could make to your question is so very lengthy and well reasoned that I fear I must fortify myself with a trip to the punchbowl before treating you to the benefit of my viewpoint.”
“I shall await your diatribe, Mr. Bottle. I do fancy a lively debate, provided my opponent can offer accurate literary citations for his theories.”
He marched off, shaking his head. Alice sidled the other direction, toward the westering sun, into the side garden, and from thence to the refuge of the conservatory.
To keep every bachelor in the shire at bay, all the while appearing gracious and appropriate, was hard work, and Alice was growing mighty weary of it.
“You’ve retired from the affray too?” Bernard Huxley stepped forth from beneath the potted lemons. “Mama is launching the baron’s visit with full honors, isn’t she?”
“One commends her familial loyalty.” Meant sincerely, for the most part. One also had a healthy respect for Lady Josephine’s ambitions as well. “Has she chosen a wife for you yet?”
Bernard gestured to a wooden bench that faced out over the side garden. “Let’s sit, shall we? Mama knows that in three regards she must mind her step with me, lest I commend her to a prolonged visit to the York town house.”
Alice sat, glad to get off her feet. “She is not to comment upon your sermons.”
“Not to comment, suggest, criticize, editorialize, or emend. She is not to interfere in spiritual matters in any regard.”
“What other prohibitions do you enforce?” Alice liked Bernard and regarded him as neither ally nor foe. They left each other in peace, but could share an occasional moment of commiseration.
“Mama is not to make designs upon my bachelorhood. If and when I marry, I will do so where I please and without regard to Mama’s sensibilities on the matter.”
“My grandfather opines that no sensible lady will consider your suit while your mother presides at the vicarage.”