Chapter 3 #2
Bernard came down a proper twelve inches from Alice.
“Plain speaking. Good to know I can still rely on you for plain speaking. The third domain in which Mama must abide by my wishes includes the household finances, and upon that subject, I can speak very directly when the occasion warrants. How does Cam seem to you?”
“A little pale.” Tired, tall, shrewd. “He will make a credible baron.” As Bernard would have, for that matter, and perhaps Bernard was the better candidate for never having sullied his hands in trade.
“Cam will make an adequate baron, if he leaves his London business in the hands of factors or, better still, sells the lot. Lorne Hall needs a real baron, not a jumped-up cit who sympathizes with the rabble.”
Bernard was the vicar, and the vicar belonged to the church, and the church belonged to the crown.
Holy writ took on a decidedly Tory bent when Bernard chose to wax political.
God’s will apparently ran parallel to the pecuniary interests of the peerage.
This view was contradicted by nearly every word of Scripture that Alice had ever read, but then, that same Scripture had dictated that women were to keep silent in the church.
She was abruptly unwilling to share the conservatory with Bernard, though she derived some consolation from the notion that even the vicar wasn’t worried about being found alone with her in dimly lit surroundings.
Alice rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d best see that Grandpapa doesn’t do too much justice to the punch.
” She would also ensure that his plate was full and that he got home at a decent hour.
He’d be up at first light regardless of how little sleep he’d had, and fatigue would make him snappish and difficult.
“Sorry.” Bernard rose. “Did not mean to sermonize. The barony is no business of mine, but I do want to see Cam succeed. His was not an easy path.”
“Perhaps your dear mama can find him a baroness who will ensure that he gives up his commercial enterprises and finds contentment in the blandishments of Yorkshire.” Alice dipped a curtsey and departed.
As she made her way around to the terrace, she admitted to herself that she wanted to see Cam Huxley not merely successful, but also happy. From what little Alexander had said on the subject, Cam and commerce were a good fit.
Grandpapa was not on the terrace. He wasn’t in the formal parlor or the music room. Alice smoothed the ruffles of her bodice, ignored the tantalizing scents coming from the buffet set up in the library, and made her way to the Huxley family portrait gallery.
She expected to find Grandpapa, glass in hand, gazing soulfully at the formal portrait of the current baron’s grandmama. Instead, she found Cam Huxley, sans libation, scowling at a sketch of himself with his older brother and cousin.
The door latch clicked, and Cam realized he’d set himself up to be pursued.
The twits, gigglers, and slow-blinking misses had sized him up as Aunt Josephine had intended them to, and they had found him worthy of their interest. He got to his feet, determined to gain the corridor before the small talk even started.
“I was hoping to find Grandpapa here.” Alice Singleton hovered in the doorway, peering about in the flickering shadows. “No need to get up. I shan’t disturb you.”
“You already have. Might as well join me.”
Alice edged into the room, leaving the door open. The resulting draft caused the flames in the two lit sconces to flicker, which gave the denizens of the gallery walls an oddly animate quality.
“The buffet has been set out, my lord. You really ought to be among your guests.”
The opening of the buffet had been Cam’s opportunity to bolt. “They are Aunt Josephine’s guests. I thought she’d round up a few of the local squires, the mayor, the magistrate. I underestimated her.”
“The squires are well represented. Mr. Bottle’s papa is the magistrate. Prone to gout, though, so Lady Josephine contented herself with the bachelor son. He’s a decent fellow.”
“Does he fancy any of the young ladies Aunt Josephine has assembled?”
Alice took another two steps into the room. “Davina Halbertson would make him a devoted and sensible helpmeet without annoying his mama, but he doesn’t notice her because she is shy. Blessington Peabody is our mayor, and he does a conscientious job. Grandpapa wasn’t in here when you arrived?”
“He was not. He’s probably catching forty winks by the kitchen hearth.”
Alice peered at the late dowager baroness’s portrait across from the unlit hearth.
“He comes here to pay his respects to her. Grandpapa says she was the finest lady he ever knew, save for the woman he married. I believe he and the baroness were friends when they were both bereaved. He’s not supposed to presume belowstairs here at the Hall.
Mrs. Shorer has importuned me no end to break him of the habit. ”
“If I importuned you to give up those awful ruffles, would you heed my request?” Cam’s question was honest, also ungentlemanly. “My apologies. Too much of that excellent punch has loosened my tongue and hidden my manners. The dress is lovely.”
The dress was pink. If ever there was a color Alice Singleton should not wear, it was that particularly violent shade of pink.
She continued to study the portrait, but the line of her jaw had changed. “You don’t care for ruffles?”
In for a penny… “Not when they obscure what was meant to be appreciated. For Miss Halbertson, ruffles might help draw notice to what would otherwise be ignored. You have no need of such sartorial subterfuges.”
Alice moved on to a portrait of Cam’s grandpapa. “Do all London gentlemen comment so freely on a lady’s attire?”
“Most men do, though not necessarily in the lady’s hearing. I apologize if I’ve given offense.” The ruffles offended Cam somehow. Insulted him. Insulted every notion of flattering fashion, and whoever had created that hue of pink was overdue for a stint in purgatory.
“You have offended no one. I’ll be on my way. If Grandpapa happens by, please send him along to the library. He has imbibed quite freely and will have a sore head tomorrow if he doesn’t exercise some care.”
Cam did not want to return to Aunt Josephine’s guests, and he did not want Alice to leave in high dudgeon. He did not want her to leave at all, in fact.
“They scare me,” he said. “The young ladies, and Aunt Josephine is only getting started. In Town, I know how to repel boarders. I was a confirmed bachelor, married to my work, reeking of trade, despite being Alexander’s heir.
I am still a confirmed bachelor reeking of trade, but the rest of it…
If Alexander had allowed it, I’d have kept the house in mourning. ”
Alice drifted along to the portrait of the youthful cousins. “His death was expected, and yet, his absence is still an adjustment. He was much loved and much respected. He’d made his peace with the inevitable, but I think he erred when he forbade full mourning. He was—is—worth mourning.”
“Yes. Exactly.” And for Lady Josephine to be flinging prospective baronesses at Cam was more irksome than all the pink ruffles in creation.
Now that he’d been introduced to the young ladies, or reintroduced to some of them, they’d be free to accost him in the churchyard, to engage him in conversation at the market, or—heaven forfend—to inveigle their papas and brothers into calling upon him at the Hall.
Once that floodgate opened, Cam would be inundated with invitations and callers.
“You know,” Alice said, considering him rather than the young men framed behind her, “Bernard claims that he has imposed three immutable limits on his mama. She is not to meddle in any ecclesiastical matters whatsoever, most especially not his sermons. She is not to meddle with his bachelorhood, and she has no say in the vicarage’s financial matters.
You might simply tell her that you refuse to look for a wife until the late baron has been properly mourned. ”
Simple, honest, effective. “You should consider a career in trade. You’d be formidable. Why isn’t Bernard married?”
Why hadn’t Bernard married Alice? She was nominally a gentleman’s daughter, in as much as her father had been a headmaster and thus had not worked with his hands. She was astute, beautiful, smart… Could it be that Bernard was fooled by the ruffles?
“You should ask Bernard why he hasn’t taken a wife. I really should locate Grandpapa. He can become querulous when he’s over-imbibing.”
“We’ll search together,” Cam said, going to the door. “We might also look in the armory. This time of year, the fowling pieces want regular maintenance.”
“If they’re in use, they do. The only people hunting your land legally are your gamekeepers.”
“And the illegal hunters?” Poachers risked hanging for the sake of a few grouse, but England’s postwar economy meant that, for many, the choices were starvation or crime.
Alice took off down the corridor at a brisk march. “All the poachers I know of are local. Alexander somehow kept the gangs out of the district. Organize a shoot for the squires, and the village goodwives will be singing your praises until Christmas.”
More simple, honest, effective advice. “I might not be staying long enough. We’d have to wait until after harvest, and that will go for at least another fortnight.” How pleasant to walk beside a woman who didn’t mince along with tiny steps.
“You’d stay less than a month?”
“If I had my way, I’d stay less than a week, but St. Didier has appointed himself my finishing governess when it comes to taking on the barony’s honors and duties. He demands more than a fortnight. My responsibilities in London mean even that much will be a strain.”
They approached the armory, which was part museum and part weapons cache. Alice took a key down from the lintel and unlocked the door.
“No Grandpapa. The room wants airing.”
She brushed past Cam on a whiff of pungent roses. Brisk, direct, luscious, sweet.
It occurred to him as Alice relocked the door that Alice Singleton was a lady in want of kissing. The thought was ludicrous. She’d smack him into next week if he made the attempt, and yet… the fortified punch could not be held entirely to blame for putting the idea in Cam’s head.
“I’ll make a pass through the kitchen,” Cam said. “If I find him snoring before the hearth, I’ll rouse him and send him to you.”
Alice Singleton wanted ruffling, not ruffles. Her hair free of that vile crocheted contraption, her smiles warm instead of perfunctory. She wanted laughter and affection and possibly even courting.
What was wrong with Bernard and that Blessingbody fellow or the other young man whose name put Cam in mind of jars and barrels but wasn’t Jar or Barrel?
Alice cantered back in the direction of the main staircase. “You cannot think to intrude on the kitchen, my lord. Biblical wrath would surely follow such an invasion.”
“As long as it follows by a few millennia, I will risk it. Singleton apparently did.”
“You must not. Mrs. Shorer and Mrs. Bell would take it as a sign of disrespect. That Grandpapa intrudes is bad enough, but they understand that he’s like an old hound who seeks the warmth of the hearth. You should be with your guests.”
“Wasn’t it you who told me to begin as I intend to go on? Supper at seven, if that’s my wish?”
Alice paused at the top of the steps, the chatter of guests below welling up in a single tide of noise.
“I said that, but one distinguishes between establishing oneself as an independent authority and ignoring conventions that exist for good reasons. The kitchen is entitled to privacy, my lord. A buffet for two dozen people on short notice was no small feat, and you will cause all manner of upset if you insert yourself into the proceedings belowstairs.”
Cam propped a hip on the banister railing. “A plain mister can wander into his own kitchen if he’s peckish or thirsty.”
Alice shook a finger at him. “A lord of the manor uses the bell-pull. I’ll ask one of the footmen if Grandpapa has presumed on the hospitality of the kitchen. You will attend to your guests.”
“I would rather have remained a plain mister.” He wasn’t whining, exactly. Perhaps acknowledging a loss. With Alice, that seemed permissible.
“You mean that.” A gust of laughter wafted up from below.
“With all my heart. I am good at business, Alice. I understand how to balance risk and routine. I love a good, fierce negotiation, and the challenges of an international market make me feel alive. This other nonsense…” An expensive prison of protocol and public displays.
Alice touched his arm. “The title isn’t all nonsense, you know. It’s also your family’s legacy and a community that values the traditions embodied by that history. You can negotiate the terms, provided you don’t violate the trust.”
She would have descended the steps before Cam did—a neglect of social protocol on her part—but he caught her wrist.
“Thank you.”
That simple courtesy seemed to fluster her. “For?”
“Explaining to me what was obvious to my brother, but baffling to me.”
The smile she gave him was sweet and mischievous and more potent than three tankards of the kitchen’s finest summer punch. A smile just for Cam, just for that moment.
Cam offered his arm and a smile of his own. Alice Singleton wanted much more than kissing, did she but know it. She wanted cherishing.
Alice accepted Cam’s proffered escort, and they joined the chattering, milling throng. Two minutes later, she excused herself to confer with a footman, and Cam was left to navigate the buffet on his own.
He prevailed upon Miss Halbertson to guide his choices and had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Blessedbodywhosit’s expression turn puzzled and then thoughtful.
Throughout the rest of the evening, Cam managed the small talk and the glances and the whispered news from the footmen, and even Aunt Josephine’s knowing chuckles.
He avoided the punch like one newly committed to abstinence, and yet, he went to bed half intoxicated with the memory of Alice Singleton’s fleeting, genuine smile.