Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Davenport House; Gods and Angels
It was less than a half-hour carriage ride to the Davenport’s country residence, though Josephine’s siblings managed to make it feel twice as long.
She sighed. Things hadn’t much changed in five years, and she had even less leg room than ever, but at least they were amphibian-free for the journey across the village.
‘I still don’t see why Fred gets to go in Thomas’s stylish phaeton with Sir Dashing when we are cramped in like Cook’s sardines!’ Matilda grumbled, swatting away Henry’s attempt to open the sash window.
‘It’s Sir Francis Dashton, Matty, as you well know,’ Josephine reprimanded, ignoring Edward’s smirk, ‘and it’s very understandable – they’re friends.’
‘Well, I’ve no desire to arrive looking crumpled and windblown,’ Matilda remonstrated, glaring at Henry who’d managed to inch down the window and was now pretending to gasp like a goldfish. ‘The Davenports have a new dress every time one of them so much as opens their mouth to sing.’
‘Yes, and that’s far too often,’ he scowled. ‘They all sound like drowning cats! And Sir Dashing is far too sophisticated to travel with the Fairfax milieu, don’t you know … he might catch some devilish Devon plague!’
Matilda and Edward started to laugh, while Harriet, who’d been sent as chaperone in Thomas’s place, frowned at them all. ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d imagine you were all still in the nursery,’ she admonished from her quiet corner of the coach.
‘And really, Sir Francis has been nothing but kind and sincere to us all,’ Josephine added, ‘so we might do well to afford him some respect.’
‘Perhaps more than a few others anyway,’ Edward murmured drily, eyeing his sister. ‘And I do believe we have arrived!’
Josephine sighed as the coach trundled to a standstill outside the Davenport residence, comprising a rambling Georgian house and long glass orangery, Sir Davenport’s pride and joy.
‘Good luck, gentlemen!’ Henry saluted dramatically as they climbed out. ‘If we’re not all hitched to a wailing Davenport before the evening is done, I’ll eat my new crav—’
‘Henry!’ Fred warned, from the phaeton which had drawn up behind them.
His younger brother grinned and swept a mischievous bow before proffering his arm to Matilda, while Sir Francis jumped down beside Fred.
Josephine blinked. In the dusk, he looked even more of a fallen-to-earth Olympian; his bronzed skin was aglow in the half-light, while his stature and presence put her in mind of a combatant in the ancient Greek games.
Briefly, she pictured him with a crown of laurel set upon his golden head, as his sea-spray eyes searched for hers among the cheering crowd and…
She blinked again – she really had to cease daydreaming now she was betrothed.
‘Might I say how delightful you look this evening, Miss Josephine.’ Sir Francis bowed with his straight-from-an-oyster-shell smile. ‘Like a veritable Ophelia!’
‘You are too kind, Sir Francis,’ Josephine protested, pushing her spectacles back up her nose. ‘Though, in truth, she did meet more of a watery end than I would care for.’
‘Yes, an excellent point,’ Sir Francis acknowledged. ‘Perhaps Hermia would be more apt? I’ve often thought there’s something of the forest nymph about you.’ He proffered his arm. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Fairfax?’
Fred shrugged his indifference as Josephine mumbled something unintelligible, and then they all made their way inside.
* * *
Miss Venetia Davenport performed two arias in a row, and was clearly prepared for a third, before her fiercely smiling mother propelled her from the piano.
‘For fear there will be no time for other young ladies, dearest!’ One of the equally fierce sisters then proceeded to perform a minuet with more flats than Josephine knew existed, before sinking into a curtsey that Matilda termed ‘entirely attention-seeking’.
‘I must admit to looking forward to your performance, Miss Fairfax,’ Sir Francis murmured from her other side. ‘For I hear you are quite the talent.’
Josephine murmured her second, unintelligible response of the evening, before shrinking back into her seat.
While she could play the harp proficiently, she’d always suspected any compliment was given in relief by those who discovered there was one thing she could actually do tolerably well.
Yet she was no willing performer and quite aware she had none of Phoebe’s wit, Sophie’s beauty or Matilda’s charm to sustain her should things go awry.
‘Oh, Lord, they don’t expect me to croak something out, do they?’ Matilda whispered in a mortified tone. ‘I haven’t practised in an age!’
Josephine tried to smile reassuringly, though she knew exactly how her sister felt.
Not only were three of their unforgiving brothers present, it seemed Lady Davenport had seen fit to invite half of Knightswood’s gentry to the gathering: perhaps the weight of five unmarried daughters was beginning to tell.
‘You’ll have to perform for me, Jo,’ she added urgently. ‘Unless you want me to stand up there and belt out three rounds of “Roy’s Wife”?’
‘Matilda!’ Josephine hushed in a pained tone. ‘This is not the place for Bertie Briggs’s inappropriate ditties. How do you know such a thing, anyway?’
‘It wasn’t intentional,’ she protested. ‘He was humming it at the chicken race and it just kind of got … stuck.’
And whether it was the guilt in her voice, or the pressure of a looming performance, her whisper wobbled, and Josephine could no longer look at her.
Her gaze watered as she stared at another wailing Davenport, trying not to give in to the rise of irrational laughter.
It was just like Matilda to pick up an entirely inappropriate ditty without trying, and entirely probable she would stand up and sing it too.
Then a flurry of movement on the opposite side of the Davenports’ drawing room distracted them both.
A footman was trying to be discreet. The edges of the room were in shadow, but there was no mistaking the newcomer’s imposing silhouette.
‘Huntingly,’ she whispered to Matilda, who raised her eyebrows.
‘Thought it was unusually decent of Thomas to entertain him at Knightswood,’ she muttered.
Josephine swallowed. Despite Edward’s sighting that morning, she’d not seen Huntingly all day, and assumed he and Thomas had decided to keep company this evening. Yet she might have known her eldest brother would foist his responsibility elsewhere.
Anxiously, she watched as the eldest Davenport bungled her way through her second performance, before an entirely unknown young lady, no older than Matilda, was called forward.
She had a pretty smile and perfect ringlets and when she began to sing, she reminded Josephine of a canary songbird.
She glanced at Matilda who shook her head, yet there was something about the girl’s delicate features and wedgwood-blue eyes that felt distinctly familiar.
‘Miss Amelia Carlisle,’ Sir Francis murmured with impeccable timing.
Josephine nodded, silently wondering at the coincidence of a young lady sharing a surname with Phoebe and Sophie’s oldest nemesis.
‘Miss Amelia Carlisle of…?’ she prompted, as soon as the music allowed it.
She was aware Aurelia had married a European baron a few years before but knew nothing of any younger relations.
‘Youngest daughter of Lord and Lady Carlisle,’ Sir Francis replied. ‘An old London family. She’s staying with the Davenports currently … as I understand it.’
Josephine felt her eyes grow rounder as Miss Amelia finished her song with the confidence of a seasoned performer, before sinking into a demure curtsey. Then a round of rapturous applause followed, led by her own brothers, as Miss Amelia smiled and made her way back to her seat.
Matilda glared and shook her head. ‘And this is why I refuse to stand up there and bray like a donkey,’ she whispered. ‘I will not give my brothers reason to tease me mercilessly for months when one of us is actually talented – please, Jo, do this for all of us?’
‘Now, which of the young ladies have yet to perform?’ Lady Davenport called in her permanently delighted voice. ‘I have three Davenport songbirds waiting, but I do believe every young lady should have an opportunity…’
Josephine closed her eyes, knowing Lady Davenport would not give up until at least one Fairfax had been publicly humiliated.
‘Perhaps I might offer something a little different this evening, Lady Davenport?’ Sir Francis suddenly interjected in his rich tone. ‘After all, this is 1826, and the young ladies deserve to be entertained as much as the gentlemen, do they not?’
He smiled his golden smile at Josephine then, who felt her jaw drop slightly as she returned his regard. She had no reason to believe he’d come to her aid, and yet his intervention was certainly timely. She tore her gaze away, conscious a number of the young ladies were staring.
‘Why … thank you, Sir Francis,’ Lady Davenport gushed after a brief pause. ‘I’m sure the young ladies would be delighted if you would grace us with an anecdote or a reading from your literary studies, perhaps?’
‘The pleasure would be all mine, Lady Davenport,’ Sir Francis replied, already rising and moving to the front.
‘As you know, I’ve relished the opportunity to study classical literature and poetry over the past few years, and flatter myself I might know a few small pieces that will entertain the more delicate minds here. ’
There was a ripple of sighs that Josephine was sure had nothing at all to do with Sir Francis’s promised performance.
‘I’m surprised he does not recite something in honour of himself, and be done with it,’ a low voice murmured behind them.
Matilda stifled a snort, as Josephine felt a rise of indignation. Lord Huntingly had clearly decided to sit close enough to tease them, but that he should mock their friend too? Sir Francis was the most noble gentleman she knew, and certainly never a murder suspect!