Chapter 6 #2
"And a respectable estate," Harrison added. "He spoke to me at length of his plans for improving drainage. I was very impressed."
"I am thrilled his fields will be dry," Esme said. "My own feelings, however, remain otherwise."
Genny abandoned any pretense of delicacy and choked outright. Mother shot her a quelling look.
"Lady Esme," she said, using the tone that had cowed three sons and half a dozen servants, "this flippancy is unbecoming. Lord Watford is prepared to make you a very acceptable offer, should matters progress."
Esme's heart thudded. "Has he said as much?"
"He has expressed interest," Harrison said carefully. "He is cautious by nature. He wishes to be certain your... inclinations have steadied."
"You mean he wishes to be certain I will not drag him into a pond," Esme said.
"Esme," Mother admonished.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
There it was. The neat, sensible future, laid out like one of Harrison's ledgers. A husband who would speak to her of ink and drainage. Breakfast conversations about columns and crop rotation. Dinners where any remark sharper than agreement would be smoothed away as unbecoming.
Safety, perhaps. Respectability, certainly. And a lifetime of never feeling her pulse quicken because someone had made her laugh when she wanted to scream.
"Haverleigh will be a perfect opportunity to demonstrate your composure," Mother continued. "No more tumbles. No more... societies."
Esme's eyes flicked to Genny, whose expression was mutinous.
"Yes, Mama," Esme said quietly. "I understand."
Mother relaxed. "Good. That is all we ask."
As if it were a small thing.
Harrison cleared his throat. "You will avoid Redford, if he attends."
Esme's shoulders went rigid. "I will be civil to any gentleman with whom I am acquainted," she said. "Nothing more."
"That is all I ask," Harrison echoed. "He took my warning, Esme. He has stepped back. Let matters remain so."
The words stung. She forced herself to nod.
"Very well," she said. "If you will excuse me, I have a headache."
Mother's eyes narrowed, but after a moment, she inclined her head. "Do not be long, dearest. Mrs. Welby is expected shortly to discuss your gown for Haverleigh."
Nothing in her life, Esme thought, could be allowed to go unarranged. Even her sleeves required supervision.
She slipped from the drawing room, Genny shadowing her.
They did not speak until the door to Esme's bedchamber closed.
Then Genny exploded.
"'Let matters remain so'," she mimicked in a low, furious voice. "'He has stepped back.' As though you were both pieces of furniture properly arranged in a room. I could scream."
"Please do not," Esme said, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "Mama will assume I am rehearsing for the musicale."
Genny flung herself into the nearest chair. "I liked the Mutual Mischief Society better," she declared. "At least then our schemes made people happy. Miss Eaton is practically glowing. Mr. Carstairs smiled today. Smiled. At the weather."
Esme couldn't help it. Her mouth twitched. "I suppose it was rather gratifying."
"It was glorious," Genny said. "And you have gone all pale and quiet and respectable. It is awful. I hate it. I am considering staging an intervention."
"Do not," Esme said, though the plea lacked heat. "This is what everyone wanted. I am being sensible."
Genny snorted. "Yes. You and Woodmere and Watford and half the ton, all joined hands in a circle of dreary satisfaction. How delightful."
Esme stared at her clasped hands. "It is not only them."
"Oh, I know," Genny said. "It is also Redford."
Esme kept her gaze fixed on the pattern of the carpet. "He has made his position very clear."
"Has he?" Genny demanded. "Because from where I stood, what he made clear was that you both care for one another so much it hurts to look at."
"He told Harrison he would never marry," Esme said, "That he will not offer for any lady of good family. That he is unsuitable. He told him so more than once, apparently. Quite directly."
Genny frowned. "And Harrison told you this."
"Yes."
"And you believed him."
"He is my brother."
"He is a man," Genny pointed out. "Men are stupid."
Esme almost laughed. "Redford confirmed it. At Foxmere. I asked, and he answered. Very honestly. He does not intend to marry anyone. Least of all me."
Genny went very still. "What, precisely, did he say?"
Esme replayed the scene: his face in the fading light, the way his shoulders had stiffened.
You are correct. I do not intend to marry. I have said as much...
"He agreed," she said dully. "Said he wasn't a safe bet for anyone's happiness. We agreed to be sensible. To keep respectable distances."
"And that," Genny said, "is what you heard. I heard a man who has been telling himself the same story so long he doesn't know how to change the ending."
Esme's head snapped up. "What story?"
"That he is a walking disaster," Genny said simply. "That he ruins things. That he cannot be trusted with anything as fragile as affection. So he behaves badly, on purpose, and then points to the chaos and says, 'See? I was right about myself all along.'"
Esme opened her mouth, then closed it.
Images of Redford on the terrace, Redford in the water, Redford in the garden, Redford on the lawn, flashed through her memory.
"He could have fought," she said quietly. "Argued, told me Harrison was wrong, that we could—"
"What?" Genny asked sharply. "Run off to Gretna? Keep a secret courtship? Esme, be fair. You told him you wanted to be sensible. That your life could not be wagered. You pushed him away, and he respected you enough to step back."
Esme flinched. "You're meant to be on my side."
"I am on your side," Genny said fiercely. "Which is why I am telling you the truth. If you truly prefer Watford and his drainage, if you would rather have a quiet, orderly life than risk your heart, I will stand beside you, smile at your wedding, and never say a word."
She leaned forward, eyes bright. "But if you are only pretending—if you are breaking off because you are afraid—then that is not you. That is everyone else's idea of you."
The words hit with unnerving accuracy and Esme stared at her friend, throat thick. "I don't know what I prefer," she said at last. "I only know that everything feels...smaller, since Foxmere."
"Smaller without him," Genny said quietly.
Esme did not answer.
"Then perhaps the Mutual Mischief Society shouldn't be over. Perhaps it's time you used it on yourself."
Esme blinked. "On myself?"
"You have been rearranging everyone else's lives," Genny said. "But you haven't once asked what you want and then acted in favor of that. That is poor form, Esme. You'd never tolerate it in anyone else."
Esme's lips trembled. "I want... I want to choose," she whispered. "Not to be chosen. Not to be arranged. I want to decide for myself, even if it is the wrong decision."
Genny's expression gentled. "There she is," she said softly. "My Esme."
Esme pressed her palms to her eyes for a moment, then dropped them. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier.
"Haverleigh," she said. "A crowd, music, enough commotion to hide a little mischief."
"Excellent." Genny grinned. "What shall we do?"
Esme drew a breath. "First, I speak to Watford. Alone."
Genny's eyes widened. "Esme—"
"I will be kind," Esme said. "But I won't allow myself to drift into an understanding simply because it's expected. He deserves a wife who is delighted by penmanship. That isn't me."
"And Redford?" Genny asked carefully.
"That," Esme said, "depends on whether he comes."
"And if he does?"
Esme thought of his laugh, his hands, the way his eyes had softened when he said he was sometimes tired. Sometimes disappointed.
"Then," she said, "I stop letting other people speak for me. For once."
Genny's smile was brilliant and a little wet. "Now that is a plan I can get behind."
Esme managed a small, answering smile.
The Mutual Mischief Society, she thought, might not be dead after all.
It might simply be changing its object.
James stared at the note on his writing desk as though it were a summons from the Almighty.
From Miss Genevieve Moreland, in fact. He recognized her handwriting at once, and almost hadn't opened it.
Almost.
Lord Redford, it began,
You are, at present, being a complete ninny.
He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and read on.
Esme is being very brave and very stupid. Woodmere is being very sincere and very stupid. Watford is being exactly himself, which is a separate problem. You, however, are managing to combine all three varieties of stupidity at once, which is frankly impressive.
If you do not attend the musicale at Haverleigh, Esme will likely talk herself into being perfectly sensible forever, and then we shall all be bored to death. Including you. Possibly especially you.
If you attend and behave as though you are carved from ice, I shall spill something unspeakable on your coat to force you to change it, which will cause a scene, which will lead to gossip, which you claim you wish to avoid.
So: come. Be honest. For once. Consider this an official summons from the Mutual Mischief Society, which, despite rumors of its demise, is still very much in session.
Yours in impatience,
G. Moreland
P.S. If you hurt her on purpose, I shall teach Lady Honoria a new poem about you.
James sat back, the note dangling from his fingers.
A ninny.
Regrettably, not inaccurate.
The urge to crumple the letter warred with the urge to fold it carefully and put it somewhere he could not pretend to forget. He compromised by smoothing it flat and setting it atop the others.
There were not many.
A few bills, a note from his steward about tenants' repairs, an invitation to a house party in August he had no intention of attending. His life, on paper, was remarkably empty.