Chapter 12
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind;
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
October
It was miserably wet and muddy at Clafton, but Alasdair insisted on visiting daily.
There was real satisfaction in watching the progress: in seeing the stones change as they were shaped for placement, in listening as the mason and the bricklayers consulted one another beneath a drooping, damp tarpaulin.
Gordon was growing confident that the manor could be finished by the start of February if they were lucky and the snow held.
There was real momentum, and Alasdair could feel it.
But that Saturday, everyone had been dismissed from the site around eleven in the morning, the rain simply too dogged, and the men were sent home to wait until sunshine brought reprieve.
The weather had become Alasdair’s grim nemesis, for it seemed to constantly interrupt progress.
Gordon found him before everyone cleared out, standing beside Alasdair to survey the rain and rumbling with laughter. “It won’t go up in a blink, no matter how hard ye wish it.”
Alasdair said nothing and nodded.
“The lads in Anstey sent over two wagonloads we won’t need,” Gordon continued, flopping a cap over his snowy fall of hair. “I’ll see to it that the bill gets adjusted, and the stone goes back.”
“Could Mr. Lavin at the Florizel use it?” Alasdair asked, pivoting to watch the man gather his things.
Gordon answered with a red-faced, flustered look. “Well…I would have to assess the state of it. But ’tis possible, yes, possible.”
“Make your assessments,” he said, fetching his own hat and smoothing out his coat. “If it’s useful to them, I’ll see that they have it.”
“Sir, that’s hundreds of pounds worth of—”
“I’ll see that they have it.”
“Very good, sir. I hear ye.”
His mood did not improve when he reached Sampson Park and discovered the customarily dark and empty sitting room east of the entryway was crowded with ladies.
His mother sat surrounded by strangers, their quiet chatter like the sound of a swift-moving stream as he handed off his things to his valet and took in the gathering.
Mr. Danforth surged from the crowd of ladies like a rooster strutting from a coop.
He met Alasdair at the open doors onto the sitting room with a smile, a bow, and gently folded hands.
“What is this?” Alasdair asked absently. “And where is Freddie?”
“Your brother is handling some correspondence for me currently, part of his introduction to the profession,” said Danforth.
The preacher had preened with extra care that day, his dark curls waved back from his forehead, his black coat pressed and spotless.
“And this is the inaugural meeting of the Ladies’ Society for Decency and Restoration. ”
Lady Edith noticed them hovering and smiled with more vigor and intensity than she had displayed since Alasdair’s return.
Slowly, Alasdair allowed Mr. Danforth to guide him into the sea of lace and sofas to be introduced to the women, whose names he would certainly not remember.
Most of the ladies present resembled his mother, though a few younger daughters had been dragged along.
Those with offspring eyed him like a side of beef hanging in a butcher’s window.
“Ladies,” he said softly, inclining forward in a bow.
“How well-mannered,” murmured one gray-haired beauty to his right, which was awfully magnanimous, given his one-word greeting. New pamphlets had been made and distributed for the occasion, and one was thrust into his hands.
“The conversation surrounding the Florizel has been incredibly animated,” Danforth informed him, shoving him deeper into the room.
“Mrs. Ellison has argued, persuasively, I think, that it could be only a miraculous intervention that kept the players from spreading their sinful gossip to the good people of Cray Arches.”
Mrs. Ellison, presumably, perched on a sofa beside his mother, blushed and shied away.
“What do you think?” the woman who had praised his manners asked, gazing up at him. “Accident or intervention?” The daughter crumpled against her side looked like she craved to be absolutely anywhere else. A feeling we undoubtedly share, madam.
Alasdair cleared his throat, suddenly and terribly the center of much undivided attention.
His eyes roamed the room for inspiration and fell on a small table near the doors he had just come through.
It was the small, painted treasure he had won in London.
It must have been delivered to Sampson at some point and nobody informed him, and afterward it was shoved unceremoniously into an already overdecorated span.
Danforth had piled a number of his books on it, and the poor little table appeared in danger of collapse.
Taken by the outrage of it, Alasdair dodged around the ladies until he reached the table, scooping up Danforth’s copies of The Folly, Infamy, and Misery of Unlawful Pleasure; Addresses to Young Men; A Discourse on Pain; and others and placed them under his left arm, then he turned back to address the room.
“I think that a lot of people were in danger of losing their lives that night,” he declared, avoiding his mother’s gaze.
Instead, he thought of Violet’s hand and the burned skin peeling away from it like birch shavings.
“And a lot of people did lose their livelihoods. And I think it will be very awkward for you to discover that I have offered the surplus stone from Clafton to Mr. Lavin, as a gesture of goodwill and charity.”
He could see that this was going over about as well as a Montgolfier filled with burning refuse, so he picked up the painted table with his other hand, bowed, and made his exit. Danforth apologized trippingly to the ladies and followed him out.
“Did you really commit to this folly?” Danforth asked, making a strangled sound of discomfort as Alasdair heaped the books into the preacher’s arms. He struggled under the weight of the heavy volumes.
“I know you have never appreciated my overtures of friendship, Mr. Kerr, but I do hope that we are aligned where your mother’s continued happiness is concerned.
It would benefit her for us to find common ground, perhaps even gesture at something beyond civility. ”
Alasdair regarded him with total disinterest.
Danforth sighed, continuing, “Lady Edith has made her position on the theater and its chosen production known…”
“I was aware of your feelings, Mr. Danforth, not hers. And as we are neighbors to the Florizel, I hardly understand the objection. Charity is foremost in your heart, is it not, as a devoted man of faith? If there is to be a bridge between us, let it be built by a shared enthusiasm for philanthropy.” Alasdair stared, feeling a twitch begin beneath his right eye.
“We who have much must see to those who have less: a mandate given down to me by my father, and his father before him.”
Mr. Danforth went pale at his invocation of Sir Kerr.
Alasdair lifted the table slightly. “This is mine. Don’t overburden it with your things again.”
“Of course, of course, to be sure,” Danforth mumbled, chasing him to the foot of the stairs. “Can I not persuade you to stay for the sermon and discussion?”
“You cannot.”
“But could I then—”
“I am a very busy man, Mr. Danforth.”
“To be sure, to be sure, but one last question, before you retire…”
Alasdair paused, one foot on the first stair.
“Please.”
“One question,” Alasdair repeated.
“I only wished to inquire about a certain artist currently residing at Pressmore Estate,” said Danforth, shifting the books in his arms again. “Miss Bilbury. Do you know her?”
“Know of her.”
“To be sure.” Danforth smiled through his obvious annoyance. “Are you aware of her education? Her people? From where does she hail?”
Alasdair squinted. “Why?”
“There’s no harm in knowing the quality of an individual mingling with my parishioners, is there?”
Something about this line of questioning unnerved him.
Since when was Danforth at all interested in artists?
Other than to wag his finger at them, of course.
Alasdair took a step down toward him. “We are little acquainted. I’m familiar with works she submitted to the Royal Watercolour Society, where she was a member until recently, when she withdrew.
I haven’t the faintest idea why she chose to leave London. ”
That was mostly true. There were rumors of angry debtors, commissions promised but not completed, and general questionable behavior, but Alasdair tried to avoid such ugly gossip if he could.
Mr. Danforth seemed satisfied, at least, and thanked him, returning to the sitting room and his flock.
Whatever was going on with this Ladies’ Society for Decency and Restoration, Alasdair decided it wasn’t his concern.
He consoled himself with the thought that it was at least something to keep Lady Edith engaged with society. It was good for her to have friends.
This was the first time in a long time Sampson felt like something other than a mausoleum.
He passed Freddie’s room and peered in through the open door, finding his brother slumped across his desk, asleep.
Startling awake, Freddie muttered something, noticed Alasdair’s presence, and snorted.
“This? It’s Danforth.” There was ink smudged on Freddie’s chin.
He lifted a pen as if in explanation. “The man must correspond with every bored fool in Anselm.”
“Still. It’s a relief to see you working at something,” Alasdair told him.
“Mm-hm,” said Freddie. “Post came for you earlier; it was taken to your chambers.”
“Are you—”
“Bit busy,” he added, returning to the letters.