Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mr. Edmund Fairford arrived at Rivermere Hall shortly after three o’clock.
He owned Belgrave, a respectable estate lying several miles beyond Rivermere’s northern boundary, and had inherited it from an elderly uncle some six years earlier.
The property was not large enough to rival Rivermere, though it was prosperous, well-managed, and known for an old orangery that had once been admired throughout the county.
Fairford himself was thirty-one, unmarried, and generally considered sensible.
He served as a magistrate, attended parish meetings with admirable regularity, and, as far as Benedict knew, had never caused a scandal more serious than keeping two hunters, which certain neighbors believed were too expensive for his income.
Benedict knew him well enough to exchange bows at assemblies, discuss drainage after heavy rain, and agree that the county roads were poorly maintained.
They also served together on several committees and once spent nearly an hour debating bridge repairs without learning anything personal about one another.
Benedict had never considered this a deficiency.
Fairford was shown into the smaller drawing room, where Sophia sat by the open windows, her embroidery neglected on her lap. The afternoon was warm, and the breeze carried the scent of roses from the terrace, stirring the pale curtains behind her. She looked up as the gentlemen entered.
Benedict had seen her every day for more than a month.
He had seen her at breakfast with her hair imperfectly arranged, in the garden with soil on her gloves, and beside the nursery fire with a book open across her knees.
Still, there were moments when the sight of her seemed to arrive unexpectedly.
This was one of them.
“Fairford,” Benedict greeted him.
“Your Grace.” Fairford bowed before turning toward Sophia. “Your Grace.”
Sophia smiled. “Mr. Fairford. I believe we met briefly at Lady Briarwood’s assembly.”
“We did.” Fairford’s expression brightened. “You were wearing pearl silk. It would have been difficult to forget.”
Benedict looked at him. The remark was perfectly proper. It was, in fact, almost dull in its propriety. A gentleman might remember a duchess’ gown without attaching any improper significance to the memory.
Sophia smiled politely. “You possess a better memory than I do.”
“Only for agreeable things.”
Benedict looked at him again. Fairford seemed entirely unaware that anything objectionable had been said, chiefly because nothing objectionable had been said.
That did not improve the matter.
Tea was ordered. Fairford accepted the chair opposite Sophia, while Benedict sat beside the hearth with a clear view of both of them. The arrangement was natural. It was also irritating.
Fairford began with the county roads, which were damp and poorly drained, making them safe territory.
Benedict offered two observations upon the northern route and explained that the bridge near Millford required new stonework.
For several minutes, the visit proceeded precisely as such visits ought.
Then Fairford discovered that Sophia had once visited Belgrave’s gardens as a child.
“You cannot remember them favorably,” he said. “My uncle had an unfortunate affection for clipped peacocks.”
“I remember one of them,” Sophia replied. “Though I believed it was meant to be a teapot.”
Fairford laughed. “That may explain why my uncle dismissed the gardener.”
“Perhaps the gardener intended a teapot.”
“If so, he succeeded magnificently.”
Sophia smiled. Benedict lifted his cup. It should not have bothered him. Fairford was a respectable man. His manners were excellent, his intentions harmless, and his conversation more intelligent than that of most gentlemen who entered a drawing room determined to impress a duchess.
There was nothing objectionable in his speaking to Sophia. She was mistress of Rivermere. Guests were expected to address her.
Fairford explained that he intended to restore Belgrave’s orangery, which had been closed since the death of his aunt.
“You mean to restore it rather than replace it?” Sophia asked.
“If it can be saved. The roof is unsound, but the southern wall still holds warmth beautifully.”
“That would be a pity to lose.”
“My gardener says the same, though he expresses his opinions with considerably less grace.”
Sophia leaned forward slightly. “Is the old glass still there?”
“Much of it. Cracked, clouded, and held together by determination.”
“That sounds rather like several families of my acquaintance.”
Fairford laughed again. Benedict set down his cup.
Sophia looked toward him. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing.” His cup had simply met its saucer with more firmness than he intended.
Fairford continued speaking. He described the orangery’s stone floor, the fig trees which had once grown against the wall, and the possibility of cultivating lemons again if the heating pipes could be repaired.
Sophia grew interested at once. Her questions were thoughtful. She asked whether the ground sloped toward the western side and whether rain entered through the damaged roof. Fairford answered with visible pleasure.
Benedict watched Sophia speak with many people since their marriage.
She was always kind, but often reserved.
In large company, she listened more than she spoke and let louder people carry the conversation away from her.
She did not seem reserved with Fairford.
Her hands moved when she spoke. Her eyes warmed. She forgot her embroidery entirely.
Benedict told himself this was a good thing. Sophia had spent too much of her life believing she was uninteresting. He wanted Rivermere to be a place where she felt seen and valued. He had not fully considered that other men would also see her.
Fairford asked whether she preferred formal gardens or those allowed a little wildness.
Sophia glanced toward the open windows. “A little wildness, I think. Though Mr. Wilkes would call it neglect.”
“Ah, Wilkes. He once informed my head gardener that my roses lacked moral discipline.”
“They may have deserved it,” Sophia smiled.
“Most likely. Belgrave’s roses have never possessed character.”
“Perhaps they require better conversation.”
Fairford smiled at her with unmistakable admiration.
Benedict did not like the smile. It was not improper.
It was not presumptuous. Fairford merely looked at Sophia as though he found her clever.
Benedict found her clever too. That, somehow, made Fairford’s appreciation more irritating rather than less.
The conversation moved from gardens to books when Fairford mentioned that he had recently acquired several botanical volumes from a gentleman in Oxford. Sophia knew two of the authors.
“You have read Abernathy?” Fairford asked with surprise.
“My father had a copy. The illustrations were much better than the prose.”
“I thought the same. He describes a primrose as though presenting evidence before a court.”
“Perhaps he feared contradiction.”
Fairford laughed. “I should like to lend you the second volume. His treatment of alpine plants is less severe.”
“That is very kind.”
Benedict’s fingers tightened against the arm of his chair.
It should not have bothered him. A neighbor might lend Sophia a book without threatening the peace of England.
Fairford was not attempting seduction through botanical literature.
That would be ridiculous. Still, Benedict did not care for the ease with which he offered her something that might bring him back to Rivermere.
“You may send it with a servant,” Benedict suggested.
The remark emerged before he had decided to make it.
Fairford turned toward him. “Of course.”
Sophia’s gaze rested upon Benedict for one brief, puzzled moment. He lifted his tea.
Fairford then spoke of a ruined abbey upon the eastern boundary of Belgrave. A portion of the old chapel remained, along with several badly weathered carvings.
“One angel is especially dreadful,” Fairford mentioned sadly. “It has the expression of a man who has just discovered the cost of his own funeral.”
Sophia laughed. The sound was bright enough to cross the room and strike Benedict somewhere beneath the ribs.
“I should like to see it,” she said.
“I would be happy to welcome you. The view from the eastern hill is worth the journey as well.”
Benedict’s hand stilled. It should not have bothered him.
A neighboring gentleman might invite the Duke and Duchess of Rivermere to view his estate without causing a scandal, a duel, or even raised eyebrows.
Yet Fairford had not looked at Benedict when he extended the invitation. He had looked at Sophia.
Benedict told himself it was because Sophia had expressed interest. He told himself again when Fairford leaned forward to hear her answer.
“Perhaps we shall visit when the weather is cooler,” Sophia replied.
“We?” Benedict asked.
Both of them turned toward him.
Sophia’s brows lifted. “I assumed you might accompany me.”
“Of course.” The answer came rather too quickly.
Fairford smiled. “I shall consider it settled, then.”
Nothing was settled.
Benedict did not know when an idle mention of a badly carved angel had become an arrangement, but Fairford appeared unusually skilled in advancing a conversation before anyone could object.
The visit continued through the first pot of tea and halfway through the second. Fairford admired Sophia’s embroidery, which Benedict felt was unnecessary, since Sophia herself had already declared the flower unrecognizable.
“What is it meant to be?” Fairford asked.
“A rose.”
He considered it carefully. “I should have said a carnation.”
“So did Amelia.”
“Then I am in excellent company.”
“Marjorie believed it was an explosion.”
Fairford laughed. Benedict disliked him a little more.