Chapter 18
“V iolin!” Lady Tolliver declared with the air of a commander marshalling troops. “It must be the violin. No wedding of mine shall be marred by the bleating of a flute.”
“I had understood it to be Hetty’s wedding,” murmured Mari from behind her novel.
Lady Tolliver pressed on, undaunted. “I have dismissed the flautist. The man had a mole upon his cheek the size of a currant and I could not bear the notion of it bobbing through the Wedding March. It would cast a pall over the entire proceedings.”
Lottie gave a most inelegant snort into her toast.
“And of course,” Lady Tolliver added, pausing for dramatic effect, “all of this shall be rendered quite irrelevant should poor Lord Langley fail to survive long enough to stand at the altar.”
“He is not dying, Mama,” said Hetty, rather sharply, as she reached for the teapot with more vigour than the object warranted.
“I did not say he was dying,” her mother replied, placing a hand upon her bosom. “I said poor. And wounded. It is entirely possible he may take a fever and expire before Thursday. ”
At that very instant, the breakfast room door opened, and in stepped Theo.
Though pale, he was upright and, save for the slight rumple of his coat and a loosely tied cravat, appeared in tolerable spirits.
One hand braced the doorframe, while the other held a walking stick, which he wielded with just enough flourish to suggest it was more for effect than necessity.
“Good morning,” he said, as though his entrance was entirely unremarkable.
Hetty sprang to her feet so swiftly her chair scraped across the floor. “What in Heaven’s name are you doing out of bed?”
“Lord Langley!” cried Lady Tolliver, sweeping towards him like a frigate under full sail. “You ought to be abed this instant, with a cool compress upon your brow! How is your colour? Do you feel faint? Are you clammy?”
“I feel quite restored, Lady Tolliver,” he said amiably, making his way to the chair beside Hetty and lowering himself into it with the careful dignity of a man determined not to be fussed over. “I was resting, but now I am breakfasting. It seems the logical progression.”
“You were shot, my lord!” she gasped, fanning herself. “You cannot simply traipse about the house as though you were not perforated by one of my daughters!”
“Miss Charlotte merely grazed me,” he said with diplomacy. “It was, I daresay, a charming display of sisterly affection.”
At the far end of the table, Benedict emitted a sound that could only be described as a warning growl.
“I assure you, Lady Tolliver,” Theo continued, “I am quite equal to the demands of sitting. And I am resolved to reacquaint myself with toast. ”
“You look ghastly,” Hetty said, frowning.
“Thank you,” he returned. “I dressed to impress.”
“I shall have Cook prepare a restorative broth,” Lady Tolliver declared, already bustling from the room in a flurry. “Do not eat the ham. It looks aggressive.”
“I shall risk it,” Theo smirked, reaching for the teapot with one hand while steadying himself against the table with the other.
Hetty snatched the teapot from him and poured it herself. “You are an utterly ridiculous man.”
“I have been called far worse,” he said, flashing her a grin so irrepressibly roguish that, despite her best efforts to maintain a frown, the corner of her mouth threatened treachery.
“Besides,” he said, leaning closer and dropping his voice to a murmur intended for her ears alone, “I missed you.”
To her own astonishment, Hetty did not roll her eyes.
She did not scoff, nor did she issue one of her usual sharp retorts.
Instead, her fingers twitched where they rested near the sugar spoon, and she kept her gaze trained very determinedly on the toast rack.
“I suppose,” she said at last, “I missed you as well.”
Theo blinked slowly, his smile softening just enough to make her regret saying anything at all. “Then why did you not come to see me?”
“If I had hovered over you like a mother hen, you would have declared yourself oppressed and demanded fresh air.”
“On the contrary,” he said, spreading butter onto his toast. “Your presence would have improved my convalescence immeasurably.”
Nell, perched two seats down, squinted at them in suspicion. “Why are you two whispering? ”
“We are not whispering,” Hetty said swiftly.
“You most certainly are,” Mari said, without looking up from her book. “And it is exceedingly tedious.”
“I was merely informing Miss Tolliver,” Theo said smoothly, lifting his teacup, “that I am most uncommonly pleased to be alive. I thought it prudent to say so aloud, considering the recent attempt upon my person.”
“You are being very odd,” Nell said.
“We are always odd,” Hetty replied, a shade too brightly, as she reached for her knife and buttered her toast with great concentration. “It is the natural state of this household.”
“No,” said Lottie, folding her arms as Nell nodded in agreement. “You are being odd together, which is far more alarming.”
“Eat your eggs, Charlotte,” Benedict said gruffly, still glowering into his plate.
From behind the Morning Post, Lord Tolliver gave a sudden start, as though only just becoming aware there were other people in the room.
“Well, hullo there, Langley!” he said heartily. “Shall you be sufficiently restored to stand for the ceremony on Thursday, or must we carry you in upon a sedan chair like a wounded Roman general?”
“I am, I assure you, quite mobile, sir,” Theo replied, bowing his head. “Though I must confess, I should not object to a sedan chair. Borne, of course, by no fewer than six footmen in matching waistcoats. ”
“Aha!” cried Lord Tolliver, slapping the arm of his chair in delight. “Capital notion! Let us revive the toga while we are about it – give the whole affair a proper sense of grandeur!”
Lady Tolliver swept back into the room, placing an uninviting bowl of steaming broth before Theo.
“There shall be no such revival of ancient fashions,” she declared.
“However, I have resolved that the violinists shall be stationed by the east window – the acoustics are far superior – and I am cancelling the rose garlands entirely. They put me in mind of funerals.” She stared pointedly at Theo.
“Lord Langley, do you believe yourself capable of remaining upright through the entirety of the ceremony?”
“Without question, Lady Tolliver,” he said, though his wince as he shifted slightly in his seat suggested otherwise. “Provided someone is nearby to catch me should I swoon. Perhaps the bride might consider it.”
“I shall do no such thing,” Hetty said.
“Then I shall swoon at your feet,” he said with solemnity, though the mischief in his eyes quite undid the effect. “It will be terribly poetic.”
Hetty reached for her teacup in a poor attempt to look composed. Her hand brushed his where it rested upon the table, and neither of them made the slightest effort to withdraw.
Across the table, Lottie gave a long-suffering sigh. “I do wish you two would simply kiss again and be done with it. Breakfast is becoming rather exhausting.”
“Charlotte Tolliver, I am eating!” Benedict barked .
Nell promptly snorted into her cup. Mari turned a page in her novel with a studied air of detachment. Georgie beamed, and from behind his newspaper, Lord Tolliver muttered, “Ah yes. Love at the breakfast table. Very continental.”
—
?—
Much to Theo and Hetty’s dismay, Lady Tolliver had arranged a private appointment with the vicar the following morning.
It was not done in malice – at least, not in the conventional sense – but in the spirit of what she referred to as “responsible housekeeping” following Hetty’s ill-timed announcement over dinner that the engagement had been a fabrication.
In Lady Tolliver’s view, such a notion was wholly inadmissible.
The engagement was most certainly not a farce, regardless of how many protests her eldest daughter flung about.
After all, two decidedly public embraces, one duel and a bullet wound (delivered, no less, by a member of the bride’s own family) rendered the match, in Society’s estimation – and more importantly, in Lady Tolliver’s – “as good as consummated. If not in law, then most assuredly in the eyes of every scandal sheet and meddling aunt in England.”
Thus it was that Theodore, Earl of Langley, found himself seated beside Miss Tolliver upon an unyielding settee in the modest study of the Reverend Mr Peters, the long-serving cleric of St Bartholomew’s on Brook Street – a respectable if somewhat draughty parish, favoured by those of good breeding and even better gossip.
The room, plainly appointed, bore all the hallmarks of clerical life: a large, worn Bible upon the desk, an assortment of pamphlets entitled On the Moral Conduct of Young Ladies and, most peculiarly, a rather bald stuffed owl positioned upon a high shelf, its glass eyes fixed upon them with unblinking judgment.
Theo shifted slightly, wincing as his ribs protested, and cast a sidelong glance at Hetty, who sat very upright with her gloved hands folded tightly in her lap and her expression arranged into the finest imitation of pious obedience to ever grace a Tolliver.
The Reverend Peters was a small, rather harried gentleman with an expression of perpetual apology and an overly large collar that bobbed every time he cleared his throat, which he did often.
He cleared his throat once more and consulted a small leather-bound book with more ceremony than seemed strictly necessary.
“My purpose in calling you here,” he began, “is not to pry, nor to cast doubt upon what has already been so publicly affirmed – though I understand it was affirmed under somewhat… unconventional circumstances – but simply to ensure, before God and conscience, that this union is entered into freely, and with full understanding of the vows to be made.”