Chapter Four
ON SUNDAY, LILA made sure to find Widow Mason and ask her to dinner Tuesday evening.
Mrs. Mason was surprised—she’d never dined at Franklyn Farm before—but graciously accepted the offer.
Beyond that, Lila made sure to tell everyone about their upcoming guest. By the time Lila and Uncle Peter began the walk home, every unattached, church-going, middle-aged woman in the village was aware of Mr. Luthford’s status and recommendation.
If one of these women caught his eye, and he theirs, Lila may have worried for nothing.
The idea was almost disappointing; it could have been a bit of fun to see if she could un-attract Mr. Luthford.
But she may very well have to make herself content with wishing him happy.
Perhaps she would get a new dress for Mr. Luthford’s winter wedding.
Monday morning Lila awoke early, dressed in her least flattering morning dress—the color of mashed pumpkin with a high ruffled neck and wrist-length sleeves—and asked Katherine, her maid, to do her hair in a simple bun.
“Are you sure you would not like something a bit more . . . elaborate?” Katherine asked. Lila preferred a full twist, with some hair left to frame her face. Or she would wear her hair down around her shoulders with only the very front caught up on the top of her head.
“I am most certainly not in the mood for anything elaborate,” Lila said. “I would like to see how my face looks without anything to encumber it.
When Katherine finished, Lila looked at herself with a critical eye.
She had hoped the removal of all the softness of her hair, along with the dress she did not feel set her off to any advantage, would make her look unappealing and plain.
Instead, the heart shape of her face was more apparent, her cheekbones were shown at an advantage, and her eyes looked large and luminous. The dress was still awful, however.
“I can change it, miss,” Katherine said eagerly.
“It is just right,” Lila said, turning her head to admire the graceful curve of her neck. “Thank you.”
“Do you wish to change into a day dress before luncheon?” Katherine said, running her eye over the dress when Lila stood. “I could set out the sprig muslin.”
The sprig muslin was one of Lila’s favorites to be sure—Uncle had ordered it from a dressmaker all the way in Shrewsbury—but it was far too flattering.
“No, I shall keep this one. I woke up a bit chilled.” That was a lie; in fact, the day promised to be rather warm for September.
But her comfort was not the focus, and wearing a morning gown all day was something Uncle Peter would never notice in her attempts to put herself at a disadvantage.
Lila didn’t dare hide in Uncle’s office today since Mr. Luthford’s arrival was a change from the usual schedule.
Instead, she spent some time pasting bright green feathers to the mask she would wear to the masquerade—she was attending in costume as a peacock—and then went to the garden, admired the chrysanthemums taking center stage this time of year, and picked a bouquet of wildflowers she would put in her room.
There would soon be only hothouse flowers to brighten the house, though she liked those too.
Since the garden was on the opposite side of the house from the front drive, and she did not expect Mr. Luthford before noon, Lila did not hear the carriage that arrived a full hour early.
She entered the house from a side door and was taken aback by the timbre of male voices.
She moved toward the voices and came to a stop in the doorway of the parlor when the men turned to face her.
The stranger who must be Mr. Luthford was dressed in rather dull grey trousers and a navy blue coat.
His black waistcoat was unadorned, and his necktie tied in a simple knot that would never do in London drawing rooms .
. . or so she supposed. Lila had expected Mr. Luthford to be old but was immediately disappointed.
Of course he was old; only, he didn’t look as old as she’d hoped he would.
His hair was dark, and though there was some peppering of grey at the temples, and a rather rugged look to his face, he did not look aged, really.
But he was not particularly handsome, and that made her feel better.
His nose was rather small, his face long, and his brow heavy, giving him a somewhat broody look.
His was nothing to Neville’s good looks, she was pleased to note.
“Lila,” Uncle said, stepping forward to meet her at the doorway with a smile.
“This is Mr. Mortimer Luthford, the son of my friend I was telling you about, who shall be staying in the cottage for a time.” He led her into the room until she was a few feet from Mr. Luthford.
“Luthford, this is my niece, Lila Grange.”
“Miss Grange,” Mr. Luthford said, bowing toward her but not taking her hand since she had put them behind her back. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
She smiled and gave a minimal curtsy. “And I you,” she said softly.
In a usual situation she would ask after his journey, confirm those details she knew about him in order to make conversation, and inquire after his impressions of High Ercall thus far.
But she was not to be on her usual behavior and needed to therefore hold back her natural interest in people.
After a few moments of silence she battled with herself not to fill, Uncle Peter came to the rescue.
“Luthford arrived a bit earlier than expected, and I have some matters of correspondence I need to complete before I am free.” He looked at Lila.
“Would you be so kind, my dear, to show him the stables so that he might know where to find his mount?”
Lila lifted her eyebrows in response to the bold request—her uncle was inviting her to walk alone with a man after less than five minutes of acquaintance?
“I don’t want to interrupt the household’s schedule,” Mr. Luthford said. “I’m sure I can find my way to the stable and remain occupied until my trunks and my man arrive in the hired chaise.”
“Lila would be happy to show you about, wouldn’t you, Lila?” Uncle said, looking at her with expectation.
No, I would not, she wanted to say, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. “Certainly,” she said, smiling politely. “Only, let me fetch my bonnet.”
She went to her room and reached for the straw hat that would best coordinate with her dress, but then hesitated and instead took hold of the purple velvet.
It matched a pelisse she only wore in winter and would look hideous with her orange dress.
With Uncle Peter behaving bolder than she had ever known him to do, she had no time to waste in giving Mr. Luthford a poor impression.
She met Mr. Luthford in the foyer while she was still tying the ribbons and although she searched his face for some type of reaction regarding her uncoordinated presentation, he gave no indication of notice.
She smiled and then led him through the front door a footman opened for them.
“It is lovely country here,” Mr. Luthford said once they reached the gravel road that skirted the house and led to the outbuildings.
Lila had to think hard of her objectives before determining she could answer him without going against them.
“Yes, it is quite lovely.” She bit back a question about where he was from, where his regiment had last been before he left the army, and if he’d been to London after arriving in England or come straight here.
Stifling her natural curiosity was difficult, but the sacrifice would be worthwhile once Neville returned.
Gentlemen prefer a woman who does not prattle or gossip.
It was time to begin.
“Just the other day I went into the countryside with my dear friend, Eloise Capener—her father is the magistrate here in town, you know, and we have been friends all our lives. We picked bilberries and though our fingers were rather stained by the time we finished, it was a diverting afternoon nonetheless.”
She was quite pleased with herself. She’d made no mention of watercolor or embroidery and not asked a single question about him.
“Ah, bilberries,” Mr. Luthford said with longing. “Were the berries for scones or for a pie?”
“A pie,” Lila said, walking beside him with her hands clasped behind her back, worried that if she did not take such a posture he would put out his arm for her. That would be altogether too familiar. “Two pies actually—one for Eloise’s family and one for my uncle and me.”
“Was the finished product worthy of the excursion?”
She turned to smile at him. “It was perfectly delicious,” she said, wondering when Mr. Luthford had last had bilberry pie.
She imagined something so fine was difficult to come by when one was rusticating at some military post. If only she could ask.
The questions were building up like water behind a dammed up stream.
“Do you often go into the woods for berry picking?” he asked.
“When they are in season,” she said. “It gives purpose to what would only be wanderings through the woods without a task otherwise.”
“And do you object to wandering through the woods without purpose?”
She gave him a sidelong look, surprised that he was asking so many questions.
The article had implied that gentlemen preferred to talk about themselves, yet Mr. Luthford had not said anything of his own interests.
“Well, I’m not sure I have thought much about it, but now that you suggest the idea, I would say that I generally prefer to have a purpose in the things I do.
While I don’t mind a walk in the woods, I prefer to be going somewhere or having the walk as part of some other accomplishment. ”