Chapter 17
“You take sugar, I recall.”
Frederick was already reaching for the tongs. The morning room at Hartfield faced south, flooding the breakfast table with light that turned the china to pearl. White roses stood at the center of the table, heavy with dew.
“Two lumps.” He dropped the sugar into her cup. “And milk.”
He remembered the sugar. He did not know she took her tea without milk.
She accepted the cup from his hand, her fingers brushing his, and her stomach fluttered at the contact.
His smile broadened. He had a wonderful smile when he meant it, open, boyish, the smile she had watched across a dozen ballrooms for years while wishing he would turn it in her direction.
Now he had. He was turning it toward her every morning.
“I thought we might walk the lake path today,” he said. “Lord Ashton mentioned the views from the eastern bank. I should like to show you the folly from the far side.”
“I would enjoy that.”
“Excellent.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I must confess, Miss Fairchild, I have been looking forward to this week for some time. London does not afford the kind of time a house party does.” His eyes held hers. “I am immensely enjoying getting to know you.”
Her pulse quickened. The old, steady warmth spread through her chest, the warmth of being noticed by the man she had admired for four years. She held it close.
She couldn’t help but smile. “Getting to know me?”
He nodded at this, and shifted in his chair.
“I pride myself on being a careful observer.” He sat back. “For instance, I noticed you dislike aspic.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“At dinner. You moved it to the edge of your plate. Very subtle.” He looked pleased. “I notice everything.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. “You are correct. I cannot bear aspic.”
“I shall remember that.” He flashed her another dazzling smile.
At the far end, Lady Caldwell watched them over her cup. Mrs. Fenton murmured to her behind a raised hand.
They walked the lake path after breakfast. Frederick offered his arm. He pointed to a pair of moorhens drifting near the bank.
“I finished a novel on the journey,” Louisa said. “Belinda. Miss Edgeworth.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “I am not much of a reader myself, though I admire those who are.” He steered her around a puddle. “As I was saying about the horse, the temperament is what convinced me. A calm horse is worth twice a spirited one.”
“Your horse sounds more decisive than most of the gentlemen at Lady Ashton’s card table.”
His brow furrowed. A beat passed. He offered a laugh that arrived a moment too late.
“Very droll,” he said.
She tried again. “I have been thinking about a charity school near Farnham. Mrs. Hewitt runs it. Fifteen girls, and the roof leaks so badly they lose days of lessons whenever it rains.”
“That is a shame.” He patted her hand on his arm. “You need not trouble yourself with such concerns, Miss Fairchild. Those are matters best left to the parish.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“I suppose you are right,” she muttered, casting her eyes down.
He nodded with certainty. “Of course I am. Now, Lord Ashton tells me the fishing here is very fine. I have told him about Langley Park’s lake. Smaller, but the trout are superior.”
She listened. She nodded. She held his arm, conscious of the strength of it beneath the broadcloth, conscious of how many years she had imagined doing precisely this. Walking on a country gentleman’s arm. Being shown the grounds. Being chosen.
He stopped to pick a wildflower from the verge and tucked it behind her ear. The gesture was tender, and she felt herself soften toward it, toward him, toward the earnest determination in his face.
“I am glad to finally have you to myself,” he said. “Away from London. Away from all the noise.”
“So am I.” She meant it. She wanted to mean it more. After all, this was Frederick. The man of her dreams.
They returned to the house in time for luncheon. Frederick held her chair. He buttered her bread roll without asking. He asked about her family. He described his library in Kent, his plans for the south wing, the morning room his mother had decorated.
“I do wish to invite you to the library,” he said and she nodded almost eagerly.
“I should like that very much,” she said.
“I am quite a fan of old books, I…” He nodded and smiled.
“The lighting is beautiful,” he said. “My mother had a gift for decorating. When I marry, my wife will not have to change a single thing.”
“Oh.”
She nodded slowly. “That… sounds fortunate,” she said. He smiled. “Yes. She can simply walk into a life that is ready for her.”
His eyes gleamed, and her heart beat faster. This was everything she had wanted. He was looking at her with that gleam in her eyes, and telling her that his life was ready for her to simply walk in.
After luncheon, the hunting party assembled on the gravel drive. Frederick appeared in a riding coat, his gun under his arm.
“I shall not be long. A few hours.” He bowed over her hand. “I shall think of you.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
He mounted. The party clattered off. Frederick fell into conversation with Lord Ashton before they reached the gate.
Eleanor appeared at her shoulder. “Did he make you laugh?”
“He tucked a flower behind my ear.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Louisa lifted her chin. “The ladies are gathering in the drawing room. Let us join them.”
Lady Caldwell had claimed the settee nearest the window. Mrs. Fenton sat beside her with a letter open on her lap. Two younger ladies occupied chairs near the fireplace, their embroidery hoops balanced on their knees.
“The satin stitch is entirely unsuitable for a border of that width,” Lady Caldwell declared, holding up a square of linen. “I have said so to Mrs. Fenton. I have said so twice.”
“You have said so four times,” Mrs. Fenton murmured, turning a page of her letter.
“Because the point bears repeating. Chain stitch. That is what is wanted here. Miss Fairchild, you agree with me, I am sure.”
Louisa looked up from the cushion she had been pretending to examine. “Chain stitch is very reliable.”
“There. You see?” Lady Caldwell turned to Mrs. Fenton with the triumph of a barrister resting her case. “Miss Fairchild agrees.”
Mrs. Fenton did not look up from her letter. “My daughter writes that the weather in Bath has been uncommonly fine.”
“Chain stitch,” Lady Caldwell repeated, to no one.
Eleanor caught Louisa’s eye from across the room. Her expression said everything her mouth could not.
Louisa pressed her fingertips against her temple. “Forgive me, Lady Caldwell. I find I have a headache. I think I shall take some air.”
“Of course, my dear. The country air will do you good. We shall save your seat.”
Louisa collected Belinda from her room. She found the walled garden behind the east wing, making herself at home upon a stone bench beneath a tree.
She opened the book, reading a full three pages without absorbing a word.
“If I were Frederick, I would be deeply offended.”
She startled. Oliver stood in the archway, one shoulder against the brick.
Louisa lifted a brow. “You frightened me.”
He smiled easily at this. “You were scowling at that book as though it owed you money.” He crossed the garden and dropped onto the far end of the bench. “What are you reading?”
She held up the cover.
“The Sorrows of Young Werther.” His brows rose. “A rather heavy endeavor after Belinda.”
Her eyes lit up. “You… you remember?”
He smiled. “Indeed. I remember… books.”
“Have you read this?”
“I have. I must admit, though it was tedious at times, it was a rather apt exploration of individuality.” She nodded. “I am enjoying it thus far.”
He nodded, then smiled. “I am not surprised.”
She rested the book against her knees. The thrush on the garden wall sang into the quiet between them.
“You did not join the hunt,” she said.
“I find shooting pheasants unsporting. The pheasant is merely going about its business, harming no one, when a group of men in expensive boots arrive to ruin its afternoon.” He examined the pear tree above him. “I sympathize with the pheasant.”
A giggle escaped her lips. “You sympathize with the pheasant?”
“Deeply. We have a great deal in common. Both well-dressed. Both sought after. Both perpetually alarmed by large groups of people advancing toward us with intent.”
She pressed her lips together. The laugh pushed at her ribs.
“Besides,” he said, turning his face toward her with studied innocence, “Frederick chose a very interesting day to pursue pheasants. Here he is at a house party, courting you. First opportunity he gets, he trades your company for a gun and muddy boots.” A pause.
“One might argue the pheasants hold more appeal.”
“Oliver.”
“I am merely observing.”
“You are provoking.”
“Provoking is a form of observing. I observe, then I share. It is a public service.”
“It is a menace.”
He grinned. She shook her head, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
“Tell me about this morning,” he insisted, turning his gaze away from her.
She sighed. “He told me about his horse.”
Oliver pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “His horse. Did he ask about you?”
She looked at the lavender. A bee moved from one purple spike to the next.
“He told me I was graceful under scrutiny.”
“That is not a question, Louisa.” He waited. “What else?”
“I told him about Mrs. Hewitt’s school. The leaking roof, the fifteen girls, the shortage of slates.” She paused. “He told me not to trouble myself.”
Oliver went still. “He said that?”
“He meant it kindly.”
“Kindly.” He repeated the word as though it had gone sour. “You described a leaking roof. You told him children are losing days of lessons. His response was rather condescending.”
Louisa sighed.
“I suppose like most, he believes those are matters for gentlemen to manage.”
“And you believe?”
“I believe Mrs. Hewitt’s roof does not care who pays for it, so long as it stops raining on the girls.”
He was quiet. Then he smiled, slowly, the kind that started in his eyes before it reached his mouth.