Chapter 17 #2
Evelyn managed a chuckle. “It is quite all right. I wish more people would make light of it, for I feel as if I am an invalid who shall never rise from this settee again.” She cast a glance toward Joan, who was laughing at something Frances had said.
“The Duchess of Ashcroft has been relentlessly kind in her concern, but I really am capable of moving around.”
“She is like that,” Octavia admitted with a shine in her eyes.
“There is no length she will not go to, to ensure that people feel cared for. An exceptional woman… but I can imagine the frustration. You do not want to offend by disobeying, but you fear you may go mad if you stay lying down for another moment?”
“Exactly.” Evelyn sighed, grateful that Octavia, at least, understood her.
On the other side of the settee, Selina seemed disgruntled by the intrusion, her eyes cold as she looked at Octavia, her nose slightly upturned.
“So what were we discussing?” Octavia asked brightly.
Selina sat back. “Nothing of great importance. Evelyn’s ankle was hurting.”
“How did it happen?” Octavia said, sipping from a cup of tea. “Everyone has vastly different accounts, so I thought I would come to the source.”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “They do? What do they say happened?”
“Oh, everything from you falling in pursuit of a white fox, your mare stumbling in a ditch, another lady knocking you off your horse, to someone tampering with your saddle. It is the most interesting thing that has occurred since the beginning of the house party so, naturally, the stories grow increasingly wild,” Octavia replied in a conspiratorial voice.
A warm blush tingled in Evelyn’s face, uncertain of how much of the truth to reveal. After all, Octavia was Hugo’s sister… a fact that Selina seemed to have forgotten, or she might have tried to be more cordial, more welcoming.
“I was being stubborn,” Evelyn said, after a pause.
“Your brother had come to find me, thinking that I was lost in the woods when, in truth, my mare was slow and I thought she might prefer a leisurely wander along pleasant paths and a nice drink at the stream. He… thought I should return to the manor, but I did not want to, so I rode off… and unfortunately rode straight into a low-hanging branch. It is a miracle, really, that I did not hurt myself more.”
Octavia tilted her head to one side, a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “My brother came to find you?”
Evelyn nodded.
“Is he the one who brought you back, after your injury?” Octavia pressed, in an earnest tone that made Evelyn somewhat nervous.
“He was.”
“But… how did you not see the branch? When I saw you riding out, you seemed to be a proficient horsewoman.” There was a narrowing of Octavia’s eyes, as if something did not quite add up. Seeing the gaps in the story that Evelyn was deliberately omitting.
“I was… um… saying something to your brother,” Evelyn explained carefully. “I made the mistake of turning in order to speak, and—”
She performed a little charade of the branch hitting her in the chest and her flying backward.
Octavia nodded, apparently satisfied. “Well, I am glad that he was there, even if he inadvertently caused the accident.”
She smiled and took Evelyn’s hand, as Selina rose from the settee, excusing herself to fetch a glass of lemonade.
“It was nice of him to go and find you, too,” Octavia added in a quieter voice. “I suppose he is like Joan in that regard; there is nothing he will not do for those he cares about.”
Cares about? Evelyn felt compelled to correct Octavia, to insist that Hugo did not care about her, but was probably just worried on behalf of his friends, the Duke and Duchess of Ashcroft.
It would not be to their benefit if a young lady got terribly hurt or vanished while on a hunt at their house party.
But Octavia moved on before she could say a word.
“You know, it is because of his friends that he has changed his mind about marriage. Not so long ago, he would have recoiled at the mere idea, despite my mother and I urging him to find a lovely wife for himself. Then, with Laurence and Dominic being so in love with their wives, and Hugo being around them so often, I suppose he has now realized that he might be missing out on something wonderful.”
Evelyn cleared her throat. “Yes, well, it is… very fortunate that Selina and your brother seem to be getting along much better, then. Perhaps she might be the… um… bride for him.”
It pained her to say it, though she could not fathom why. It was not as if she had any hope of snaring Hugo for herself; he would never think of her that way and, besides, she already had a betrothed wandering around the manor somewhere.
“Oh, heavens no,” Octavia said, pulling a face. “I do not think your friend is a good match for my brother at all. Indeed, I am quite certain that they would make one another thoroughly miserable.”
A sudden rush of protectiveness overwhelmed the prior discomfort as Evelyn sat up a little straighter. “You would not say that if you knew her better. She… is like an egg; she has a hard shell, but there is softness beneath. She is one of the most generous people I know.”
“I was not insulting your friend, dear Evelyn,” Octavia said in a rush, looking rather mortified.
“Goodness, no. I am sure she is lovely and I am sure she is a great friend to you, but it is a matter of their nature. There is… an innate clash of character between them. It is hard to explain, but I know my brother so very well, and I know that he would not make your friend happy.”
Evelyn relaxed, seeing Octavia’s obvious chagrin. She believed that Hugo’s sister really had not meant any offense; it was there in the redness of Octavia’s cheeks and the way she clasped a hand to her heart, as if she might rip it out to offer in apology.
Is she right? Would Hugo make Selina miserable, and vice versa?
She considered the sudden change in her friend, stemming from Hugo’s recent dismissal and coldness toward Selina.
Now that Evelyn thought about it, perhaps that was not the most stable foundation to build a successful marriage upon, if it relied on an endless game of chase, of blowing hot and cold, of never quite knowing where one stood.
Thrilling in the beginnings of a match or a marriage, maybe, but hardly sustainable in the years afterward.
Did I bid upon the wrong man? Evelyn frowned. Or did I bid for the wrong woman?