After a thoughtful luncheon in which she only uttered monosyllables to Mrs. Skerlong, and at least had the good sense not to look about in expectation of the absent bailiff, Susanreturned to the library and the harpsichord. She found the instrument much more to her size and taste, the tinkling of the plucked strings soothing and orderly. She heard the vicar’s voice in the hallway, and smiled to herself. I wonder if he will make some excuse to visit the library, she thought, and played even more softly.
Looking at the mantel clock, she timed the vicar, allowing him half an hour for the socially correct visit. She found one of Haydn’s music box pieces and set it before her. “A long-suffering man is the vicar, Mr. Haydn,” she said, her eyes on the notes. “A half hour closeted with a woman who thinks God is a flibbertigibbet must seem an eternity.” Still, she was pleased that he would come, and flattered herself that it was because of her that he came to soften up Lady Bushnell. And there was the bailiff, playing matchmaker in the church. Oh, what is your game, David Wiggins?
She played a few notes, but the bailiff remained on her mind like a tune heard before breakfast and then hummed all day. If he was ever all elbows or angles, it was a long time ago. She wondered why he had not been present for lunch, then decided that he was feeling shy, too, or at least reconsidering his late-night attentions. She played a few more notes. I believe I will write to Mr. Steinman tonight, she told herself. He will eventually find me another position, and that will be that.
She waited until a respectable time had passed for the vicar to have taken his leave, then picked upEmmaand went to the best sitting room. She knocked and entered, then stepped back in dismay. The vicar was still there, and looking at her with something close to devotion in his eyes.
“I didn’t mean ... I thought.,.” she stammered. “I can come back later.”
Lady Bushnell shook her head. “You are just in time, Miss Hampton. Won’t you join us for tea?”
“Tea? You want me to join you for tea?” she gasped.
“I believe it is a common practice in the afternoon, Miss Hampton,” the widow said, her voice serene but her eyes wicked. “We would like you to pour.”
This must be a dream, she thought as she sat down at the tea table. I am having tea with Lady Bushnell. She deftly poured a cup for the widow, then turned her attention to the vicar. “Mr. Hepworth, will you have sugar and cream? Isn’t this lovely weather we are having? Do tell me when the birds come back to this valley. Spring is my favorite time of year.”
Chapter Twelve
I am babbling, she thought desperately. I hope no one notices. She managed a glance at the vicar, and saw, to her amazement, that he was regarding her seriously, as though she were speaking the greatest wisdom since Solomon. The bailiff would be laughing to my face, she thought as she smiled at Mr. Hepworth.
Her store of idle chatter seemed endless, and she could only thank generations of Hamptons who had probably small-talked their way from Hastings to the present. What’s bred in the bone will come out of the mouth, she decided grimly as she gave the vicar the advantage of her dimple, tried not to catch Lady Bushnell’s much-too-observant eyes, and spouted magnificent nonsensicals worthy even of Sir Rodney.
So help me, Mr. Hepworth, you could toss in the idle comment here and there, she thought later as the visit wore on and she found herself reaching an end to her store of trivia. To her dismay, the vicar appeared to bask in her prattle as he ate one macaroon after another and held out his cup for more tea. There was no help from Lady Bushnell, who sipped her tea, and seemed content to gaze out the window, particularly at such times when her shoulders began to shake.
Susan was considering prayer for divine intervention when she glanced at the clock. She set down her cup. “Mr. Hepworth, haven’t you Evensong in an hour?” she asked, grateful as never before for the practices of her church.
“Oh, my!” he exclaimed, setting down his cup with a click that made her wince. He scrambled to his feet and looked about in confusion for his hat, reminding Susan more than ever of a marsh bird. Lady Bushnell had by now devoted her entire attention to the view outside the window, and was making smallsounds vaguely incompatible with her customary dignity.
It was a small matter to see him to the door, accept his profoundest farewells, and focus her attention on the chandelier when he nearly tripped over the design in the carpet. Only when the vicar was on his horse and galloping toward Quilling as though pursued by revenue men did Susan dare return to the sitting room and Lady Bushnell.
The widow sat with her hands folded quietly in her lap, but her eyes gave her away. In another moment her hand went to her mouth as she motioned to Susan to shut the door. She began to laugh first, a hearty, come-from-the-toes, infectious kind of laugh that Susan was powerless to resist, even had she wanted to. She joined in, laughing until she had to wipe her eyes and clutch her middle, complaining of too-vigorous lacing.
“Lady Bushnell, I had no idea that taking tea with you would be so perilous to my sorry store of clever chitchat,” she said finally, when she could speak.
“And I had no idea that one man could drink so much tea, eat so many macaroons, and gaze with such adoration,” Lady Bushnell retorted. “I daresay Evensong will be brief, considering all that tea he consumed,” she said and started to laugh again. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed finally as she accepted a handkerchief from Susan. “Miss Hampton, our vicar is profoundly lovestruck. Does this mean more such visits? Can it be that my peace was less disturbed when my lady’s companions were stealing apostle spoons, pressing Bible tracts on me, and attempting to roger my bailiff?”
If it bothered Lady Bushnell, the agitation didn’t show, Susan considered. And why on earth wouldn’t any red-blooded woman want to roger him? she thought, and didn’t bother to blush this time. “I don’t mean to be trouble, my lady,” she said, her voice light. “Blame the bailiff for introducing Mr. Hepworth yesterday.”
“I could hardly blame the bailiff for dark eyes, and a pretty face,” Lady Bushnell insisted. “Miss Hampton, you are going to be a great deal of trouble for me, I suspect. Not only must I teach you to play the piano, and attempt to eradicate your more regrettable Hamptonisms, but now I suppose I must chaperon the vicar, and any other stray bachelor that David Wiggins drags home! My own daughter was less exertion, and I did not employ her!”
“I shall warn the bailiff not to introduce any more single gentlemen to me,” Susan promised, matching Lady Bushnell’s teasing tone. She watched Lady Bushnell, noting how bright the color was in her cheeks, and how young the voice. If any of this silliness keeps you from dismay at your own solitude, or worry about your independence, I think I shall create lots of trouble just for you, she thought.
The daily reading ofEmmalasted only through one chapter, as one or the other or both of them would think of the vicar and begin to laugh all over again. “Tomorrow, Miss Hampton, tomorrow,” said the widow as she dabbed at her eyes. “Miss Austen deserves our undivided attention. That will do for now.”
She looked at Susan over the handkerchief and her expression turned thoughtful. “Miss Hampton, if I had not already discerned that you were as clear as glass, I would begin to suspect that you were planning all these diversions.”
“I would never!” Susan replied, smiling as she replaced the bookmark and rose to leave. “If you need me ...”
“I do not,” Lady Bushnell replied, but without that brusque tone of yesterday. “Remember, Miss Hampton, the G-major scale tomorrow. And I will sharpen my cane.”
She was laughing as Susan closed the door. No, I am not clever enough to plan diversions for you, Lady Bushnell, she considered, but I know someone who is, someone who knows you much better than I.
She deliberated the merits of accosting the bailiff, and decided honestly that there were none. I simply must not be shy to meet him, she decided. After all, we have agreed that this whole kissing business was just something that happened. At least, I think that is what we decided, although I cannot recall the precise conversation.
In the long run, it did not matter. The bailiff was away from the manor, and so Mrs. Skerlong told Susan, without any subterfuge to find out on her part. “He has gone to the sheepfold,” the housekeeper explained as she set places for three instead of four. “I can always depend upon Ben Rich to occupy him through the supper hour,” she said.
“The sheepfold?” Susan asked, striving for a certain vague disinterest that signaled nothing more than idle curiosity. “We were there only yesterday.”
