“His future wife might find herself scented with jasmine and sold to the luxury market,” Feodora said.
I grinned at her, because I’d been unfairly mean in my assessment. She had a sense of humor, which is the clearest indicator of intelligence.
“The only man worth balancing money and boredom is Lord Vaughan,” Feodora said.
I cleared my throat.
“And he’s yours,” she said, before I could comment. “We can all see it.”
“Poppycock,” I said, thinking with a pang of Squibby and Snaps.
“Whenever you’re dancing with someone else, he watches with great feeling.”
Which meant what, exactly?
Modesty meant that I had to insist she was wrong, wrong, wrong, and likely Hugh was staring at someone with a less-chaste bosom than either of us.
“I don’t think he cares about that,” Feodora said.
“Of course, he cares,” I said, somewhat crossly. “He once said that I have a tomato for a head, carrots for legs, and beets for feet.”
“How old was he?” Feodora inquired.
“Young,” I admitted.
“Then I would listen to Sir John, rather than to such a silly description,” she said comfortably. “It’s a matter of self-respect, isn’t it? My head was as bald as a billiard ball when I first appeared in the nursery, and my brother told Nanny to exchange me for a better-looking baby, but I don’t hold it against him.”
It was good advice, and I took it. No more thoughts of tomatoes.
The rest of the evening, I watched from the corner of my eye, but I never saw Hugh stare at me broodingly, the way a romancehero might. He danced the night away with Feodora, who kept laughing, so I am certain that Sir John will decide to pair the two of them.
I had no chance to steal off to the library, because the business of courting took up every minute. When we returned home, I ducked into Colonel Brandon’s library to search for poetry (one never knows), but found Roderick scribbling a poem. I asked if he was inspired by jealousy of Lord Dulloch, but he insisted that the muse had struck him, and “he must obey.”
He won’t be joining us on the hunt tomorrow, because he had resolved that one shouldn’t kill foxes. I thoroughly sympathized with the emotion, but it’s amazing how fast one’s convictions go out the window when considering a delightful day spent tearing around the countryside on horseback. I told Roderick that the Colonel doesn’t think it’s sporting to search out foxholes beforehand, so I can’t remember the last time that we caught an animal. They are far too clever for us.
“It’s the ethics, not the death,” Roderick said, somewhat obscurely.
He only remembered the first line of “To His Coy Mistress”:“Had we but world enough and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.”
After that we discussed whether direct address—i.e., “lady”—was insulting or not. Roderick pointed out that the word was needed for the syllabic rhythm of the line.
I argued that perhaps “lady” was balancing out the “mistress” in the title, because if his beloved was well born, she would likely be peeved to find herself referred to with such a pejorative term.
“We should ask Vaughan,” Roderick said, after we thrashed the question for a bit. “He knows everything. Used to correct the Oxford dons on occasion.”
I flinched at the idea of Hugh learning about my inquiry regarding the poem that he said he would have used to woo me—except he isn’t wooing me. “Absolutely not,” I said fiercely, and excused myself.
The cultural content of our exchange was almost enough to make me reconsider marrying Roderick, but though he had quickly covered up his poem, I noticed that it was addressed “To Diana.” Since no Diana was invited to the party, I suspect the lady is back in London.
I am wildly looking forward to the hunt tomorrow. My mare, Bobbin, is in fine form, and Sally employed one of her admiring footmen to discover that Hugh had indeed brought Belial with him. Bobbin and I have raced Belial numerous times, and lost only twice.
What’s more, my riding habit is magnificent. Given Mother’s poor health, Marianne had accompanied me to the modiste, which meant Mother didn’t know that we frequented the establishment of a Frenchwoman.
My habit is daringly styled after men’s riding coats. The sleeves go past my fingers, just as do gentlemen’s jackets. The seams give it a glove-like fit on top, and the skirt has a long enough drape to cover my boots. Plus, I have a darling little cap like a jockey would wear, the brim turned up in back. All of it is dark emerald green, which flatters my hair. Tomato-colored it may be, but I have to make the best of it.
August 14, 1815, sent by Baron Hugh Skelmers Vaughan to Miss Margaret Dashwood:
Dear Snaps, I’ve arrived in Salzburg. The musician Mozart was born here, though he lived most of his life in Vienna. In his honor, they sell special cakes with violinsetched in icing on top. They’re the kind of cakes that look better than they taste, which is rather dry. That’s how I feel about this Grand Tour. I’m coming home, Snaps.
