As I do not have another project, I continue with my embroidery, which creates a minor fracas when Mrs. Dowell reiterates that it is time to move on to our next occupation. “As women of quality, Miss Hyde-Clare, it behooves us to apportion our time equitably and not allow ourselves to be consumed by a single purpose. Only blacksmiths and opera dancers allow themselves to become too engrossed.”
Repellent woman!
My mother turns bright red but manages to hold her tongue. Although embarrassment usually unleashes a torrent of rambling nonsense from her, the eldest Holcroft sister’s judgment is so severe it mortifies Mama into silence, which is somehow even more irritating. If Mrs. Dowell is going to be rude to the point of mendacity, then she should be forced to endure one of Vera Hyde-Clare’s deadly prattles.
After the third hour of needlework—the only benefit of which is that I finally finished the sampler that had languished during the season—we adjourn to our rooms to prepare for dinner.
Although I have high hopes for an interesting evening in the company of the local gentry, the meal is so tedious I find myself longing for the quiet stimulation of embroidery.
Truly, I have not been this bored during a meal since Kesgrave lectured the company on naval battles during our stay in the Lake District—and onthatoccasion, I had the luxury of inattention. I knew my opinion would not be sought. But now, as the nominal guest of honor and the pretext for the gathering, I must stay abreast of the discussion. As soon as I permit my mind to wander, one of the Holcroft siblings will ask me to illuminate my position on the topic at hand, and I refuse to give them the pleasure of my befuddlement.
I will remain alert!
Despite these valiant efforts, I will look like the veriest fool if anyone actually does direct a query to me, for I know nothing about the enclosure of the commons and the harm it may or may not do to local farmers and landowners. Mr. Nutting swears the practice would undermine the entire region, and Mr. Braithwaite agrees it would present a significant problem for his neighbor, who takes egregious advantage of the communal fields by grazing his entire herd on them. Highly offended, Mr. Nutting objects while Braithwaite jeers, and Mr. Holcroft smoothly explains that he trusts his steward to provide him with all the pertinent data he requires to arrive at the decision that best suits Red Oaks and the cause of agricultural progress.
Although the tenor of the disagreement strikes me as quite strident, neither its participants nor their spouses appear unduly troubled by it. Indeed, Mrs. Braithwaite and Mrs. Nutting observe the exchange with placid expressions, leading me to conclude it is a familiar quarrel. As both men are landowners of wealth and standing in the community, I can only assume the dispute is more theoretical than practical. Even the vicar seems amused by the argument. When silence momentarily falls over the table, he asks Mr. Holcroft if Keast is aware of how much power he holds.
“Keast is Evan Keast, steward of Red Oaks,” Miss Burgess says, her voice soft and pliant as she leans over to offer an explanation. The vicar’s sister, she is a gentlewoman past the first blush of youth, with light blue eyes and unextraordinary features. Residing with her brother, she oversees his domestic affairs and spends a goodly amount of time in the village, tending to the poor and the sick. Of the three young women to whom I have been introduced this evening, she is the only one to regard me with any warmth. Miss Braithwaite and Miss Nutting, both barely out of the schoolroom at seventeen, are stunningcreatures. One is light and one is dark, as though perfectly balanced to satisfy any aesthetic preference.
Russell clearly favors the former.
Or, rather, Miss Braithwaite clearly favors him, which makes him strongly inclined to favor her.
Neither girl favors me.
Upon our introduction, they acknowledged my presence with brisk nods, then proceeded to act as though I were not in the room, despite my repeated attempts to insert myself into their conversation.
“Keast is a single-minded man of drive and purpose,” Miss Burgess continues as Mr. Braithwaite raises his voice in protest of some new piece of farm equipment. “Like our host, he is devoted to innovation in cultivation, and where Mr. Holcroft does not reveal a strong preference, Keast inserts his own. He took up the position eighteen months ago, and when he arrived, he did not know a turnip from a parsnip. Now he is the premier authority on crop rotation in the shire. It is very impressive.”
Although the words themselves are complimentary, I detect a faint hint of disapproval and lean closer to ask her what about the steward she finds unappealing.
“Oh, but he is very appealing,” she insists. “He cuts a fine figure, as the gossips like to say, with his noble brow, lithe but muscled form, and intelligent eyes. Personally, I find him callow in both his manner and appearance. I prefer the affect of a mature man who knows the value of persuasion and listening to others. Keast abides by Mr. Holcroft first and himself last, which is convenient, as they seem to be two peas in a pod. You do not want to engage either one in a discussion about agriculture, because he will talk himself dry, which I suspect you already know, as you have been here a few days.”
I smile wryly at this reminder of how poorly I have failed to integrate my cabbage knowledge into any of myconversation and own myself ignorant of anything having to do with vegetables other than eating them when they are appropriately prepared. She laughs at my sally, either out of genuine appreciation or courtesy, drawing the notice of Miss Braithwaite, who ceases flirting with Russell long enough to eye me with curiosity. Finding nothing of interest, she returns her gaze to my brother, whose delight at the attention could not be any plainer. His color is high, and he chortles repeatedly.
Seeking a new subject to extend our exchange, I comment on the stellar quality of the repast. If I am engaged elsewhere, I cannot be obligated to listen to the deadly dull talk about land management. Miss Burgess seems as grateful for the diversion as I am and describes with alacrity the meals she has enjoyed at Red Oaks. The number is not great, she rushes to add, as she and her brother are invited to dine only when one of the favored families cannot attend—in this case, the Jenners, whose own summer guests had arrived earlier in the day.
“I am so very glad you are here to provide Andrew and me with this wonderful opportunity,” she adds with an endearing grin. “Much of my existence is helping my brother tend to the souls of the village, which can be dispiriting at times, especially with the recent upheaval caused by Keast’s improvements. The more efficient farming becomes, the less of a living it provides. It is like in the north, with their stocking frames, which you know all about.”
The truth is, I do not know all about it, as the situation seems hopelessly convoluted and disheartening, and I make it a practice to avoid convoluted and disheartening situations, especially when I cannot imagine them ending happily for the parties involved. Nevertheless, I appreciate the compliment Miss Burgess has paid me, for Ilikebeing perceived as the sort of person who is informed about current events, and reply with grave authority: “Indeed, I do.”
Then I change the subject before she realizes she has given me too much credit. “Miss Braithwaite and Miss Nutting seem very nice.”
It is an outrageous lie.
Miss Burgess blinks in surprise, revealing that her interactions with the pair have been as warm as my own. “Do they? I am certain that is by accident, then, for they are rarely kind to women they consider rivals. As I am eight and twenty, I do not fall into that category, but they find me equally unworthy for failing to nab a husband. They believe spinsterhood is catching, like measles or the plague.”
Wanting to return her honesty in kind, I rush to add that the women seem very nice toother people.“They have been highly solicitous of our hosts.”
“And your brother,” Miss Burgess notes wryly. “There is a dearth of available young men in the district and a surplus of available young women. The Jenners also have daughters—three, in fact. It makes for extremely uneven numbers. Mr. Sebastian Holcroft has been the singular focus of the local matchmakers for years, and we all expected that he and the eldest Jenner would wed. Heather is a paragon of womanhood: lovely, intelligent, humble, kind. Lately, they have realized that they must transfer their ambitions to Chester. Miss Braithwaite and Miss Nutting have a friendly wager between them over which one can fix his attention, primarily because they are so bored with the local offerings. I know about the bet because they have discussed it in front of me. As a spinster, I am invisible to them. It is a magical power of sorts, and I think they are partially convinced that I am a sorceress because sometimes I know things about which I should not have the slightest idea.”
I wince.
Miss Burgess is not condemning my own behavior or speaking to it in any way, and yet her words are little spikes inmy heart. For years, I had done precisely that to Bea, paying attention to her only on occasion when she could be useful to me. The difference was, of course, that my cousin was never invisible. Thanks to my mother’s tireless complaining, I was conscious of the burden of an orphaned relative my entire life.
Somehow, despite this horrendous treatment, Bea appears to bear me no ill will, as evidenced by her willingness to visit Red Oaks in my support and provide her husband as a villainous foil. (It is true that she does not know yet that she has made the generous contribution of Kesgrave’s assistance, but my cousinwantsme to be accepted by Sebastian’s family and is too eminently practical to take issue with the most sensible route.)
Misunderstanding the source of my discomfit, Miss Burgess assures me that it is above all things delightful to pass through the world unseen. “I really am privy to the most trivial of secrets. Mr. Jenner’s brother, for instance, paid eight pounds six shillings to Mr. Smitherton, who is the grocer, as compensation for driving through his store window while foxed, though heclaimsto have had a fit of apoplexy.”
