"Not in the least."
The dinner gong sounded, and the guests began arranging themselves for the procession to the dining room. Lillian noticed Lady Smith watching her with a speculative expression that suggested the matchmaker's calculations had taken an unexpected turn.
She did not know whether to be alarmed or intrigued.
***
The dinner table was arranged with military precision; place cards dictating every seat, ensuring that Lady Smith's preferred pairings were enforced with the authority of law. Lillian found herself positioned between Mr. Potter and Sir William Drake, with Rosanne directly across from her beside a young man she did not recognize.
Sir William began speaking before the first course had even been served; a monologue about his estate in Kent, his plans for expansion, his late wife's many virtues and unfortunate tendency to succumb to consumption. Lillian made appropriate noises of sympathy while allowing her attention to wander.
The dining room was as imposing as everything else at Smith House—a vast space with a ceiling painted in elaborate allegories, walls lined with mirrors that reflected the candlelight into infinity. The table stretched the length of the room, laden with enough silver and crystal to ruin a small country.
When Sir William paused to address his soup, Lillian turned to Mr. Potter with evident relief.
"Miss Whitcombe." He matched her relief with a slight smile. "I hope Sir William has not exhausted your patience with tales of his sporting achievements."
"I have learned a great deal about the management of hounds," Lillian replied dryly. "I am now fully prepared to establish my own pack, should the occasion arise."
Mr. Potter laughed; a genuine laugh, warm and unaffected. "You are amusing, Miss Whitcombe. I find that quality rather rare in young ladies of my acquaintance."
"Perhaps you have been acquainted with the wrong young ladies."
"Perhaps I have." He studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Tell me, you mentioned that your father has been implementing new agricultural methods on your estate. How did he come to be interested in such things? Most country gentlemen of my acquaintance are firmly opposed to any deviation from traditional practice."
"My father is not most gentlemen. He believes that improvement is a duty owed to the land and to those who depend upon it; our tenants, our workers, the generations who will come after us." Lillian paused, considering how much to reveal. "His recent accident has made this more urgent, in truth. He cannot manage the estate himself while he recovers, and much of the responsibility has fallen to me."
"To you?" Mr. Potter's eyebrows rose. "You manage the estate?"
"Assist in managing it. I review the accounts, correspond with tenants, oversee the implementation of the improvements my father planned before his injury." She met his eyes steadily, prepared for the dismissal or disapproval that such an admission typically provoked in gentlemen. "I am aware this is not considered appropriate occupation for a lady."
"I think," Mr. Potter said slowly, "that it is the most sensible arrangement I have heard of in years. Why should a capable daughter not assist in managing her family's affairs? The notion that women are incapable of understanding business or agriculture is patently absurd; my own mother managed my uncle's estate for nearly a decade after he suffered a stroke, and she made it more profitable than it had ever been under his direct management."
Lillian stared at him. "You believe women are capable of managing estates?"
"I believe people are capable of many things, regardless of their sex. The artificial constraints society places upon women strike me as a tremendous waste of potential." He smiled slightly. "Another opinion that makes me deeply unfashionable, I am afraid."
"Unfashionable, perhaps. But not unwelcome."
They talked through the remaining courses about estate management, about the challenges of dealing with resistant tenants, about books they had read and ideas they had formed. Mr. Potter spoke of his uncle's estate in Wiltshire, which he would eventually inherit, and his plans for its improvement. Lillian found herself offering suggestions, debating approaches, even disagreeing with some of his ideas and explaining why.
He did not dismiss her opinions. He did not talk over her or redirect the conversation to topics he considered more appropriate for female discussion. He simply listened. And responded. As though her thoughts mattered.
By the time the ladies rose to withdraw, Lillian's head was spinning; not from wine, of which she had drunk little, but from the sheer novelty of being treated as an intellectual equal by a man who was not her father.
"Miss Whitcombe." Mr. Potter stood as she rose, his expression warm. "Thank you for a most stimulating dinner conversation. I hope we might continue it tomorrow."
"I would like that, Mr. Potter."
"Edward." He corrected her with a slight smile. "If we are to be friends, and I hope we are, you must call me Edward."
"Then you must call me Lillian."
"Lillian." He spoke her name with a kind of quiet pleasure, as though trying it out. "Until tomorrow, then."
She followed the other ladies to the drawing room, and she did not look back. But she was aware, with every step, of his eyes upon her.
***
