“A lady who remains unmarried at twenty-eight must be very determined not to acquire a husband,” Simon said, amused.
“Nonsense! All those girls are desperate to marry, that much is plain. What, did you think they like being spinsters so much that they have deterred all suitors? No such thing, I assure you. Their mama is very forthcoming on the subject. She has ten thousand to share amongst them, so they will each have two and a half thousand — a tidy sum! That would keep us in mutton for a long time, would it not?”
“Their brother would be foolhardy to agree to any of them marrying a penniless architect, Juliet.”
“Oh, pooh! He will be happy to get rid of one of them, you may be sure. His mother says he is constantly bemoaning how expensive they are. Besides, there is no knowing but that the duke will settle something on them, too, and he is full of juice. This could be the making of you, Simon, if you would but exert yourself a little.”
Simon was not minded to exert himself to Miss Sophia Merrington or anyone else. He was contented with his life as a bachelor, and if he would be happy to have the supply of mutton a shade more secure, there would be the constant irritation of another woman in the house, not to mention a string of mewling infants. He and Juliet rubbed along pretty well together, but that was largely because she made few demands on him. A wife would not be so forbearing, he was sure.
Nevertheless, Miss Merrington turned out to be a peaceful travelling companion. Her mother and Juliet found endless subjects for discussion, and maintained a constant stream of comments, but the daughter read her travel guide, speaking only to point out a distant spire as they drew near to a cathedral town, or a glimpse of some grand estate as they passed by its perimeterpalings. If applied to, she would tell them how far they had come or how many miles to the next posting house, but otherwise she was blessedly silent.
On the second overnight stop of the journey, Simon entered the parlour secured for their use to find Miss Merrington the only occupant. She was seated at the table with her back to him, an untouched glass of wine near at hand, with her travelling writing box open, her pen flying over the paper. Her head was lowered as she bent to her task, and he found himself mesmerised by the sight of her pale neck. There was only a small gap between the frill round her gown and the lowest reach of the hair piled on her head, but a few wisps of hair had strayed from their fellows and lay tantalisingly across the divide. He could not say why those wandering curls attracted him so powerfully, but they did. In daylight, her hair was an indeterminate brown colour, but in the flickering light of the candles the errant strands looked pale and insubstantial, and he had the most inappropriate urge to touch them, to feel their silkiness and wind them around his fingers.
With a start, she looked up. “Oh! Mr Payne! I beg your pardon, I did not see you there. May I pour you a glass of wine?”
He shifted uncomfortably, aware that he had been staring at her. “No, no. I can pour my own. Pray finish your important letter.”
“It is only to Augusta,” she said, with a sudden laugh, laying down her pen. “Charlotte yesterday, Augusta today and Maria tomorrow, then back to Charlotte again.”
With the wine in his hand, he sat down opposite her. “You write to one of them every day, then?”
“Oh yes! There is so much to tell them of all that we have seen. None of us has ever been on this road before, so they will want to know everything. It is very difficult to describe it all in words, I am finding. It is so much easier when we are all togetherfor if one of us misses some important detail, one of the others will be sure to have observed it. But now I must be the eyes and ears for four people and it is not easy, let me tell you.”
“You are not often apart, then?”
“Hardly ever,” she said, with a sorrowful shake of her head. “I miss them abominably, but I could not refuse to go, could I? Not with a ball to be enjoyed. I shall have my work cut out to describe the occasion. The dances I can remember, and the ladies’ gowns will be easy enough, but the setting! I shall be spending half my time counting the candles and the number of footmen instead of enjoying the dance.”
“Then perhaps I can help you,” he said, with a smile. “Shall I sketch the room for you? Then you would not need to count candles.”
“How good you are! But I should not wish to keep you from the dancing, Mr Payne. You must have your share of the pleasure, too.”
“Dancing is no pleasure to me, Miss Merrington. I have no intention of spoiling the pristine symmetry of the movements with my ineptness. Producing a drawing of the room will give me an excuse not to skulk in the card room, as I might otherwise do.”
“You do not dance?” she said in astonished tones, just as if he had said that he ate babies for breakfast or admired Bonaparte. “Not at all? Not ever?”
“Not ever,” he said solemnly. “I never had a dancing master to teach me, and so I never learnt.”
“How sad!”
That made him laugh. “I have never felt the lack, I assure you.”
“I suppose one does not miss something one has never known, but oh, if only you could understand the joy of dancing, Mr Payne! Do you walk… or ride?”
“I can ride, of course, but I have no horse, so it is not a means of transport in which I can indulge. I walk, naturally. Everyone walks.”
“Yes, but do not mean a walk to get somewhere, nor a dawdling sort of walk, such as Mama likes, so she can talk at the same time. I am thinking of a brisk walk in cold weather, preferably of several miles’ duration. Do you ever do that?”
“Sometimes.”
“And do you not feel exhilarated, as if your whole body is thrumming with energy and you are at one with the world, your limbs energised and your lungs filled with clean air? Or a fast ride — that can produce the same effect, or so Augusta says. That is what dancing is like for me. Do you never feel like that, Mr Payne?”
“Miss Merrington, I do not. If I go for a long walk in London, brisk or otherwise, my lungs are filled with choking smoke and my limbs ache.”
She smiled, shaking her head at him. “You have no soul, sir.”
“Not as far as walks are concerned, no. But give me a hearty meal washed down with a good claret, and I engage to be as much at one with the world as even you might wish. And set me down in a house like Staineybank, with lofty ceilings and marble pillars and exquisite plasterwork, the walls hung with great works of art or adorned with statuary — that calls powerfully to my soul.”
“Ah… I remember when you arrived how much you liked the house.”
