“Would you really want to leave it for the teaming metropolis?”
“The city would offer a very different life,” she said cautiously.
Her father cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about Mr. Oakley.”
Her heart sank to her half-boots. She’d begun to hope that her father had given up on Frederick Oakley. He hadn’t called since Lady Kemble’s dinner party.
“Oakley’s a decent man, Horatia.”
“Yes, he is.”
Her father drew the rug up farther over his knees. “With a fine property and a decent income.”
“That’s true.”
He studied her. “You might sound more enthusiastic.”
“I don’t love him, Papa,” she said, distracted by the image of a pair of blue eyes.
“Marriage to a good man counts for a lot.”
“You loved Mama.”
His eyes turned sad, and she wished she hadn’t mentioned it. “Our mutual regard grew into love after we married.”
As the vehicle swayed over the road, Hetty smoothed the fur trim on her sleeve. “Father, I could never love Mr. Oakley. We are too different in our sensibilities.”
He sighed heavily. “He dislikes poetry?”
She gave a small laugh. “He has no sense of humor.”
“Oh, very well, then. I shall not insist, although some fathers might do so.” He gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “You are two-and-twenty, most women of your age are long wed.”
“Don’t you like me living with you?”
He sighed. “That is the trouble, I’m growing to like it too much.
“Oh Papa!” Filled with compassion and a sense of helplessness, she kissed his cheek.
“And I suffer some guilt that you cannot go to London.”
“Aunt Emily is more than willing to sponsor me.”
“I tremble at the thought of what sort of life you would live there. Much as I love my sister, she is not in the ordinary way. When a fox got into the hen house, she was so distracted with her poems he ate several of our chickens before she shooed him out.”
Did Papa liken Hetty to a chicken and fear that Aunt Emily would let the foxes in? Hetty sighed. She would never go to London.
The carriage pulled up outside the Duck and Cockerel, a wattle and daub building in the high street.
“Well, here we are,” her father said with relief in his voice.
Hetty alighted with the hope that their afternoon would rise above tedious subjects such as an effective treatment for chilblains, recipes for the vegetables in season, when best to prune the roses and of course, when the wintry weather would finally abate. She yearned to learn what was happening in the world beyond Digswell, but she seemed the only person interested.
Frederick Oakley waited for them on the footpath. He bustled forward in his lanky gait to bow over Hetty’s hand.
“How good to see you, Mr. Oakley,” her father said, looking pleased. He hadn’t quite given up on Frederick as a son-in-law it seemed. Had he encouraged this meeting? “We are about to take tea. Will you join us?”
Frederick kept hold of her hand rather too long. “Delighted.” He smiled at her. Out of the corner of Hetty’s eye, a tall, dark-haired man emerged from the general store. Guy crossed the road toward them. She pulled her hand from Frederick’s, her gaze resting on Guy’s face. He raised an inquiring eyebrow as he removed his hat.
