“Have I told you of my Celia’s adventures at Blackbriar Pond?” he asked with a grin.
Marian tried to match his smile. “Yes, many times. She is an energetic child.”
Mr. Highmore’s smile grew self-deprecating, and Marian was rather pleased to see the wry humor. “I suppose I do talk about my children’s antics at length, but they are such wonderful creatures. So lovely and intelligent. I would hazard to say that there is not a finer set in all of England.”
And then he launched into the exact stories he had told her many times before, and Marian held back a sigh. She did not fault the man for his affection. Truly, she did not. But he spoke of nothing else, and it was not a subject about which she could speak. As much as he thought his children the supreme example of perfection, they were not as brilliant, lively, or adorable as he thought them to be. Lovely children, to be sure, but not ready for sainthood.
“How is your property?” asked Marian, breaking through his monologue about Rufus’s skill at training their hunting dogs. Perhaps Mr. Highmore thought her interruption rude, but surely there was something else of which they could speak. “I understand the dry weather has caused quite a few to fret about their crops and tenants.”
Mr. Highmore gave a vague wave. “I cannot say I know anything about it. My steward and bailiff handle such matters, so there is no need for me to bother with it.”
“Do you enjoy novels? Or music, perhaps?” Marian tossed out the subjects, hoping something might spark a true conversation.
With raised brows, Mr. Highmore considered that. “I enjoy the odd serial and concert, but my true passion is riding.”
Marian’s expression lightened, her smile broadening. She was by no means an avid lover of horses, but like any good country girl, she was proficient. “Which is your favorite path to take? I’ve always adored the moors. There is something so grand about sitting atop a horse and seeing the swaths of heather stretching around you.”
“I would have to agree with you on that point, Miss Wakefield. It is magnificent,” he said with a nod. “Though my wife preferred skirting the Ortons’ fields and following the river there. My little Sadie sits a fine saddle, and often accompanies me now, though she prefers the moors as well.”
And with that, Mr. Highmore returned to the previous subject.
Chapter 7
Evelyn Finch was no mind reader or clairvoyant, though she often wished for those gifts; knowing the truth of people’s feelings, rather than guessing them, ought to make navigating society easier. Evelyn supposed it mightn’t be a good thing to know everything simmering beneath the polite surface, but there were times that such insight would be useful.
However, she didn’t need supernatural gifts to understand Miss Wakefield. Mama didn’t notice the young lady’s discomfort, but Evelyn recognized the signs. The fidgeting. The false smiles. The tightness about the shoulders. They bespoke someone wishing to flee a conversation. Evelyn had been in similar situations enough times to understand Miss Wakefield’s discomposure.
Admiring a gentleman was such a fun pastime. It made gatherings all the more enjoyable when there was someone for whom she wished to look her best, and it made her time at the edge of the gathering pass by all the quicker when those silent minutes were spent watching for some sign of the fellow’s arrival (and following his movements throughout the event). Goodness, that sounded so tragic when Evelyn thought about it.
But the truth was that once those feelings ran their course, there was nothing more discomforting than having to speak to those connected to the gentleman; and though neither party had said a word to her, Evelyn had watched her brother and Miss Wakefield enough times to know the lady had been smitten with him. So, she could not fault Miss Wakefield for avoiding her and the rest of the Finches.
For the briefest of moments, Evelyn wondered if it mightn’t put Miss Wakefield at ease if she told the lady how much she regretted George’s poor decision regarding his selection of a wife. But she dismissed that impulse the moment it arose. Admitting that she’d surmised Miss Wakefield’s hidden feelings would only cause the lady distress, even if it was to chastise George for his foolish choice. Evelyn had thought her brother wiser than to chase after a pretty face—especially when it was clear to anyone with sense that Miss Wakefield was a far better match for him than Juliette.
As a general rule, Evelyn was content with who she was. Though she harbored the occasional fantasy in which she was a social butterfly like Mama, the majority of the time, she accepted that it was not meant to be. But at that moment, she longed to snap her fingers and alter herself into the sort of person who could step forward to Miss Wakefield and engage her in conversation. Surely Miss Wakefield would welcome her attempt to extend a hand of friendship. The lady in question was tender-hearted and understood all too well how difficult it was to navigate social functions.
Yet it was not so easy to silence the voices in Evelyn’s head that warned her she was being forward or awkward or embarrassing. There was too great a possibility that any attempt would end with someone thinking she was troublesome or ridiculous. How many times did one have to receive a snub or snide comment before one learned one’s lesson?
Gathering her wits and strength (what little she had), Evelyn opened her mouth, only to shut it again when Mrs. Wrigley called for everyone’s attention and announced the forthcoming archery tournament. Miss Wakefield made a swift departure, leaving Evelyn with Mrs. Rachel Wakefield, Mama, and Papa, who continued their conversation as before.
Evelyn glanced about the area, searching the faces for a gentleman who might be amenable to partnering with her, though she didn’t know why she bothered; she had been in this situation far too often to expect a different outcome. Plenty of gentlemen cast their eyes about, searching for a lady, but not one of them gave her even a passing glance. For whatever reason, men never saw her. It was as though she was a phantom, haunting the edges of such gatherings, and no amount of effort on her part made her any more visible.
“Put yourself forward, Evelyn,” whispered Mama as she nodded towards the gathering. “If you wish to participate, you shan’t find yourself a partner standing with us.”
Evelyn shifted in place, glancing at the pairs gathering near the archery targets. Her gaze drifted back to her parents, and Mama gave her a bright smile and a firm nod, as though following her advice were a little thing—and Evelyn knew that for that lady, it was. But Papa’s understanding smile had Evelyn’s spine straightening. His eyes were warm and a little pained, and though he was far more comfortable among strangers than Evelyn, he understood her hesitation better than Mama.
What Evelyn wouldn’t give to have a tad more of Mama’s strength.
“Perhaps you might speak to Mrs. Wrigley. Or we might speak to her on your behalf,” said Papa. “No doubt she is working to ensure everyone has a partner.”
Evelyn’s brows rose as she considered that. Surely it was a hostess’s duty to assist a young lady in finding a partner, and it wasn’t nearly as embarrassing to approach Mrs. Wrigley as it was to insert herself into another group’s discussion, hoping one of the gentlemen might ask her to partner with him. And speaking to Mrs. Wrigley herself was far less discomforting than needing her parents to do so on her behalf. Evelyn was a grown woman, after all.
Giving her parents a nod, Evelyn strode across the lawn without allowing herself to consider just how wrong her petition might go. Hostesses had overlooked or ignored Evelyn standing alone before, so it wouldn’t be wholly unexpected if Mrs. Wrigley merely brushed her away. But Evelyn refused to allow herself to dwell on that thought. Or rather, she attempted to. There was little she could do when that worry wheedled its way into her thoughts, poking her as she crossed the expanse of green.
Mrs. Wrigley was giving directions, pointing pairs this way and that, and Evelyn stood quietly, waiting for the lady to notice her. But when Mrs. Wrigley attended to three separate pairs who’d arrived after her, Evelyn cleared her throat. The lady turned and gave her a bright smile.
“Ah, Miss Finch. You wish to participate? Who is your partner?”
Evelyn fought back a blush and refused to fidget. “I do not have one.”
