Mrs. Wrigley blinked at that answer, though she had the tact not to look askance at Evelyn’s confession. Then her grin stretched wider, and the lady nodded, waving at a passing fellow. “Cousin Richard!”
The gentleman halted and turned towards the hostess. “Might I be of assistance, madam?”
With a few quick words, Mrs. Wrigley introduced the fellow. Then, stepping closer to Evelyn, she placed a hand on her back and ushered her forward. “Our dear Miss Finch is in need of a partner for our archery contest. Might you be interested in joining her? I hear she is quite skilled with the bow.”
Mr. Richard Townsend was a lanky fellow, but there was something pleasing about his features and his fair coloring, and there was a spark of good humor in his eyes that spoke of one at ease with the world about him. All in all, he was a fine partner—enough so that Evelyn knew he would not accept Mrs. Wrigley’s petition. Likely Mr. Townsend had already secured himself a lovely companion.
Taking off his hat, Mr. Townsend swept into a low bow. “I would be honored, Miss Finch, if you would partner with me in the archery competition.” He turned a laughing gaze up to her and added, “Though I warn you I am a terrible shot and am likely to ruin your chances at winning.”
“My thanks, Mr. Townsend,” said Evelyn as Mrs. Wrigley motioned for the two of them to join the rest.
The titter of conversation filled the green, and Evelyn was all too aware of the stranger at her side. Apart from his name and that he was a guest of the Wrigleys (which presupposed he was a gentleman of good character), Evelyn knew nothing of the fellow, and exchanging vague pleasantries was not one of her strengths. Mr. Townsend led her along to where the others had gathered to await their turn, and Evelyn seized the opportunity to choose and test the bow and arrows that had been provided while sorting through topics she might broach.
“You seem quite determined to trounce the competition,” said Mr. Townsend, and Evelyn looked in his direction to find him studying her.
Evelyn thought through a few teasing answers, but none seemed right. “I enjoy archery. Though I cannot claim to have much talent for it, I look forward to testing my skill.”
“From the manner in which you handle the bow, I would say you are more talented than you claim,” he said with raised brows. Then with a wry grin he added, “No doubt you espouse the ridiculous sentiment that requires young ladies to feign incompetence in a misguided attempt at humility.”
Ducking her head, Evelyn fiddled with the string of the bow, and as much as she wished to dismiss the accusation, it held a morsel of truth. It did not do to put herself at the forefront of public scrutiny, for it rarely painted her in a favorable light.
“Come now, I was only jesting.” Reaching forward with his foot, Mr. Townsend nudged the tip of her bow that was resting on the ground. “You needn’t take me too seriously, Miss Finch. I fear I tend to say ridiculous things without provocation.”
Evelyn smiled, casting him a look from under her lashes. In a fit of honesty, she replied, “And I fear I tend to be ill at ease among strangers.”
Fighting against her instinct to hide her face, Evelyn was merely glad her wayward tongue hadn’t admitted the whole of the truth: that more often, she found that jests were truths hidden behind a laugh at her expense, no matter how much others insisted they were “only teasing.”
Mr. Townsend canted his head, his brow furrowing as he considered that. “Then I suppose I shall have to tell you all about myself, so I am no longer a stranger. I am a distant cousin to Mr. Wrigley. I am here to visit for a few weeks until I shall return home to Cambridgeshire and take up a position with my uncle, a formidable banker who has far more money than wit and is bound to find me entirely too lackadaisical and droll for his liking. But I am the favorite son of his favorite sister, and he has no choice but to put up with my useless self.”
The fellow’s recitation was so matter of fact, yet with a hint of amusement, that Evelyn’s grin grew, a quiet laugh on her lips.
“Then you are a lost cause, sir?” she asked, unable to keep herself from responding in kind to his teasing.
With a heavy sigh, he threw his arms wide as though inviting her to pursue him. “I am a selfish creature, Miss Finch, and far too self-indulgent to mend my ways. But why would anyone wish to alter such a specimen of perfection?”
Evelyn laughed at that and the ridiculous grin he flashed her. “And what does such a specimen do to fill his time? Other than admiring his own perfection?”
It was a simple question, and one that ought not to seem momentous, but such pleasantries always fled her thoughts when faced with striking up a conversation. Yet the question came naturally when faced with Mr. Townsend’s mirth, drawing with it more subjects. Evelyn couldn’t say they agreed on many things—their taste in literature, music, and pastimes did not align often—but their inherent differences did not matter, for the conversation meandered along, moving from subject to subject with an ease she rarely found among strangers.
Evelyn hardly noticed the passing time and gave a start when Mrs. Wrigley bade them to take their turn at the targets. Their hostess did not have a high opinion of her guests, for the distance they were required to shoot was hardly challenging, so when Evelyn took her stance, she felt no hint of unease, despite the gazes turned in her direction. Of course, having Mr. Townsend standing at the ready with her arrows was a fair distraction in its own right. Evelyn preferred to use a quiver, but they were conspicuously absent; no doubt, Mrs. Wrigley wished the gentlemen and ladies to assist each other.
Taking in a breath, Evelyn relaxed her shoulders and raised the bow and arrow in a smooth movement, bringing her right hand to rest against her jaw. Her eye followed the line of the arrow, finding the heart of the target, and she let it fly.
“Well done, Miss Finch,” said Mr. Townsend as the dullthunkrang out.
In quick succession, Evelyn shot the other two, the trio clumped tightly in the very center of the target. She beamed as Mr. Townsend redoubled his praise and tried to ignore the applause that could be described as polite at best, though the sounds of her family’s cheers rang out above the noise.
When they switched positions, Evelyn knew before Mr. Townsend fired a single arrow that it was unlikely to strike true. The fellow’s shoulders pressed upward into his neck, the bow straining as he took several long moments to aim (and then several more), and when he released it, the arrow flew closer to another team’s target than their own. But Evelyn cheered him on nonetheless. The fellow puffed out his cheeks, giving her a grimace before she offered the next arrow. But the next two shots were no better than the first, and soon the crowd tittered as the pair relinquished their place among the contestants.
“I fear I’ve ruined your chances to advance to the next round, Miss Finch.”
“It is of no concern, Mr. Townsend,” she said, waving his words aside. “I only wished to enjoy myself, and I assure you it was quite diverting.”
But even as she spoke the words, Evelyn’s heart sank. The contest was over for them, and Mr. Townsend would return to whatever he had been doing before Mrs. Wrigley pressed him into service. There was no point in stretching out her disappointment, so Evelyn gave him a bob.
“It has been a pleasure, Mr. Townsend—”
“You are going to throw me over so quickly?” he asked with an arched brow. “I had rather hoped you would accompany me on a stroll. There is no need to stand here, watching the tournament and torturing ourselves with what might’ve been.”
