“If you cannot speak of that escape, perhaps you could tell me of the one you made last night, Miss Leigh.”
Though his tone was passably light, there was a distance to it that made Katherine’s shoulders drop. More so when Mr. Archer continued.
“I had planned on dancing with you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. No doubt you were hiding from that wretched Mr. Mowbry, and I am quite put out that I didn’t get the chance to squire you about the floor, though I cannot blame you for hiding if it meant you could avoid that fellow.”
How could one feel so giddy and disappointed in the same instant? Katherine’s heart couldn’t decide whether to rejoice that Mr. Archer sounded quite put out about it or weep because he was so entirely blind to the fact that they had danced. And so much more.
So, her heart decided to alternate between the two, leaving it beating erratically in her chest as her thoughts struggled for an answer.
What would he say if she told him that his Mystery Lady and his friend were the same? Mr. Archer would never mock her as her family was apt to do, but could a gentleman who was so determined not to view her in a romantic light welcome the revelation? Her family’s jeering laughter rang in her memory, shredding her resolve.
The whole debate was ridiculous, for Katherine knew what her course of action would be. It was the same that she’d taken since the moment her heart first stirred for Mr. David Archer. Men never welcomed her overt attentions; subtlety and patience were all she could employ whilst hoping he came to the conclusion on his own.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t help to nudge him in the proper direction. Scouring her memory, Katherine tried to recall precisely what they’d said the previous night. Despite her lack of a costume, she forced herself to don the guise of the Mystery Lady.
“I was hiding from Mr. Mowbry, as you said,” she replied, lowering her voice a touch as she had the previous night. “I could’ve used a dashing highwayman to help run off the brigand.”
Would he recognize the reference? They’d spoken at length about her evading Mr. Mowbry, even if they hadn’t said his name.
Mr. Archer’s brows rose. “Is that so? It is a shame, for I proved myself quite adept at safeguarding ladies from brigands. I kept my companion from being spirited away, and I could’ve extended that protection to you as well. I am sorry I was unable to do so.”
Katherine’s shoulders fell, the guise dropping as she stared at him. Was it truly so impossible to connect her with his perfect Mystery Lady? Her heart cracked open, but thankfully, it was hidden away. She didn’t allow the pain to show in her expression, for that would only bring more questions she couldn’t answer.
If Mr. Archer was so determinedly blind, she knew she couldn’t simply tell him. Patience and friendship were a potent combination, were they not? With time, he might see the truth of his own accord. Surely that was better than springing it on him without warning.
For all that she’d just claimed to be a confident and mature lady, even Katherine Leigh—who brushed aside her mother’s savage comments and her siblings’ indifferent treatment with ease—did not have the fortitude to lay her heart on the line when whether or not Mr. Archer would welcome her as his Mystery Lady was entirely unknown.
Vulnerability always led to pain.
Chapter 11
Despite the weather’s changeable nature, people met every season with shocked expressions about the “unusual” temperature, precipitation, winds, and what have you. Too many wet days in a row garnered lamentations about the previous summer’s beauty, and when a chill settled in the air, it was considered unseasonably early.
They compared the present with the past, their infallible memories of childhood supplying a never-ending parade of pristine snowy winters and clear summer days. Those same people who recognized that their childish understanding of the world was very narrow and unreliable spent far too much of their time mourning the changes nature wrought, leaving their present far bleaker than in their idyllic youth.
And how those complaints were out in full. Yes, the evenings were already growing brisk with the sharp smell of winter tinging the autumn air, despite not having passed Michaelmas. And yes, it was earlier than the previous year, but neither was it out of the ordinary. Averages were merely a generalization—a spectrum of possibilities—and not hard and fast facts. It certainly wasn’t cause for alarm, especially as the days were plenty warm enough to enjoy without layers of cloaks and furs.
There were far more pressing concerns than whether or not the Hyatts’ picnic would take place—like the mountain of correspondence staring back at David from the top of his desk.
Foul language was not appropriate. Despite how much he longed to let loose a few choice words in the confines of his mind, the lessons of his youth were too ingrained. But that did not mean he couldn’t be creative as he cursed his father’s meddling. Shakespeare had a keen brain for such things, and David contented himself by letting loose a string of the Bard’s most interesting ones.
That starveling, eel-skin, dried neat’s-tongue, bull’s-pizzle, stock-fish! The words made little sense, but the meaning was clear enough to the lad who had memorized them so long ago.
Where were the letters he was meant to review? David had laid a stack of them just to the side of the desk, but they were nowhere to be seen. Father’s usual flair for disorganization meant the surface was covered in old newspapers and rubbish, and David shifted the mess about to give some order to the area.
Not that it ever remained so for very long. Although the fellow rarely used the study for anything more than smoking cigars and escaping the rest of the family, Father always made his mark on the space. It was his, after all. Even if David was the only one who used it as such.
Glancing at the pocket watch he had propped against his inkwell, David frowned. The morning had disappeared in a trice; the hour was fast approaching for the Hyatts’ picnic, and there were still too many tasks to be completed.
Where were the blasted letters?
David allowed himself that one curse, though it did nothing to lighten his mood. Pulling open the drawers, he found a pile dumped inside, and with a sigh, he retrieved them, shifting through so that they were in the proper sequence. At least they hadn’t been thrown into the fire.
Rolling his neck, he stretched his back and set this morning’s ledgers aside to dive into the correspondence, though his thoughts remained fixed upon the ticking minutes. He needed to go to the picnic. It was the best opportunity to uncover the Mystery Lady’s identity, but there was so much to do. Bills to review, advice from the family’s man of business to analyze, investments to investigate, and there were still too many questions regarding the household accounts. Mother was not a spendthrift, so there was no reason the expenses ought to be so high.
To say nothing of the concerning reports about the cotton trade in America; having witnessed enough wild speculation on Britain’s shores, David was all too aware of how quickly an industry could spin out of control and destroy everything in its path like a tornado. Especially when one considered how many other fools in town were shortsighted and wouldn’t survive yet another financial hurdle like the country had seen in these past few years. When one mill fell, more than that single business was affected.
Thankfully, the Archers’ income was spread into more than just the mill to avoid just such a possibility, but it was troubling nonetheless.
