The guests shifted, dividing off into pairs and groups as required by their chosen entertainment, and Hettie couldn’t help that her gaze drifted to the quiet corner in which Mr. Baxter had chosen to hide—only to find him watching her. His gaze jerked away, and Hettie couldn’t help smiling to herself. For all that he feigned disinterest in her company, he acted like a child caught sneaking biscuits from the pantry when their eyes met.
Drawing in a deep breath, she wandered to the fireplace and watched the holly leaves curl in on themselves as the flames danced along the bark. Would it appear desperate if she simply invaded his corner? Hettie was quite used to entertaining herself when need be, but there was something far too forlorn about his solitary position. The manner in which he kept glancing at her betrayed his desire, making it difficult for Hettie to settle on a course of action.
Mr. Baxter needed friends. That much was clear. And Hettie was quite content to fill that role; the gentleman was amiable and lacked the puffed-up pride so many men boasted. In a few short weeks, she’d grown accustomed to having his company during Alice’s outings, and she wasn’t ready to surrender it.
Yet would it be entirely heavy-handed to simply march over to him and demand a conversation?
“Miss Stillwell.”
Hettie turned from the fireplace and found young Mrs. Baxter at her back. The lady’s lips were pulled into a polite smile (the sort that was more concerned with decorum than true delight), and Hettie knew better than to trust it.
“Would you do us the honor?” asked Mrs. Baxter, motioning toward the table. “We would love for you to join us. We have only four, and Loo is always best with more players.” The lady paused, holding up placating hands as she leaned closer. “And we are playing penny stakes, so you needn’t be concerned.”
Lips twitching, Hettie feigned a relieved sigh. “That is good to hear.”
And it was. Gambling was a useless pastime that by its very nature beggared more than it enriched.
However, the lady’s meaning was rife in her tone. Spinsters were often impoverished, after all. So, it was no great surprise that she believed Hettie was as well, or that Mrs. Baxter wielded that shame to put Hettie in her place. After their last verbal parry, it was to be expected. Tyrants (whether political or social) could not bear dismissal.
Yet for all that Mrs. Baxter thought herself queen of all she surveyed, Hettie had been battling such bullies since before Mrs. Baxter was born. She wasn’t going to be undone by an insipid barb from a lady whose opinion mattered not in the slightest.
Hettie was far more vexed by the interruption than the insult. She cast a glance toward Mr. Baxter (causing him to jerk his gaze away from her once more), but before she could decide what she was going to do, Mrs. Baxter had Hettie by the arm and was leading her toward the table.
Mr. Tollman began shuffling the cards, dealing three out with a flick of his wrist. In quick succession, they launched into the game, with Mrs. York abstaining from that round as the others battled to take at least one trick, though with four of them still in play and only three tricks to be had, it was a close thing that Hettie managed to secure one. Mr. Goswick looked unhappy to be the odd man out at the end of the round, though he was a good sport and added his penalty to the pot without argument.
They continued in that course with each losing a little and winning some for several rounds, though Hettie caught Mrs. Baxter studying her from over the top of her cards. Smiling to herself, she wondered how long it would be before the lady spoke whatever words were simmering beneath the surface.
“So you are the lady who is said to have bewitched my father-in-law,” said Mrs. Baxter, glancing at Hettie. Mr. Goswick sputtered, nearly spitting his sip of wassail, as Mr. Tollman and Mrs. York’s eyes widened for just a fraction of a second before they became far more interested in their hands.
Shifting the cards, Hettie sorted through her words. The accusation was ridiculous, of course. With the black band fixed on his arm and his withdrawn behavior tonight, it was clear Mr. Baxter was still mourning his wife and struggling beneath his grief. Despite that evidence and the fact that the only time they spent together was in the capacity of chaperones, Hettie knew people enjoyed spreading speculation far too much to leave the poor mourning man alone.
However, straightforward denials rarely had the effect one intended.
“You cannot be serious, Camilla,” said Mr. Goswick, raising his hand to the footman for a napkin. Once the remnant of his drink was clean from his lips, he tossed it atop the table with a huff. “Such a thing to say.”
“Mrs. Clifton and Miss Bliss asked me about it this afternoon,” replied Mrs. Baxter. “If people are being so bold as to ask outright, then many more are whispering about it.”
Turning her gaze back to Hettie, Mrs. Baxter studied her, though such a disapproving look was far better suited to when a person was standing (when the other could peruse the length of her). The lady didn’t go so far as to sneer, but it was clear in the arch of her brow that she thought the rumor ridiculous.
“Surely people have more to occupy their time than to gossip about a widower and a—” Mr. Goswick halted before he finished his statement, though they all heard the dreaded “spinster” echoing in the silence. His gaze drifted across her much as his sister-in-law’s had, and though it was far more genuine than her calculated cut, it was no less unkind in its incredulity.
In such a moment, a person had two choices—anguish or amusement—and while such a blatant judgment of her attractions was bound to pain her at times, Hettie was not some young miss to be upended by two pups’ dismissal.
“I assure you I have no designs on your father’s virtue,” she murmured with a wry smile. Mrs. York’s eyes widened at that bald statement, though Mr. Tollman supplied the laugh Hettie had hoped to earn. “We are friends. That is all.”
“I hear you are planning a trip,” said Mrs. York, turning toward Mr. Tollman.
Though Mrs. Baxter looked like she wished to continue their present conversation, she made no objection as the two guests shifted it quickly into less dangerous waters. Hettie glanced at Mr. Goswick, and he studied his cards as if they held the answer to the greatest mysteries of the universe, though there was a vacantness to his gaze that suggested his thoughts were far from the game.
The tricks flew fast, with round after round adding up as they discussed the perils and trials of travel, the relative merits of different carriages, and the horror to be found at so many coaching inns. The conversation was hardly noteworthy, for they all spouted the same trite details everyone shared about such things. Carriages were always uncomfortable. Inns were always questionable. Pains and headaches ensued during the journey. The only differing opinions were on whether or not the destination was worth the agony.
But the previous conversation wouldn’t leave her be.
Quickly enough, Hettie was free to excuse herself, and she took the opportunity to distance herself from the others. Wandering to the fireplace, she feigned a chill and pretended to warm herself so no one would drag her away once more. For all that Mrs. Baxter likely thought her to be licking her wounds, it wasn’t the obvious criticisms of her appearance and marital status that lingered with her. It was Mr. Baxter.
This evening made it obvious that something was amiss with his family. Clearly, both he and his children were set adrift without their matriarch in the home.
Was it any wonder that his daughter-in-law would be so defensive of her family? Hettie certainly hadn’t intended to cause more trouble by making Mr. Baxter the source of gossip. In truth, neither she nor he were of much importance to warrant such scrutiny. Friendships were intended to uplift. Support. Heal. Yet hers was adding to his troubles.
