“Do not fret, Father,” said Stanley, glancing in his direction. “I know this is a bit unnerving, but Mother wouldn’t want you to shut yourself away forever. She would wish for you to enjoy all that Bath has to offer—especially with Christmastime nearly upon us. There will be parties and routs aplenty, and she wouldn’t wish you to miss out on the festivities.”
Baxter fought against the curve of his lips that threatened to emerge at that balderdash. Dolores Baxter certainly had wrung her hands many times when her husband had wished to simply remain at home, but it hadn’t been because she wished for his enjoyment. Even now, he felt the rap of her fan striking his arm, the phantom of her voice ringing in his ears; Dolores had never liked this green waistcoat—especially not paired with his blue cravat.
“A properly turned-out gentleman doesn’t wear colors in the evening!” her ghost hissed.
Crossing his arms, Baxter ignored the thought, though he couldn’t help but hear the litany of descriptions bouncing about his head as his gaze fell to the others, hearing with absolute clarity all the sharp words his wife would’ve said about the strangers. Dolores’s judgments were as unyielding as they were effusive.
Baxter drew in a breath and let it out in a long sigh. An evening being gawked at whilst sitting with strangers was a torment. To say nothing of the fact that he didn’t know a thing about the opera, other than it had garnered poor reviews in the newspapers.
“Thank you, Father,” said Stanley, his gaze still fixed on the entrance. “I know this isn’t comfortable for you.”
Though his son’s pose held the usual disinterest one expected of a gentleman of the world, Stanley’s foot closest to Baxter was poised on the ball, bouncing up and down with the rapid determination of a farmer’s wife churning butter. Drawing in a breath, Baxter focused on that little movement and forced himself to breathe deeply. His own discomfort was of little concern; this was an important step for his son, and Baxter wasn’t about to ruin it by being a curmudgeon.
But oh, how he longed to be back in Stanley’s library.
Thinking of the forthcoming torture was only extending the agony, driving his pulse to untenable levels, so Baxter forced it from his mind. The elder Miss Stillwell may be a tyrant of a chaperone and a disagreeable spinster, but Baxter would do his part to grant Stanley time to speak to the younger Miss Stillwell. One of them ought to enjoy the evening.
Stanley stiffened and jumped up from his chair, drawing Baxter’s attention as he followed suit and turned to the stairwell to find a set of blonde curls appearing from below. Miss Alice Stillwell’s light eyes met Stanley’s, and the pair beamed at one another before he bowed over her hand and motioned her inside the box.
Only when she stepped inside was there room enough for her aunt to appear. Baxter’s brows rose as the elder Miss Stillwell climbed the final stairs and Stanley performed the necessary introductions.
For all that his son had painted the lady as an old spinster, the elder Miss Stillwell was not at all what Baxter had anticipated. While her niece was the height of fashion, with artful curls and flowers sprouting from her head, Miss Stillwell’s dark locks were shorn in an old Titus haircut; plenty of ladies had favored such styles years ago, but it had been some time since Baxter had seen a lady sporting that look, yet it suited her. Though she was taller and more rotund than was fashionable, the lady’s dark eyes shone with a smile, which echoed in the faint dimples in her round cheeks as she curtsied.
“Mr. Baxter,” she said. Her voice was lower than most, but there was a velvet quality to the tone that stirred Baxter.
Clearing his throat, he shifted in place, his gaze falling from her bright eyes and beaming smile as he bowed. “Miss Stillwell. My son has told me much about you.”
“I can well imagine, sir.” Though the words were simple, there was a laugh hidden in the meaning. Miss Stillwell’s eyes drifted past Baxter to the potential sweethearts, who were occupied with a hushed conversation (though the area had little more space than a cupboard, and it was easy enough for their chaperones to hear them discussing the sordid details of her journey to the opera house).
Baxter tore his gaze from Miss Stillwell and cleared his throat whilst fighting the urge to fidget with his waistcoat buttons. Motioning toward the seats he and Stanley had arranged all in a line, Baxter nodded for Miss Stillwell to sit.
Chapter 2
Aspinster of advanced years knew naught of gentlemen and their schemes—or at least that was what so many believed—and though Harriet Stillwell certainly didn’t boast a broad experience with the menfolk, she wasn’t ignorant of their ways. And it was exceedingly difficult for Hettie not to laugh when she found precisely what she’d expected upon arriving in the theater box.
Not the father, of course, for his son had already included that tidbit of information that afternoon when they were finalizing their plans for the evening. No, it was seeing the chairs all lined up in a row along the edge of the box—despite the tight fit.
“Isn’t it usual for there to be two in front and two behind?” asked Hettie, nodding at the seats with a sly smile.
Mr. Baxter straightened, his eyes flicking between her and the seats, and it was as though every muscle in his body stiffened at the implication. The man attempted to hide it, but there was no mistaking the tightness in his shoulders or his pinched lips. His brow furrowed in such a manner that Hettie immediately wished she hadn’t said a thing. A simple question ought not to cause such distress.
Clearing his throat, he motioned to them. “My son thought such an arrangement would allow us all to see better. The position of the box is such that if we were to sit behind them, we wouldn’t see a thing.”
And if the chaperone was not seated directly behind them, then the young gentleman would be free to hold Alice’s hand or some other bit of naughtiness. Hettie was no fool.
Yet as Mr. Baxter stood there, attempting to direct her attention away from that possibility, Hettie felt a phantom discomfort on his behalf. The fellow was gallantly fighting for his son’s interests, but it was clear that Mr. Baxter wished to be far from this gathering. Hettie glanced at the black band still firmly affixed to the gentleman’s arm. His son had only just put aside his mourning for his mother, but it would be some time before Mr. Baxter himself followed suit.
“You are quite right, sir,” replied Hettie. It was a little concession and would do no harm, and seeing Mr. Baxter draw in his first deep breath made it well worth it. “That is quite thoughtful of you and Mr. Goswick.”
And Hettie didn’t miss the triumphant smile the young man gave his father; she managed to hide her own at that. Only just.
Mr. Baxter motioned to the chairs, and Hettie did as bidden, though she sat down beside her niece, leaving the gentlemen to sit on the outside chairs. For all that there was no chance of anything untoward happening in such a setting, Hettie couldn’t allow the son to have his way in everything—on principle if nothing else. Having played the role of chaperone to Alice’s two older sisters, she knew the game well, but it was amusing to see the young bucks attempt the same tricks.
Hettie glanced at Mr. Baxter as they took their seats, and it was easy enough to see the gentleman’s nerves. Forcing her brow to remain placid, though it truly wished to furrow, she studied the fellow. It was difficult to tell how old Mr. Baxter was. Knowing his son’s age and placement in the family, she would assume his father to be in his fifties. However, he looked to be a good decade older than her two and fifty years.
Not that he was haggard or craggy with age, for he was quite neatly turned out with all the proper trappings of a gentleman. But he had more than his fair share of wrinkles about the eyes and brow with more gray than brown weaving through his hair. And there was a heaviness to his gaze that spoke of age. Hettie couldn’t say what it was precisely, for it wouldn’t do for her to stare deeply into a stranger’s eyes to discern the source.
Glancing at his armband, Hettie realized she was being silly. That was reason enough for the melancholy air clinging to him.
