But once the villains of the piece were gone, a flock of birds appeared on stage. Though Hettie knew of a variation of the tale that said the task was performed by white doves, these were most definitely chickens. And rather than sweetly going about their task as directed by Cinderella, the foul pecked at her and each other, quickly swarming the stage as they sought out their feed. Soon, another actor emerged in a large bird costume to herd them in the direction they needed to go.
Hettie struggled for air as she vibrated with laughter. The scene was hardly unique, and she didn’t know whether or not it truly deserved such a hearty response, but the crowd’s glee was palpable, amplifying the moment. Seated amongst the general audience, Hettie spied the theater boxes with their highbrow patrons inside. For all that the space and comfort were better there, these seats allowed them to be part of the audience in a much more palpable manner; as a pantomime was intended to be interactive, it was far better to be squished alongside the rest of the crowd.
To say nothing of the fact that their view of the actors’ cavorting was far better.
Leaning closer to Mr. Baxter, Hettie spoke loud enough for her voice to carry: “This may be a sign that I am terribly uncultured, but I vastly prefer this to the opera we attended.”
Mr. Baxter nodded and shifted to respond in kind, his lips drawing near to her ear. “It is good to see you laugh. You seemed distressed when we came upon you.”
Though he was of a quiet temperament, it did not signify that he had nothing to say; Mr. Baxter’s gaze spoke volumes for anyone who cared to notice, and as Hettie stared into those dark eyes, she saw that concern echoing through them along with many questions he did not voice. But then, he didn’t need to, for she understood his meaning well enough.
“I had a trying day.” Hettie paused, her lips pinching together as she reconsidered that. “It has been a trying few weeks, in all honesty.”
Mr. Baxter’s brows pulled low in silent invitation. Jeers from the crowd erupted around them, and her smile broadened as Mrs. Callaghan joined in as boisterously as the rest, cupping her mouth for the sound to carry. Turning her attention back to the gentleman at her side, Hettie settled closer to him; with so many around them in such a state, there was little chance anyone was listening to them.
“With Alice coming so close to marriage, it has made me think about my future,” she said with a furrowed brow. “My eldest nephew is lately wed, so my brother no longer requires me to keep the household running, and my duty to my nieces will be complete once Alice marries. And I find myself at a loss to know what I will do with myself.”
With a sympathetic wince, Mr. Baxter nodded. “I know precisely what you mean. You have a goal to complete, and once it is finished, what does one do? I have felt that at various times in my life. In fact, in the last year, my last child married, and I moved from the only home I have ever known. It is difficult to know what to do then, and no one can decide for you.”
Then, giving her a warm smile, he added, “But you are an intelligent and thoughtful lady. I am certain you will sort it out. In the meantime, if you require a listening ear, I am quite willing to provide one.”
Only a few simple words, yet they nestled into Hettie’s heart, filling her with more peace than she’d known for some time when considering this trouble. Knowing she was not alone in feeling lost helped to ease some of the strain, for though she had tried to speak to her brother about it, Victor did not seem to understand her meaning or brushed it aside as a minor issue that would be resolved in a trice.
A friend and confidant. So many of the world’s ills could be solved with a good one, and Mr. Baxter certainly had proven himself to be that, although he rarely offered direct advice—merely sympathy and understanding.
Without thinking, she reached forward, laying her hand atop his clasped ones. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter.”
Hettie tried to think of how to convey the fullness of her meaning, but anything else felt cheap. One needn’t guild a lily, so she simply allowed her tone and expression to add weight to those simple words.
“Does this mean we are still friends, despite your son breaking my niece’s heart?” she asked in a tart tone. The contentment in his expression fled, his brows pulling tight together, and Hettie hurried to add, “I am jesting, Mr. Baxter. Alice’s heart is fully intact and unbothered by what has passed.”
Drawing in a breath, Mr. Baxter relaxed into the seat once more, and Hettie couldn’t help the gentle smile that pulled at her lips. This man was such a dear.
Noise blasted around them as the crowd rose to their feet, jeering at the detestable villains determined to foil the heroine’s plans, and Hettie’s brows rose as she glanced at the wall of people around them. When her gaze fell back to Mr. Baxter, she found him watching her with such tenderness that she struggled to breathe. For all that the world around them was devolving into a braying cacophony, it felt as though the two of them were tucked away in their own little bubble. Apart from the others.
Mr. Baxter’s hand shifted, and Hettie stiffened, glancing down to see her own still firmly holding his far longer than the friendly gesture warranted. Yanking free, she cast a look around, though she didn’t recognize any of the faces around them and his daughter appeared too occupied with the panto to pay them any heed.
With rumors already abounding, that touch was poorly done. Mr. Baxter was her friend, and she had repaid that kindness by adding fuel to the flames. If his family were already troubled by whispers concerning the pair of them whilst they’d been acting as chaperones, holding his hand in public was certain to cause a stir.
Clearing her throat, she tried to think of what to say, but what did one say in such a moment? Mr. Baxter had extended the metaphorical hand of friendship, and for the briefest of moments, she’d turned this widower into a courting swain.
But Hettie couldn’t think, so she feigned a great interest in the stage. Thankfully, the crowd had settled enough to take their seats once more, and she was allowed a view of the prince trying to mount his valiant steed whilst the two actors inside the costume made it especially difficult for the hero to do so. With a feigned laugh, she clapped along with the others and tried to ignore the feel of Mr. Baxter’s gaze on her.
*
Despite a penchant for gambling and wagers, gentlemen did not do so with their estates. That family legacy was to be protected and maintained precisely as it had been, and from a young age, Baxter had been taught to keep the course; modernization and investments were bywords, looked upon as necessary for estates too weak to survive on their own.
Perhaps if he’d learned to eschew his father’s teachings at a young age, Baxter might’ve undone much of Dolores’s damage to their finances by mechanizing their production and employing prudent speculation, but by the time he’d set his mind to doing so, they hadn’t the funds to do it properly. Enough to save them from ruin, but not to thrive.
Baxter cursed himself for acting so slowly then, and again for continuing to be so slow-witted now. “Slow to Act” ought to be written on his gravestone.
Miss Stillwell had held his hand, and rather than merely stare at her, Baxter could’ve taken the initiative. He didn’t know what that would’ve been, but if he’d done so, they might be more comfortably situated. But he’d allowed the moment to lapse, and it would be all the more awkward if he were to attempt it now.
Baxter glanced at her fingers knotted in her lap, and as much as he longed to reach for them, the tightness in her muscles wasn’t a good sign. Nor was the manner in which she’d snatched back her hand.
Then Charity jostled him as she shifted in her seat, and reality dropped down on Baxter once more, crushing him beneath its weight.
Had he truly thought to attempt something in front of his daughter? To say nothing of the fact that he’d promised himself that he would be Miss Stillwell’s friend and nothing more. Friends did not hold each other’s hands. Or notice just how wonderful they smelled. Like oranges and a hint of cinnamon, making one think of a warm cup of wassail. Delectable.
