However, a shooting party was planned for the end of the summer. In previous years, Henrietta had enjoyed her parents’ house parties and the variety of company they brought, but afterher Season, she had had her fill of being on view, of being judged and found wanting.
The Ramseys were to be included in the party, and invitations had been extended to Lord Danforth and his sister Alice, the Duke and Duchess of Abingdon and their three youngest children, and Lord Burchester.
The Earl of Burchester was a merry, talkative, silver-haired man who had danced with Henrietta at a few balls during the Season. She had liked laughing with him. She didn’t mind she was taller than he was. Yes, he was old—at least thirty years of age, if not more—but Mr. Hartwell was far older than the earl despite Mr. Hartwell’s raven-black hair, and she very much liked Mr. Hartwell, of course.
But before the guests arrived, her mother warned her never to be left alone with Lord Burchester.
“Phineas Edge is not looking for a bride. And I know he’s given his word to your father that he would never dally with a maiden, but I’ve caught him eyeing you a few times.”
Well, that was nice. Even if the earl didn’t want to get married and she didn’t think he’d make a very good husband for her. He was far too silly. Being married to him would be like eating treacle tarts at every meal. Fun at first, but eventually sickening.
The house party proved to be far less unpleasant than she had feared it would be. Despite the many guests, Henrietta had a great deal of liberty to do as she liked.
Lady Phoebe Finch, the Duke of Abingdon’s daughter, spent all her time in the library with George Danforth, the pair of them bent over a chessboard as Amelia looked on and issued scathing commentary and Gideon quietly read book after book in the corner. Alice Danforth and Ellen quarreled like a pair of cats and then reconciled and then squabbled again. The Duchess of Abingdon and Lady Ramsey gossiped for hours about the Seasonand were quite patient when her own mother would try to divert them into a discussion of gnomic verses. Andrew Finch snuck away to the music room, and all the other men went off to hunt every morning.
With everyone else so well-occupied, Henrietta found she could still ride twice a day. As the house party was drawing to a close and she was feeling the flutterings in her stomach she always felt just before a visit from Mr. Hartwell, Henrietta and Geoffrey happened to ride out at the same time one fine September afternoon. She would have rather been alone with Zephyr and her thoughts of Mr. Hartwell, but perhaps Geoffrey had changed his mind about her and now thought she might make a wife. And if she were to marry Geoffrey, she should spend time with him. Shouldn’t she?
They rode beside one another, chatting about the weather and the house party. Then, in the midst of boasting to her about the birds he had shot that morning, Geoffrey remarked, “You know, you should be smaller. Your mount could go much faster if you were.”
She took his statement as an impersonal observation about riding, so she patted Zephyr’s neck and laughed. “Yes, and the same is true for you.”
Geoffrey must have abruptly reined in his horse because after a minute or so, she noticed he wasn’t next to her any longer. She looked over her shoulder and saw him fuming, far behind her. She turned Zephyr and rode back to him.
“What’s wrong?”
He pulled himself up very straight in his saddle. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Hen, I am not fat. Not anymore.”
He said the wordfatas if it were a horrible, sinful thing. Like being a traitor or a murderer. And, besides, Geoffrey had never been fat. He’d been a round-cheeked, sturdy boy and now, hewas a well-built, muscular man. He didn’t have Mr. Hartwell’s sharp cheekbones or spare body, but he wasn’t fat.
Finally, she realized what his own comment to her had meant. Foolish girl. He was telling her she should bethinnerwhen he saidsmaller.
She hung her head, her face hot and pricking with a strange, new shame.
“Forgive me,” she mumbled, not knowing what else to say, not knowing if she was apologizing for being too slow to understand him or for being too fat.
Only much later, lying in bed that night, did she think how neither were things that required an apology.
And how her body was none of Geoffrey’s business.
But if she married him, it would be.
Three
Late summer always brought an extra degree of melancholy to Oliver Hartwell. August was the month his second wife had died giving birth to his son, and his first wife had perished on this very day in September, ten years ago.
No wonder he had left Crossthwaite a few days early and pushed on well past nightfall in order to arrive at his friend’s house. Tonight was not a night for Oliver Hartwell to be alone.
The duke had warned him by letter that Bexton Manor might still be overrun with shooting party guests, but Oliver hoped this place could still be a haven for him, just as it had been for so many years.
He was comforted as his carriage came down the drive. Despite the late hour, lamplight streamed from at least half a dozen windows, and the house looked as welcoming as ever.
Of course, he would have preferred to have his friend and the Stafford family to himself, to know he might walk with Crispin tomorrow morning, talking over Dalrymple’s theory of an undiscovered southern continent. And then an afternoon of whisky in the study and a dinner presided over by the lovely duchess who would discourse on Æthelwad and Ælfthryth andÆthelred while the flock of redheaded children laughed and scrapped good-naturedly.
There was so much life in this house, so different from the quiet shadows of Crossthwaite. No wonder he travelled to London on the flimsiest of pretexts only to have a reason to stop over at Bexton Manor.
Oliver knew most would consider his friendship with Crispin Stafford an unlikely one. They had been at school together but separated by several years. Crispin was a duke, while Oliver could be considered, at best, a somewhat-gentleman farmer with a father whose wealth had come from trade, a mother whose sister had married nobility, a cousin who was a viscount,et cetera.
And the characters of the two men were a study in contrasts. Crispin was all ebullient vigor. Oliver was all sedate reserve. Crispin was never alone and always happy. Oliver was always alone and never happy.
