Time Squared, page 3
Yet once she started down the road, Eleanor couldn’t help but picture a romance between her friend and the captain. Kitty was right. Captain Denholm was as handsome as a young man ought to be. He had a sense of humour, and didn’t appear to think too highly of himself. But from what Kitty said, he thought highly of his profession, and that was an important distinction. Really, they knew very little about him, and in any case, he probably couldn’t afford to marry until he was promoted. Yet that was in his favour as well, since a long engagement meant that Kitty wouldn’t be taken from her any time soon.
There was also the fact that if Eleanor married the captain’s brother, she and Kitty would never be parted. The idea arrived uninvited, and Eleanor rejected it just as quickly. Mr. Denholm was precisely the sort of man she would never marry: self-satisfied and unreliable. Once she and Kitty were tucked into bed, the candle snuffed, Kitty’s breathing gone regular, Eleanor pictured Mr. Denholm in the Mowbray mirror, his face half lost in the darkness. His brother seemed a more well-lit figure, honest and open. Eleanor fell asleep planning to put off Mr. Denholm while forwarding his brother’s match with Kitty, trying to decide on her first move when they arrived at Mowbray Close in the morning.
* * *
They were still at breakfast when the door flew open.
“This weather! Mrs. Crosby, I’ve saved your coachman!”
Lady Anne burst into the room. She knew, of course, where Mrs. Crosby breakfasted. Knew just as well that she kept later hours than many—herself, for instance—which allowed her to sail toward the table like a frigate, the housekeeper wringing her hands behind her.
“Just a brief stop for Catherine before we fetch the other girls. Kitty, call for your things. Eleanor, I’m desolate. There’s no room in the carriage for even so thin a figure as yours. (I’m glad, by the way, to see you making such a good breakfast.)”
“My dear,” Mrs. Crosby said, sounding unperturbed. “Have you a moment to take off your cloak?”
“Oh! Scarcely a moment,” Lady Anne said, allowing the housekeeper to remove her wrap before throwing herself in a chair. Lady Anne was still a handsome woman, although not dressed with the care of Mrs. Crosby, her clothing usually called countrified (dog hairs), even though she was the daughter of a Navy man and had travelled the world as a girl. She was often described in Middleford by the useful phrase, as jolly as an admiral’s daughter, although it failed to take into account the avid curiosity in her dark brown eyes.
“You must tell me how you’re surviving the deluge,” she said, accepting a cup of her friend’s tea. “Of course, Kitty will know. But it’s always better to get it from the horse’s mouth.”
“Mama, Mrs. Crosby isn’t a horse.”
“No, she’s a lapdog,” her mother said. “I’m the horse. I’d like to say thoroughbred, but Clydesdale is no doubt more accurate. Sir Waldo is a saint to put up with me; anyone will tell you. Of course, I don’t deserve him.”
Lady Anne squinted into the corner, saying hmm and hum as she contemplated the perfection of her husband. Sir Waldo had been a close friend of Eleanor’s father, a model gentleman with his measured phrases and air of intelligent courtesy. After periwigs and powder grew unfashionable, most men looked less authoritative. But Sir Waldo had taken off his curled white wig to reveal a head of perfectly curled white hair and carried on much as usual.
Eleanor found the Mowbray marriage a mystery. She had no idea why a gentleman like Sir Waldo would marry such an embarrassing wife: embarrassing, certainly, to her daughters. Lady Anne squinted harder at her good fortune, which by now was almost visible in the corner, before shaking her head and ordering Kitty to her feet. These occasional moments of humility endeared her to much of the neighbourhood, and Eleanor exchanged an amused glance with her aunt—which changed, after Lady Anne bustled out, into shared laughter.
“But here it is, Aunt,” Eleanor said, as the Mowbray carriage rattled off outside. “I think Kitty quite likes Captain Denholm. She’s taken care to listen when he’s talked about, and finds him very handsome.”
“And what does she report of the heir?”
Eleanor gave her aunt a look, but couldn’t resist telling her about Kitty’s encounter with Mr. Denholm and the mirror, embellishing the elements of darkness and doubling to paint what she thought was a usefully off-putting picture of Mr. Denholm’s vanity, as he “aspired to elegance in fashion as in life.”
“Oh, he sounds so young!” her aunt cried, breaking into her surprisingly raucous laugh. “For all his airs—doesn’t he sound so charmingly young!”
“It isn’t that funny!” Eleanor said.
Her aunt made a show of repentance. “Such a very young man, my dear,” she added, shaking her head. “I know you can’t think so, but to me he sounds like a schoolboy. Young men take themselves so very seriously these days.”
“I thought you wanted me to take him seriously.”
“Oh, not him, my dear. His money,” her aunt said comfortably, and poured herself another cup of her son-in-law’s excellent tea.
3
The rain continued for Lady Anne’s dinner, although not a soul would have missed it even if Noah had been building an ark on the moor. As the carriage rattled away from Goodwood House, Eleanor felt peculiarly excited, wondering if this was the party she was meant to go to, and whether something was going to start.
She also wondered if her dream meant she’d reached her time to marry. She was being called upon to take up a woman’s role—what her father had called Eve’s Burden. Maybe part of it was having a dream when your time came. Farm girls tried to, putting fresh ash leaves under their pillows. “Even-ash, even-ash, I pluck thee, this night my own true love to see.” Eleanor and Kitty had tried it when they were twelve years old, but Eleanor had enjoyed a dreamless sleep while Kitty claimed to have dreamt of her paints, proving that she’d be an old maid. Perhaps Kitty would dream of the captain if they tried again, but Eleanor shivered at the thought of dreaming about Mr. Denholm.
“I’ve chosen the wrong cap.”
She turned to find Mrs. Crosby frowning at her reflection in the carriage glass.
“You look lovely,” Eleanor said, making a minute adjustment to the lace. “I’m only sorry there isn’t a handsome widower in the neighbourhood.”
“I don’t think so, my dear,” Mrs. Crosby replied. “He’d want my money, and I’d lose all respect for him when he couldn’t get it out of me.” Gazing at her reflection, she added dreamily, “An affair de coeur. Far preferable for ladies of my condition.”
“Would you really?”
“Discreetly. Discretion isn’t only the better part of valour, you know, but also a form of intoxication. Hidden meetings, coded letters, the frisson. Although for you,” her aunt added, shaking herself, “the husband comes first, please.”
“What were you like when you were my age?” Eleanor asked.
But Mrs. Crosby was too busy with her cap to answer.
* * *
Mowbray Close was a modern house built by Sir Waldo’s father on the site of a decrepit manor. Entering the drive, Eleanor saw candles lighting its many windows, while inside the front hall was blazing. Alicia stood at its centre, her pink and white prettiness gleaming like marzipan. She was talking to Mr. Denholm and their parson, Mr. Warfield, who had replaced Eleanor’s father. Poor Mr. Warfield had angered Lady Anne by marrying his longtime fiancée after taking up the Middleford living, even though she’d made it clear he was welcome to one of her daughters. Tonight the lady seemed to have forgotten her animus, probably having found she needed Mr. Warfield and his pleasant frizz-haired wife to fill two seats at dinner.
Turning at the bustle, Mr. Denholm saw Eleanor. He brightened so noticeably that Mrs. Crosby pinched the back of Eleanor’s arm.
“Lady Anne miscalculated,” she whispered. “Keeping him away from you, and in such close contact with Alicia. Clearly she bores him.”
“Kitty says he always affects being bored,” Eleanor whispered back.
“You’re being modest,” her aunt replied in a normal voice, as Lady Anne joined them. “I was telling Eleanor that her complexion looks particularly lovely tonight. All these candles throw such a pretty light—don’t they?—from her dress to her face.”
“Hmm,” Lady Anne said. “Mr. Denholm had some very flattering things to say about Alicia’s dress. Without regard to the lighting.”
“Mr. Denholm seems to think a great deal more about dress than a gentleman ought,” Eleanor said, making sure that he heard as he walked up. “Mr. Denholm, I was about to accuse you of being a follower of Mr. Brummell.”
“Accuse?” he asked.
“Eleanor’s way of admiring your cravat,” Mrs. Crosby said.
“I doubt it,” he replied. “With respect, Mrs. Crosby, I think your niece delights in being hard on us poor gentlemen. Army men like my brother enjoy all the advantages of a uniform. Mr. Brummell only proposes that gentlemen assume their own uniform of simple, well-cut clothes. Surely you can see, Miss Crosby, that this frees up time for other pursuits of which you might actually approve.”
Eleanor had to repress a smile when she remembered that he bathed every morning. “I’ve heard it takes Mr. Brummell five hours to dress.”
“As the parson said, ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’”
“Surely not our dear Mr. Warfield,” Eleanor said. “His actions being every bit as admirable as his sermons.”
“Hmmm,” Lady Anne said again, squinting ferociously at the clergyman before excusing herself to greet more guests. Mrs. Crosby smiled and followed, leaving Eleanor alone with Mr. Denholm.
Her heart beat a little faster, she had to admit. She was blushing, feeling pushed toward Mr. Denholm by her aunt, perhaps by Fate. Although, of course, as a clergyman’s daughter, she believed in God rather than in Fate, and surely He couldn’t be bothered with Middleford.
“I don’t see my friend Catherine,” she said.
“In the corner, entertaining my brother,” Edward Denholm replied. “It’s kind of her, making time for an officer heading off to war. Many ladies speak to him only briefly, as if they don’t wish to care about his fate if, God forbid, anything should happen.” He gave her a quick glance. “Or perhaps it’s his lack of fortune. In which case, they’re right. He shan’t be able to marry any time soon.”
“So I would have thought,” Eleanor replied absentmindedly, as if she didn’t recognize his warning, continuing to look for Kitty. Finally she nodded, spotting her friend, who was speaking with placid pleasure to the captain.
“I’ve seen Miss Mowbray’s drawings,” Mr. Denholm said. “And you’re right, she has rare ability.”
“Being right about my closest friend!” Eleanor said, turning back. “I wonder how I managed.”
“I apologize for my awkward phrasing. But I like Miss Mowbray. I don’t imagine the art masters here are any better than the ones we have in Kent. She must have progressed as far as she has on her own, or perhaps with your help.” When Eleanor denied it: “Or encouragement. Which is just as important.”
None of the local swains would have been capable of making such an observation. But Mr. Denholm was a little too pleased with himself for making it, standing back on his boot heels and looking superior to his company.
“An excellent young lady,” he continued. “There’s nothing artificial about your friend, nor any degree of pretension.” Lowering his voice as he stepped closer: “It’s good luck for you to have found each other in, frankly, a rather provincial society.”
Eleanor stepped away. “I’m happy here. I like the country.”
“And not London?”
“When I’m in London, I’m happy there. I have little cause to be dissatisfied, nor indeed to wish for any particular change in my condition.”
Eleanor meant that as a warning as well. But Mr. Denholm didn’t seem to hear her, appearing pleased with what she’d said.
“When you’re in the country, you’re a country mouse. A city mouse in London. Exactly as one should be.”
“I don’t think I’m a mouse, Mr. Denholm.”
“Of course not.”
“When I was a schoolgirl, I wanted to be a warrior queen like Boadicea,” Eleanor said, smiling as she left, and pleased with herself for having scored a point.
Yet as she walked away, Eleanor felt a little more flustered than she wished to be, especially since she wanted to assess the need for Mr. Denholm’s hint. Kitty and the captain were still in the corner, chatting as sedately as brother and sister. Kitty had said she didn’t like Captain Denholm “in that way,” and showed no sign of doing so, despite her blushes when Eleanor had teased her.
But as far as Eleanor could remember, Kitty had never showed any sign of liking any young man, and wouldn’t admit it when teased. And she must have had her preferences. Eleanor had never thought of it before, but now she stopped halfway across the floor, seeing her friend in a new light. Kitty must keep her deepest feelings to herself, guarding her hopes and fears behind a calm opacity: this when Eleanor was entirely open about what she felt.
Eleanor grew increasingly unhappy as she watched them talk, wondering how well she really knew Kitty. Did Catherine like the man or not? If she did, she’d better take more care to show it or she’d lose her chance. Yet maybe she’d been sincere and she only liked him. Eleanor realized she had no idea in the world what her closest friend truly felt.
She also felt an obscure need to punish Kitty for failing to confide in her. As Lady Anne sailed past, she touched her arm impulsively.
“You should know about my talk with Mr. Denholm,” Eleanor said. “He admires Kitty greatly. ‘A young lady of rare ability.’ He seems quite struck with her.”
“Kitty?” Lady Anne cried. She swivelled violently to see Mr. Denholm walk up to his brother and Kitty, greeting her with the rare gentleness of manner her friend was able to call up even in boorish young men. (Of whom, Eleanor had to admit, Mr. Denholm wasn’t one.)
“Yes, Kitty,” she replied weakly, crushed with shame, blushing as hard as she’d ever blushed. She wanted to unsay every word she’d said. Take it all back. But it was too late.
“Oh!” Lady Anne rumbled, a deeply percussive sound. Such was her energy and resolve that when dinner was called, Kitty was seated beside Mr. Denholm, while Alicia—looking puzzled—was put further down the table beside Mr. Warfield. Eleanor herself was placed beside Stansfield Mowbray, his mother refusing to give up hope of marrying the two estates.
“How are your father’s crops faring?” she asked in penance, although with the best will in the world, Eleanor couldn’t concentrate on Mr. Mowbray’s exhaustive answer. Instead, she watched her friend (her closest friend!) at the top of the table, relieved to see Kitty speaking just as calmly with Mr. Denholm as she had with his brother. She showed no sign of regretting the loss of Captain Denholm’s company, and Eleanor gradually relaxed to see her friend agreeably occupied, smiling at the heir’s ready wit.
Nothing would come of her meanness. Nothing had happened nor would happen, Eleanor told herself—not seeing the admiring glances that Mr. Denholm cast her way, and failing to register the amused air of Captain Denholm, who didn’t miss a thing.
In fact (as only Mrs. Crosby noticed) the captain was enjoying the scene, surprising himself by finding that his tactical training let him recognize manoeuvres in the war between the sexes, fought tonight across Lady Anne’s grand expanse of tablecloth, silverware and malice flashing like swords, and misunderstandings cantering among her guests like runaway horses.
“You’re enjoying the fish,” Sir Waldo observed, nodding at his wife’s excellent salmon.
“Indeed, sir,” the captain replied. “And the fishing.”
The baronet smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Seven daughters,” he said.
* * *
Hours later, as her aunt’s carriage came for them at Mowbray Close, the rain had stopped and a crescent moon shone palely in a smudged black sky. The damp gentleness of the air promised a change of weather, and once they’d said their farewells, Mrs. Crosby spent the drive home planning a series of entertainments. She would trump Mrs. Moreland with a musical evening and squeeze in a tea around the ambitions of the Brownes—asking, by the by, as they turned into the drive at Goodwood, what Eleanor had said to Lady Anne that made her put Kitty beside Mr. Denholm.
Eleanor fell back into blushes. “I wish I hadn’t.”
Her aunt waited.
“I repeated some silly compliments Mr. Denholm paid her.”
“Good work!” Mrs. Crosby said. “Scuppering Alicia, a much more plausible candidate . . .”
“Aunt . . .”
“And recommending Kitty to the brother of a man she admires: two birds with one stone.”
“I think the more apt quotation involves ‘speaking as a foolish woman speaketh.’”
“One has heard of that, of course,” Mrs. Crosby said. “But it’s not something I’m familiar with personally.”
Eleanor tried to smile, but her renewed mortification was making her feel unwell.
“Surely Lady Anne won’t object to a visit tomorrow,” her aunt went on. “You and Kitty always meet to discuss a party.”
“Maybe we can talk about it in the morning,” Eleanor said, as the carriage stopped. “I seem to be getting a headache.”
“You don’t have a headache. You never get headaches.”
Yet Eleanor felt surprisingly ill as she stepped down from the carriage. They said you fell ill and she seemed to plummet. Her legs were weak as she went inside and she noticed her knees as she climbed the stairs, and who noticed their knees? That night, she slept restlessly, and found in the morning that someone had been at her throat with daggers. She didn’t think it was serious, but knew she couldn’t manage breakfast and sent for a cup of tea.
