Miss Dashing, page 27
Hecate abruptly needed Phillip’s arm for support. “Who is that fellow?”
“A prosperous Bristol merchant. Nunn has known him for ages. Let’s find somewhere private so you can make his acquaintance without an audience.”
“Let’s,” Hecate said. “Please, let’s.”
Chapter Eighteen
The murmur of voices coming from the foyer was leavened by the strains of a string quartet. Nunn and Edna, abetted by Charles, Eggy, and Emeril, were greeting the stragglers, and Phillip was far from dressed for the occasion.
He should have been mortified, but he was too busy holding hands with his intended to care. He’d shepherded her and Edward Ross to Nunn’s study, where nobody would dare intrude.
“Your mother,” Edward Ross said, “was a force of nature. She appeared at first glance to be the demure wife of another London dandy, but her conversation was insightful, her humor uproarious, and her determination… You inherited that. You clearly inherited much that is wonderful from your mother.”
Father and daughter had been talking for nearly an hour. Haltingly at first. Platitudes.
Thank you for receiving me.
You’re looking well.
Have you always lived in Bristol?
Ross had been born in Dundee, and traces of the accent still flavored his speech. Until the last two changes, Phillip had ridden in the coach with him and learned much of his prospective papa-in-law. In appearance, Ross was tallish, solid, going gray about the temples, and imposing about the eyebrows. His blue eyes had likely always been fierce.
Ross read voraciously, and he’d shown a prodigy’s facility with figures from a young age. He was known for scrupulous honesty in business and for driving a hard bargain. He did his own negotiating, leaving the lawyers to clean up details, and he was as yet unmarried.
By degrees, Hecate and her father were tiptoeing up to more difficult matters.
“Mama didn’t mention you often, but she was always complimentary. Said I must not blame you and that someday, she hoped, I might make your acquaintance. I did not dare.”
Ross rose and went to the sideboard. “I will presume to pour a round of brandy, to steady our nerves and, in my case, to celebrate. My daughter has acknowledged me more than civilly, and I…” He busied himself moving decanters about, back to Phillip and Hecate.
“I am celebrating too,” Hecate said gently. “Phillip?”
“My rejoicing is without limit.”
Ross collected himself and passed out the drinks. “I did not dare approach you. Firstly, I did not deserve to intrude on your life, and secondly, Nunn had assured me repeatedly that the Bromptons would turn any overtures from me to their own purposes should they get wind of them.”
“They would have.” Hecate took a sip of her drink. “They rifle the mail, listen at keyholes, lurk behind hedges… If only their enthusiasm for gathering information focused on something useful, like making investment decisions. Isaac loathes you.”
“A man I would have pitied, except that he took out his bile on you, who were innocent of any wrongdoing. One wishes he’d gone to Canada.”
Phillip sampled his brandy, a good vintage. “One wishes Emeril had stayed there.”
Hecate smiled a wicked little grin. “Portia might well be the making of him.”
Edward resumed his seat. They’d taken the chairs by the hearth, though no fire burned, and they were likely missing the promenade.
About which, Phillip did not give one hearty, Berkshire bedamned.
“Do you mind that I left Nunn in charge of the money?” Hecate had put the question to her father, suggesting she’d deduced a few pertinent details.
“The money was always yours to do with as you wished. Your mother invested the initial sum in the cent-per-cents, as conservative a place to put funds as any, but as you grew a bit older, she asked for your suggestions. You were reading the paper long before you should have been allowed to, and when you mentioned the tulip craze, she realized you’d been nosing about Nunn’s library as well. She began to heed your suggestions, modestly at first. By the time your mother left us, we already knew you had inherited at least some proclivities from me.”
“You and Mama corresponded?”
“Nunn’s countess facilitated our correspondence and then bequeathed the responsibility to Nunn when she grew ill. Your mother and I saw each other once a year in the spa towns—I lived for those three weeks, my dear, and I suspect she did too. After your mother’s death, I permitted myself an annual sojourn to London. I, too, lurked behind an occasional hedge, Hecate. Thank the merciful powers you enjoy a gallop of a morning. I hope you won’t judge me for spying.”
On the whole, interminable journey from Bristol, Edward’s sole concern had been that his intrusion into Hecate’s life would make her situation worse. Phillip had assured him it would not, but only she could say if knowing her father would make her situation better.
“Shall I leave you two some privacy?” Phillip asked. “I’m told I need to make the close acquaintance of a large washbasin, the sooner the better.”
“Stay,” Hecate said. “Please.”
Edward considered his brandy. “I have no secrets from you, my lord. I’ve carried too many secrets for too long and would rather have done with such measures.”
He was making a request and trying to maintain his dignity while doing it. Phillip sympathized, but the plea was Hecate’s to answer.
“I cannot acknowledge you as my father,” she said, “not openly, but you are a dear friend of Uncle Nunn’s, and you share with me an enthusiasm for investing. My favorite charity is a sailors’ home, in which you are sure to take an interest.”
Edward nodded once. “I’ve seen it. Lovely establishment. Your residents cannot stop singing your praises.”
Another hedge Edward had apparently lurked behind.
“Mama mentioned that you take good care of your pensioners,” Hecate went on, “and that a life at sea can leave a man distant from his family and with few friends ashore. She said you owned merchantmen.”
Ross nodded. “A few.”
He likely owned a fleet, and Isaac Brompton doubtless resented him for that more than for poaching on marital preserves Isaac had abandoned.
“If we were to take on a joint project,” Hecate said slowly, “a sailors’ home in Bristol, nobody would remark our continued acquaintance.”
Phillip wanted to kiss her, for her kindness toward a father who’d kept his distance for too long, for her genius, for her courage.
But then, he always wanted to kiss her.
Edward stared at her. “A sailors’ home?”
“Britain loves her seamen,” Hecate said. “We respect our soldiers, but our sailors… Wellington will always be venerated, but we love Nelson. We still pray for his soul. We name our children after him. I would be honored to advise you on the establishment of sailors’ homes in Bristol, Portsmouth, Liverpool…”
“And Berkshire,” Phillip added. “You will always be welcome at Lark’s Nest, sir. I know nothing of sailors’ homes or international trade, but I well know who is family and who is not.”
Hecate squeezed his hand. Edward produced a handkerchief and found it necessary to admire the view from the balcony.
“Put him up in the summer cottage with me and DeWitt,” Phillip said. “You were already sorting through possibilities, weren’t you?”
“He is so… not what I expected. I expected a merchant prince, charming, willing to show me some sentimental fondness provided I did not ask for anything more than a passing smile from him, but he’s…”
“Your father, to the best of his ability.”
“And you found him for me.”
“He wasn’t lost, but I did want you to consider that the Bromptons are not your only option in terms of family. Nunn was forthcoming about your parents’ history, and I could see Johnny’s, or Emeril’s, mischief wearing you down. Do we banish the scoundrel back to Canada?”
Hecate rose and deposited herself in Phillip’s lap. “Life would certainly be more peaceful, and I do believe Portia intends to have him.”
Phillip enfolded Hecate in a hug, his sense of homecoming finally complete. “I need a bath.”
“I need you.”
They enjoyed a moment of perfect contentment before Hecate resumed her seat and finished her brandy. “I should be in the ballroom.”
“I have a suggestion,” Phillip said, leaning over to murmur his next words in her ear.
Hecate listened, she smiled, she kissed him, and she sat back. “A fine plan. You see to Papa and pay a quick call on the swimming hole, and I will expect you both in time for the supper waltz.”
She stood, squared her shoulders, and beamed at him. “Until tonight, and, Phillip?”
He got to his feet, prepared to hear that she wanted a long engagement, that Lark’s Nest would not do, that he had best not appear in riding attire on a formal occasion ever again.
“Miss Brompton?”
“Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart and the top and all the compass points. Save that supper waltz for me, or it will go hard for you.”
“Your servant, Miss Brompton.” He bowed politely, she curtseyed, and Phillip watched her go with a gentleman’s appreciative eye and a lover’s besotted devotion.
“Canada will be wonderful, Flave,” Portia said, taking yet another sip of the punch, though the libation continued to disappoint. “You’ll see. Emeril says the forests are mindboggling and the summers spectacular. You’ve always liked nature more than I have. You’ll come to love it, I’m sure.”
Flavia’s gaze was on Mr. DeGrange, who was partnering Mrs. Roberts. Portia had done the promenade with Emeril—begin as you intend to go on, after all—and he appeared to be reconciling himself to his good fortune.
“You’re sure you’ll live in Canada?” Flavia asked.
“Emeril has a good post in Toronto, or he did. He wanted to look in on us here in Merry Olde, but he’d taken to opening the mail that came through for Johnny, and Johnny barely sets foot in civilized surrounds anymore apparently. Likes life in the wilderness, if you can imagine such a thing. Emeril says that happens with the trappers. They become part wild themselves, and domesticating them again is nearly impossible. Are you listening to me?”
Flavia’s expression had become preoccupied. Mr. DeGrange twirled by again, and Portia caught a sneaking whiff of an unpleasant notion.
“Of course I’m listening, Porry.”
“Then you are coming with us? Many a spinster lives with a married sibling, and Emeril says Canada is crawling with single men. Some of them, like Cousin Johnny, are even worth some blunt. You’ll find a husband in no time, and I won’t mind having you on hand until then.”
A generous offer. Flavia would not hear a better one.
“That is very kind of you, Porry. Very thoughtful.”
“I am kind by nature, and you are my only sister. This punch is awful.”
“I fear I must decline your suggestion nonetheless,” Flavia said. “My place is here.”
Portia put the back of her gloved hand to Flavia’s forehead. “Are you coming down with something? I thought I just heard you say you will force me to cross an ocean with only Emeril’s dubious company to fortify me. Society has had its chance to appreciate us, Flavie, and they failed us.”
Flavia fluttered her fan slowly with her left hand, then touched the tip with a single finger. Come and talk to me, followed by, I wish to speak with you. Did Flavia even realize what she was signaling? Probably not. Flavia wasn’t much given to flirtation, and who would she flirt with when Mr. DeWitt was lurking among the dowagers?
“You and Cousin Emeril will manage splendidly,” Flavia said. “You will be the making of him. He has wanted direction, and you can provide that.”
“I can, can’t I? Lots of direction. And as you’ve always done, you will help—”
Flavia snapped her fan closed. “I am not going to Canada with you, Portia. You will have grand adventures and see wonderful sights, while I bide in England, stitching samplers and sipping tea.”
The sneaking whiff of an unpleasant notion had become the rank odor of betrayal. “Flavia Brompton, you cannot expect me to go to Canada all on my own. Canada lies across a whole, perilous ocean.”
“You will have the company of your husband on that journey. I might have a husband too.”
“Then bring him to Canada, for pity’s sake. Flave, you must come with me.” Surely the obvious did not bear repeating?
“No, I must not. You will have Emeril to sort out and marvelous summers to enjoy. While I… Mr. DeGrange has been importuning Mama for permission to court me, and I will tell her to allow it. He claims he noticed me last year, but expected I would look higher than mere gentry. He’s very sweet, and not that old, and I was never one for adventures.”
Oh, good Lord. Of all the… but then Portia recalled that Mr. DeGrange had always been punctiliously correct toward Mama, and Mama had not taken to smacking him with her fan, which was a sure sign she was in pursuit of a flirtation.
The punch abruptly sat disagreeably. “Flave, you cannot abandon me.”
“We are not abandoning each other. We are growing up and taking our places in Society. You must promise to write to me, Porry, at least once a month. You will be the making of Cousin Em, I know you will.”
God in heaven. Flavia and Mr. DeGrange. Hecate and Lord Phillip. Blind hogs on every hand.
“I cannot fathom that you’d betray me like this, Flavia. All I can tell you is, my door will always be open to you, and I hope you and Mr. DeGrange are very happy.”
Flavia touched her arm. “Thank you for those good wishes, Portia. You will write to me?”
Portia had the sense that Flavia had stolen something from her—a future, a dream, an inheritance—but that was ridiculous. Emeril was handsome, ambitious, and a prodigiously good kisser, and Portia would indeed be the making of him.
“I shall write to you,” Portia said. “Once a month might be a bit too much to ask when I’ll be establishing my household and entertaining and furthering my husband’s interests to the best of my ability, but I will write.”
“Thank you.” Flavia imposed a one-armed hug on her, and Portia nearly hugged her sister back. A whole ocean, vast forests, winters… Why must Canada be so deuced far away?
Portia sat up lest those thoughts lead to needless fretting.
Flavia hadn’t reciprocated that part about my door will always be open to you, probably an oversight, but… maybe not. Her door would be Mr. DeGrange’s door, and Mr. DeGrange did not appear to hold Emeril in very high regard at present. But then, Mr. DeGrange was mere gentry.
Portia rose. “The supper waltz approaches, and my Emeril has promised me… Oh, Flavia, look at him.”
Flavia stood as well, her gaze on the grand staircase, where Lord Phillip escorted Hecate down into the ballroom.
“Look at them. She’s radiant and he’s resplendent.”
“Mama would say he cleans up nicely.”
“Mama would be vastly understating the situation.”
Lord Phillip paused on the third step up and, before the whole of the glittering assemblage, kissed Hecate’s gloved hand.
“Not done,” Portia murmured, her heart genuinely fluttering. “A gentleman doesn’t allow his lips… It’s the outside of too much, Flavie, and Hecate is simply beaming at him.”
“When Lord Phillip is courting his lady, it’s apparently done and done well. I am promised to Mr. DeGrange for the supper waltz.”
She swanned off as Lord Phillip gave the musicians leave to begin the introduction. The dance floor filled with couples bowing and curtseying, though Portia didn’t see Emeril anywhere. She finally spotted him by the men’s punchbowl and barely got him onto the dance floor before the introduction concluded.
“We must extract a promise from Nunn to always leave this meadow in hay or pasture,” Hecate said. “Can one do that with a patch of ground?” How little she knew of the details of farming and how eager she was to learn them.
“One can,” Phillip said, walking hand in hand with her beneath the full moon, “and because this ground rolls and has a slope to it, that might be the best use of these acres anyway. Ah, your minions have been busy.”
Hecate had slipped down to the kitchen to whisper a request to Cook at the supper break, and Cook had hugged her. Not done. So much was not done and should be done. Frequently.
“Dawn isn’t far off,” Hecate said, settling onto the blankets that had obligingly been spread for them. “We have two hours at most.”
“We have the rest of our lives.” Phillip sat beside her and began removing his boots and stockings. “Now that you’ve had some time to ponder the matter, are you still pleased to have Edward Ross underfoot?”
Hecate had pondered the reality of having a father and would be pondering it for some time. She had also pondered—with unseemly relish—the pleasure of casting Isaac unto dear Uncle Frank’s impecunious charity. Living frugally was so much easier on the Continent, after all.
“Edward Ross did the best he could,” she said. “Part of me wants to rail against him—he left me among the Bromptons for so long, and their latest trap might well have ensnared me.”
“You were losing your heart for the fight. I thought reinforcements might aid the cause. Something restored your independent spirits before those reinforcements became necessary.”
Phillip was so modest, so pragmatic, and without airs. “Flavia, of all people. She has never given me a moment’s difficulty, never complained of her lot, never spoken ill of anybody, and yet, her sister—her only sister—nearly got her compromised, treated her like an unpaid lady’s maid, and expected a hound’s loyalty from her. When I asked Flavia why she tolerated that treatment, she informed me that Portia was all she had.”
Phillip looped an arm around Hecate’s shoulders. “You will always have me, Hecate. Thunderbolts from on high, London gossips, scandal, penury, droughts, floods… None of it matters as long as I am by your side.”
