Miss Dramatic, page 5
Rose reached across the table to half pat, half smack his hand. “Don’t punish yourself for what’s over and done with. Self-flagellation can keep us connected to what we’ve lost.” Though what, precisely, had Gavin DeWitt lost? Given his antecedents, had he truly convinced himself he could have a career on the stage?
She hadn’t known of those antecedents when they’d met before. She’d assumed he was the proverbial penniless actor, though she’d learned otherwise at Nunnsuch. He was about as penniless as Dane had been humble.
“You are correct,” he said. “Ruminating serves little purpose now. I am home to stay and trying to put matters right with my family. Amaryllis has made a splendid match, Twidboro Hall has been deeded to my grandmother, and the DeWitts are prospering.”
“All’s well that ends well?” He sounded like a widow who’d looked very much forward to life improving when she could set aside her weeds, only to find no improvement at all.
“All is well,” he said as Lady Iris walked by in rapt discussion with Miss Peasegood. “Or near enough to well as makes no difference. Tell me, what inspired you to accept my sister’s invitation?”
Rose stuffed an orange section into her mouth. She’d accepted the invitation because… because she was an idiot. Because Timmens deserved to be proved wrong at least occasionally. Because two weeks of avoiding Gavin DeWitt had lodged his memory only more deeply in her mind. Because he’d treated her ill, and she deserved an explanation, or a chance to convey to him how hurtful he’d been.
Because she wanted an apology, damn him, and not merely three orange sections and more of his soulful self-reflection.
He excelled at soulful reflection—and kissing. “I like Lord and Lady Phillip,” Rose said, “and sitting about waiting for harvest to begin grows tedious. Lady Phillip is known to be an astute manager of funds. She mentioned that we women might find time to discuss our investments while we’re socializing.”
All true, but nowhere near the whole truth.
I’ve missed you. That declaration of treason to her dignity sprang full-fledged into Rose’s mind. She took another bite of orange, then followed up with a sip of punch. The punch tried to go down the wrong way, and then she was coughing while Gavin patted her back and offered his own libation.
“I’m fine,” Rose said, resisting the urge to shove him away. “Please, no fuss, or we’ll have half the guests here recommending tisanes and chiding me for not being more careful. I am fine.”
He subsided into his seat and retrieved his glass of punch. Eighteen months ago, he might have launched into a story about somebody else’s unfortunate moment with a glass of punch, or offered a quote or quip appropriate to the moment.
Instead, he sat across from her, his gaze unreadable, his expression anything but genial. Rose’s earlier thought—I’ve missed you—still echoed in her mind, and another notion resonated with it: I’ve missed you, but who have you become since I thought myself in love with you, and did I ever truly know you at all?
Chapter Four
On the towpath, Gavin had approached Rose, assuring himself that a private encounter was better suited to establishing civil relations. Rose had been amenable to that proposal—can we not start afresh, Mr. DeWitt?—and yet, he wasn’t as relieved as he should have been at her willingness to dissemble.
As she buttered her bread and arranged her cheese, she radiated a reserve she hadn’t had up in Derbyshire. She’d grown into her widowhood, which wasn’t fair.
She should have been missing him with the same confounded lack of self-control he’d been missing her. Thinking of her, hoping she was happy, puzzling over her treatment of him.
“I should be taking another look at my investments,” he said as Rose nibbled her sandwich. “Papa clearly did not choose wisely when he selected our solicitors, and now I’m trying to acquaint myself with the particulars of our situation without being too much of a bother.”
Not a topic he should have raised with a lady he’d ostensibly met two weeks ago, but much on his mind, and Rose had no patience with chitchat.
“Be a bother,” she said. “Be the most imperious, stern, high-handed… I vow until the Earl of Nunn accompanied me on a call to my late husband’s solicitors, they treated me as if I were slow-witted. They recited Dane’s wishes—as they interpreted those wishes—and expected me to sniffle and nod and dab at my eyes in meek surrender.”
“You went to war instead?”
“I certainly took matters in hand. Nunn was a great help, though all he had to do was sit beside me looking unimpressed and late for an appointment with his tailor. My husband was vintage gentry and quite set in his ways.”
That observation approached criticism of Saint Dane. How odd. “I am not vintage gentry. I am the first to qualify for the honor in my family, and yet, I haven’t a manor of my own.”
Rose finished her sandwich and dusted her hands over her plate. “Do you want one?”
No, he did not. A place to live, yes. A dwelling to house his family, of course. But not acres and acres, ditches and drains, flocks and herds…
No.
In Derbyshire, he and Rose had talked of books, philosophy, politics, and history by the hour. Long walks had been taken up with plays and poetry, morning hacks had been filled with debate on the Corn Laws and parliamentary reform. Late nights had been for the quiet language of the heart.
Or so he’d thought. In any case, he’d avoided any mention of the boring reality of his nonacting life.
“Grandmama has already told me that Twidboro is coming to me.”
Rose took up her spoon and dipped it into a bowl of fruit compote. “That doesn’t answer my question. You left Twidboro Hall to pursue the stage, and I gather your family disapproved. Now you are back where you started and where your family expects you to be. How are you finding the role?”
Tedious. Stifling—‘cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in’—and Gavin was ashamed of himself for his ingratitude. One should cite the Scottish play only in cases of true tragedy.
“I love my home. I love my family. Why would I be anything but pleased to bide here?”
Rose sampled her cream, peaches, and blueberries. “You left this bucolic paradise for reasons, Mr. DeWitt, and you are very skilled on stage. I loved my husband, and I love Colforth Hall, but that doesn’t mean I want to keep it as a shrine to his memory.”
She would not have said that eighteen months ago. Then, every mention of her late spouse—and they had been frequent at first—had been glowing and wreathed in fond sentiment.
“Two years of my life spent pouring everything I had into the acting profession is supposed to have been a lark,” Gavin said as, across the garden, Tavistock inspired four women to go off into whoops. “A frolic, a queer start. My version of the grand tour. A bit eccentric, but you know how young men are.”
He’d raised the pitch of his voice to imitate some Mayfair beldame and infused the words with amusement.
“I honestly don’t know how young men are,” Rose replied. “I married right out of the schoolroom, and Dane saw no need for me to incur the expense of frequent jaunts to Town. When I began exploring London at the conclusion of my mourning, the bachelors were after younger game. Eat your dessert. The fruit is luscious.”
The forbidden fruit always was.
“You are young,” Gavin said. “Also formidable, and that’s why the fribbles have left you in peace.” He didn’t intend the words as flattery, much less as a compliment. He simply stated the truth. He knew how young men were—he still was one, and acting troupes were full of them—and women who could quote from the American Constitution and Blackstone’s commentaries would freeze the guts of the average Town tulip.
And Rose thought her age had been to blame?
“I have sown my wild oats,” Gavin said, trying for some lightness. “I shall now become the contented, conscientious squire.”
Rose took another bite of compote, closing her eyes as she slipped the spoon from her mouth. Gavin sipped his punch, found the glass empty, and told himself to stop gawking.
“You will be a squire on a very fast horse,” Rose said, setting aside her empty bowl. “You school your colt in the mornings?”
The change of subject was welcome. Too welcome. “Every morning. If the going is wet, I check Roland’s speed, but he needs to sort out for himself how to negotiate a muddy track. Berkshire has afforded us many opportunities to practice keeping our footing. I’ll begin competing him in the autumn, with a view toward some serious racing next spring.”
“Where did you find him?”
Gavin let himself be led onto this safer ground, though Rose’s earlier questions and answers stayed with him. His life would be the envy of most, and yet, he was restless and discontent. The feeling grew the longer he bided in Crosspatch Corners, no matter how many miles Roland galloped, no matter how many stiles they leaped.
That wasn’t news.
That Rose had never had a London Season had escaped his notice, though. In Derbyshire, she’d been so self-possessed, so well adapted to the part of young widow bravely venturing back into Society that he’d never considered how little experience she might have been bringing to the excursion.
How unworldly she might have been. The idea fit poorly with what else he knew of her. But then, the notion of spending the rest of his days dithering over whether to plant barley or oats in the bottom field fit poorly with what he knew of himself.
“I like this way of having a supper,” Rose said, glancing around the garden. “A buffet al fresco. A picnic without the ants and acorns. Shall we stroll a bit to settle the meal?”
They’d hiked, not strolled, over half of Derbyshire. “Of course.”
Tavistock’s harem went off into peals again. Over by the hydrangeas, Lord Phillip sat with another bevy of beauties, and Gavin was reminded of the house party where he’d met Rose. The troupe had been hired in part because too many last-minute guest cancellations had left the gathering lopsided. Handsome young gentlemen had been in demand, and virtually any handsome young gentleman with acceptable manners would do.
Actors, often from good families, well-read, sociable, and competent to play genteel roles, had been an easy and entertaining solution.
Gavin had left the place feeling like a combination sacrificial goat and village fool.
“The path along the Twid is lovely at this time of evening,” he said. “Let’s enjoy it, shall we?” He held Rose’s chair, as he had a hundred times in the past, but denied himself the pleasure of leaning over her for a moment, murmuring in her ear, and otherwise making a cake of himself.
And yet, a small, stupid part of him still wanted to. Wanted to pretend they were embarking on another flirtation, one that could end more happily.
His dignity alone ought to prevent such a catastrophe, ably assisted by his common sense.
Rose took his arm, and they wound down the garden path, greeting other guests and eventually leaving the formal parterres.
I’ve missed you. Gavin understood that sentiment—they’d shared considerable pleasure, and only some of it in bed—but he need not indulge it.
“If we go this way,” Rose said, gesturing to the left, “we might come upon my book of poetry. A thorough search of my effects leads me to conclude that I left Mr. Wordsworth on the banks of the Twid.”
“You left him on the towpath,” Gavin replied. “I retrieved him. If you’d like to hack out with me tomorrow afternoon, I can return him to you then.”
The words were out, unplanned and unrehearsed. Not really a disaster either. Entirely in keeping with starting afresh and consistent with the behavior of guests who’d met earlier in the summer. Rose would doubtless decline though.
“What time?”
Erm… “Four-ish. The heat is waning by then, and thunderstorms are unlikely. Roland needs to learn how to comport himself in company and how to behave when the outing is purely for the joy of the fresh air.”
“I have my riding habit with me,” Rose said, “and I would appreciate time in the saddle. One thing I do like about managing Colforth Hall is hacking out on my acres. I like knowing when the berries are ripening by the bridge and whether last night’s storm yielded any deadfall. Tenants who would never approach me at the Hall will stop to chat with me on the farm lanes. Dane said his father had found the same thing to be true.”
“You still miss your husband.” Not a little of their previous dealings had been taken up with her reminiscences of married life. Dane Roberts had been affectionate, witty, devoted to his wife, and taken much too soon. Gavin could not resent even such a paragon as that, because the poor fellow wasn’t on hand to bask in his wife’s adoration.
“Not as I once did,” she said. “Nunn told me that time would help, and it has.”
Gavin had had no illusions about the role he’d been intended to play for her. He’d been her first venture into the terrain of the merry widow, her attempt to get back on the horse. That his ambitions had soon run far ahead of her stated agenda wasn’t her fault.
For the first time, he wanted to ask her if she considered their previous venture a success. Not rail at her, demand explanations, and air his hurt feelings, but discuss the situation as two adults benefiting from hindsight.
He was entitled to rail at her, of that he had no doubt, but what would be the point? More sacrificing of his dignity, for no purpose.
“Shall we invite others to ride out with us?” Rose asked as the Twid drifted by and a mistle thrush began singing his birdy vespers high up in a lime tree.
“I’d be happy to, though Roland hasn’t much experience in company. Let’s start with a duet, and if that goes well, he can graduate to larger groups over the next two weeks.”
“A sound plan. Ah, we have company.”
Lord Phillip and his lady strolled up the path, husband and wife holding hands rather than adopting the posture of an escort and his companion.
“DeWitt, Mrs. Roberts, a fine evening for a constitutional,” Lord Phillip called. “In fact, I was hoping to run into you.”
They had left the garden in plain view of the whole company, so hoping hadn’t come into it. Phillip—who was as observant as he was decent—had planned this meeting, recruited his favorite accomplice, and abandoned his dinner companions to accost Gavin in relative privacy.
“The property is lovely,” Rose said. “Makes me wish we had some abandoned towpaths on Colforth land.”
“You must convey those sentiments to Lord Tavistock,” Phillip said. “If I might impose briefly, I’d like to commend you to the company of my lady wife, Mrs. Roberts. I need a moment of DeWitt’s time.”
Phillip was shrewd, he wasn’t always subtle, and he probably thought he was rescuing Gavin. “Mrs. Roberts, will you excuse me?”
“Of course, and my thanks for a pleasant meal.”
So polite, so prosaic, and yet, honest too. They’d gone beyond small talk without stumbling into recriminations or—worse yet—doomed flirtations. Gavin watched the ladies retreating, arm in arm, and sorted through unexpected sentiments.
“What can you possibly be thinking?” Phillip said, taking Gavin by the elbow and steering him in the opposite direction.
“I’m wondering if Mrs. Roberts and I might aspire to become friends.” Not lovers, not enemies, not allies, but… friends. Hmm.
“She strikes me as an entirely estimable woman, and the two of you clearly have a past. That’s not what we need to talk about.”
Clearly they had a past? “Clearly, how?”
“You all but bolted out the window whenever she came into the room at Nunnsuch. She developed a pressing need to head for the door when you made your appearances. Then there was all that fishing without a single trout to show for it. Hecate noticed the pattern right off, but that needn’t concern you now.”
“It doesn’t concern me. Mrs. Roberts and I have found cordial footing.” Cordial. An insipid, neutral word, but better than acrimony or foolishness. Friends were cordial, weren’t they?
“Delighted to hear it.” Phillip glanced over his shoulder, though the ladies had disappeared around the bend of the Twid. “You need to know that Tavistock is laboring under a series of unfortunate assumptions and that he has taken action on his mistaken beliefs.”
Gavin stopped by the very spot where he’d come upon Rose earlier in the day. “How unfortunate are these assumptions?”
Phillip scooped up a handful of pebbles and began tossing them into the water. “I don’t know, hence this conversation. Hecate said the sooner you knew, the better, because Tavistock means for you to know, but he’s preoccupied with his guests. Heed me, DeWitt. I don’t intend to repeat myself.”
Gavin watched the succession of pebbles sink, one by one, and resigned himself to exhibiting still more patience.
“Evenings like this are the embodiment of peace,” Rose said, mostly meaning it. “The crops are ripening, the lambs, calves, and foals have begun to grow up, and the very air feels benevolent.”
“You truly do prefer the country, don’t you?” Lady Phillip ambled along, arm in arm with Rose.
“I prefer the country in summer. Spring and autumn can be too busy, winter too bleak. Summer strikes me as a good balance of idle pleasures and industry. What of you? Do you have a preferred time of year?”
And what of Lord Phillip’s private chat with Gavin? His lordship hadn’t been rude, precisely, but he’d been determined on some pressing objective.
“I love the changing of the seasons,” Lady Phillip said. “Just when I am out of patience with summer’s heat or winter’s chill, along comes a change in the air. When all the bustling about in Town in spring has driven me barmy, a few weeks of Nunnsuch in its summer glory will restore my spirits. I gather Mr. DeWitt was something of a change of air for you?”
Not fair that her ladyship should be so astute, but then, she’d seen all the awkwardness at Nunnsuch, and she was a surpassingly intelligent female.
