Flirtation & Folly Page 5

  Captain Pulteney’s banter was ideal—light, clever, worshipful. At this, Marianne wished with all her heart for a witty remark. “I wish you had defended me from the curry. It quite burned my tongue.”

  The captain seemed to take her awkwardness as wit. “Penance, for not using it to better effect with the talkative vicar and the silent apothecary. What dinner companions! Poor Miss Mowbrey. I had hoped for better positioning for you—or perhaps I should say, I had hoped for better for myself.”

  Marianne blushed, taking his compliment. She chatted with Captain Pulteney until her liveliness resumed and she felt nearly confident. His gentle flirting awakened both her intellect and her pride, and by the end of the conversation, she felt almost like one of the heroines she aspired to be. The annoyed look on Sir William’s face gave her a momentary pang, but she soon smoothed her feelings into submission. Sir William cannot really expect me to flirt with him all the time, or to mean anything serious. Why, he is an old man! And Captain Pulteney truly seems to like me. When the captain moved on to mingle with others, she re-seated herself by the Stokes sisters with a queenly air.

  “Why, what a favourite you have acquired, Miss Mowbrey! I can see you are all flushed with triumph,” Miss Emily said sweetly.

  Marianne smiled. “I do not know what you mean.”

  “He will ruminate over your kindness for days, no doubt. I could tell he was quite enchanted with you.”

  Elated, Marianne struggled to conduct herself with decorum. “No one could be enchanted with me, I assure you.”

  “You give yourself too little credit,” Miss Stokes said.

  “Indeed,” Miss Emily said, “you do not know the weight of your own charms. It is clear that Mr Glass will think of no one else for ever after.”

  “Mr Glass?” A sick feeling dropped into Marianne’s stomach.

  “Why, who else? Really, you are quite condescending, Miss Mowbrey. I would never have dared tarnish my reputation by descending in such a way, but I daresay a lady of indisputable elegance may have her fancies. I hope you do not mean to keep him in suspense as to your feelings.” Miss Emily giggled.

  “Now I know that you are teasing me. I barely spoke to him.” Marianne flushed with annoyance, but she could not tell if she was annoyed with Miss Emily for her teasing, Mr Glass for subjecting her to it, or herself for not handling it more gracefully. “Besides, he is probably twenty years older than I am.”

  “Behold the power of rank!” Miss Emily laughed. “If Mr Glass were a lord, or even a knight like Sir William, no one would say he was too old to marry you. He would then have to be ancient indeed for anyone to think of it as an objection. But perhaps Miss Mowbrey finds charms in lowlier ranks, like that of an apothecary. They may have their own appeal for a woman brought up in the country.”

  At this moment, the vicar joined them, delicately holding aloft his cup and smiling down on them like an angelic apparition. “May I join you, ladies? What sort of lively conversation are you having?”

  “Mr Anscombe.” Marianne seized upon him as her deliverance. “I was very foolishly arguing that rank is everything, and Miss Emily was, quite rightly, pointing out that Christ selected his companions from the lowest orders. I do not think she knows the strength of her own arguments, however. Perhaps you would be so good as to instruct her in your own opinion?” She smiled and rose, curtseying briefly before abandoning the two sisters to the vicar’s earnest explanation.

  There is probably some special punishment designed by Providence for a woman who lies to a vicar, and then uses him to revenge herself upon others. Right now the punishment that loomed most in her mind was the likely withdrawal of the invitation to Bond Street the Miss Stokeses had spoken of earlier. Why had she let her temper get the better of her? Or rather, why had not she the presence of mind to deflect their teasing in a more dignified fashion? She could forgive herself for being annoyed, but losing countenance in front of two stylish young ladies seemed intolerable.

  Marianne sought Captain Pulteney, hoping his charm and agreeableness could soothe her, but he was already engaged in conversation with her uncle. Her aunts were still chatting companionably, this time with the addition of Mrs Stokes, a stately, well-coiffed woman sleek with silk. Marianne considered joining them until she realised their topic was the brilliance of Mrs Stokes’s two daughters. She sank down onto a curved-back mahogany chair and tried to collect herself. It took her a moment to realise that the chair nearby was occupied.

  “I do not suppose you would care to play piquet, Miss Mowbrey?” the inhabitant of the chair said. “Here I am come for a card party, and no one is playing at all.”

  Marianne recovered quickly enough from being startled to examine the man seated near her. She vaguely remembered being introduced to him before dinner—a tall, black-haired man in a conventional dark blue coat. His face was tanned like a sailor rather than the proper paleness of Captain Pulteney, and his nose was too long; but in overlooking those two points, Marianne could detect a handsomeness and gentility that surprised her. He looked to be over thirty, but he appeared more muscular and of stronger constitution than most younger men she knew. She wished she could remember his name.

  “I have lost all hope of whist,” he said. “Piquet would not be too great a sacrifice for you, would it, Miss Mowbrey?”

  Marianne liked his tone. He seemed slightly impatient with the disappointment of his expectations, but amused nonetheless. His voice was deeper than she expected, a pleasant rumble that soothed at the outside of her awareness. There was the barest hint of an Irish lilt to it. “I would be happy to play.ˮ

  “That is good-natured of you.ˮ He had the cards ready, and it took only a moment for him to deal. His hands were surprisingly rough and calloused. They reminded Marianne more of the farmers who paid tithes to her father than the curates and neighbouring gentry. As she reviewed her cards, she peeked out from behind them to study the man’s face. No feature of it served to dredge up any memory of his name.

  “It is Hearn.ˮ

  Apparently, Marianne was going to be startled often this night. “What?”

  “My name is Robert Hearn.ˮ

  She blushed. “How could you tell?”

  He shrugged and rearranged his cards. “Because you had that muddled look all ladies get when they first come out, except…ˮ

  Now it was her turn to read his mind. “Except that I am a good deal older than that. It’s true, I came out several years ago, but I have not seen much of society.ˮ She could hardly tell him her real age, and hoped her face would not betray how much his words stung. She played a card, and he quickly met it with his own.

  “Why is that?” he prodded.

  “I lived in the country, in a little town called Wrumpton. My father is the rector. There is not a great deal of society there, and I often must take care of my younger siblings rather than go to parties.ˮ Marianne studied her cards. She did not say that her parents were injudicious in spending and could not afford a governess, nor that her little brothers were a bit wild, nor that she begrudged the whole experience of taming them, but she felt that Mr Hearn guessed a great deal of it.

  “I am not much used to society, myself. Not English society, anyway.” His dark brows furrowed as he considered his cards. When Marianne played hers, the brows drew even further together, but once he played his own card they relaxed. “I am lately returned from India.ˮ

  “Are you a soldier, then, like Captain Pulteney?”

  Mr Hearn laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh, but one of disdain. “No.ˮ

  Marianne’s curiosity perked up. “Is it so strange, to think of yourself as a soldier?”

  “Not at all. I assist the civil service and the military in ensuring a smooth supply train for the soldiers stationed in India. I must coordinate with the government in all its vagaries and the army in all its noisy demands. All this, and I must protect the convoys of supplies from scheming cutthroat merchants looking to create monopolies, angry natives resenting oc
cupation, and the odd bandit group that decides to help itself. This is not so different from a life of warfare.ˮ

  “Then why did you laugh?”

  “You said Captain Pulteney is a soldier.ˮ He smiled down at his hand, and again his disdain was clear.

  Marianne found herself resenting his insinuation. “He is a soldier,” she said, her tone insistant.

  “He is in the army, if that’s what you mean.ˮ

  “And does that not make him a soldier? He has fought in Spain and Portugal.ˮ

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Did he tell you that, Miss Mowbrey?”

  “Yes, at church.ˮ She took a moment to consider. “That is, he did not say so, exactly, but I asked him if he fought, and he did not deny it. Do you mean to say he has not?”

  “He has not fought anywhere. Very honourable of him, merely to deceive in church rather than lie outright,” he said, irony tinging his words. “He is very good at marching about and wearing regimentals, I grant him. Real combat is something different.ˮ His voice grew testy, as if irritated with her. “But never mind Captain Pulteney, Miss Mowbrey. I daresay you do not care a fig for him. You might tell me more about where you are from instead.ˮ

  “Wrumpton is very dull, I assure you.ˮ She was glad to change the subject, feeling sure that he was injuring Captain Pulteney with his insinuations. “I like London much better.ˮ

  “London? It is nothing to Ireland.ˮ For the first time, something gentle passed through Mr Hearn’s expression. The lines around his eyes softened and he looked wistful.

  “You are from there, I believe.ˮ

  The lines hardened again. “I suppose the gossips have declared all my faults to you beforehand, Miss Mowbrey. Yes, I am from Ireland. My mother was English, and I went to English schools, but my father was Irish and I spent my early years there.ˮ He remembered his cards and snapped one onto the table.

  “No one told me you were Irish,” Marianne said. “I thought I heard it in your voice.ˮ She was about to add that they had had an Irish maid-of-all-work once to explain how she knew, but then realised that was probably what upset him. For most, the Irish were a lesser class of being, fit only for washing floors, squeezing laundry, or hoeing potatoes. Even the aristocracy in Ireland was looked down upon in England.

  Mr Hearn seemed mollified by what she said. “Public school nearly removed the accent altogether.” He drew a card. “My mother wished me to spend as much time in England as a youth as possible. Once I began school as a boy, I hardly ever went back home. I did not go back for any extended time until my mother passed away, just after I came of age. I think a little of the accent came back then.ˮ

  “It is very pretty,” she said.

  “I think so, too.ˮ They played another hand, this time in silence. Marianne could hear the rise and fall of conversations around her—the light-hearted laugh of Captain Pulteney telling stories to the Stokes sisters, the gentle tones of Aunt Cartwright bubbling up into the occasional dramatic speech before wasting away again, the chipper and earnest pleasantries of Uncle Cartwright to each guest as he moved from place to place. The sounds soothed her, or perhaps it was the soft slap of the cards on the tiny table next to her that did so. Or perhaps it was Mr Hearn, content to be quiet in the midst of society.

  At least, content for a moment. “I do wish that Miss Stokes would stop twisting about,” Mr Hearn said shortly, dropping a card onto the table as if it disgusted him. “She keeps turning her head to languish at me.ˮ

  The rudeness startled Marianne. “I am sure she does not.ˮ

  “If you were a gentleman fresh from India, you would see that she does.ˮ His tone was droll, but Marianne found it offensive.

  “I think she is very elegant. She and her sister both.ˮ

  “Why? Because they are rich?” He sounded amused, and a little self-preening, as if he had figured her out.

  “Not at all. I find them elegant because of the style of their dress, the cultured manner in which they speakˮ—she shot a pointed look his way—“and the graceful way in which they move.ˮ

  He made a short noise of contempt. “I see you’ve picked up a superficial notion of what it means to be a lady, Miss Mowbrey.ˮ

  “You are not going to say the Miss Stokeses are unladylike,” Marianne said, her brows drawing down. Although she could not say the two girls had been particularly friendly to her, who could doubt they were the epitome of ladies?

  Apparently if Mr Hearn doubted it, he was willing to keep it to himself for the moment. “No, I’ll not say that. I only wish Miss Stokes would not—oh, now who can say wishes never come true? She has turned her languishing on Captain Pulteney. I am safe. Perhaps she heard my fortune is not great enough to compete with the glamour of a captaincy.ˮ

  “You are insulting my—ˮ She supposed she could not really call Miss Stokes her friend, however much she wished to be accepted as such in their circle. “You are insulting a very nice young lady.ˮ The conversation was too awkward for Marianne to feel she was doing anyone any justice, neither to Miss Stokes nor herself. Her cheeks heated. The sight of Aunt Harriet grimacing at her from across the room flamed her cheeks further, but at least it gave her an excuse to end the conversation.

  “I think my aunt wishes to speak with me,” Marianne said, hastily putting down the cards splayed in her hand. They slid across the table, and Mr Hearn retrieved the strays with a politeness that signalled a desire to make amends.

  “We will finish another time, then,” he said. “I will go see what has Mr Glass so excited at the window.ˮ

  Marianne glanced at the apothecary and back again. “He is happy because he can tell it is snowing.”

  Mr Hearn’s eyes took on that same gentle look she had seen when he spoke of Ireland. “You have spoken with him? That was kind. Not many of the guests here give him so much as a glance.ˮ He smiled at her, and the smile gave a sudden, warm tilt to her world, much as she wished she could be indifferent to it. Marianne felt she ought to admit that she had not sought Mr Glass’s conversation—indeed, she had avoided it as much as politeness permitted—but somehow, with Mr Hearn smiling at her, she could not own the truth. She said nothing, and Mr Hearn ceded his chair to Aunt Harriet as he left.

  Her aunt dove into her grievance at once. “Foolish girl!” Aunt Harriet kept her voice quiet, but Marianne feared the Miss Stokeses would overhear. Miss Stokes’s ever-roaming eyes were already flitting over her. “What on earth did you say to the vicar? I hope you have not been foolishly repeating myˮ—she hesitated for a good way to describe the innumerable petty faults she detected in every sermon—“gentle critiques.ˮ

  Marianne could not suppress a smile. “Not at all, Aunt. I made a little joke about Christ seeking out those without rank, or some such nonsense. Perhaps he took me more seriously than I intended him to.ˮ

  “Thank heaven that is all! But you must be more cautious, Marianne. How will you get married if you acquire a reputation for impiety?”

  Marianne wished she had not spoken such words aloud. Suppose the Stokes sisters heard her aunt proclaiming Marianne wished to be married! It was not the sort of thing one declared, however obvious it might be. Marianne hoped Captain Pulteney was entertaining the Stokes too well for them to pay any attention. “I will be careful. Pray mention it no more.ˮ

  “Mention it no more? Do not tell me what to mention, Marianne. It is thanks to me you have a Season at all, and a little more circumspection and gratitude would not be amiss.ˮ

  “I am sorry. You are right.ˮ Perhaps if she agreed wholeheartedly and quickly, the set-down would be over sooner. Marianne could spy Miss Emily giggling behind her hand. Miss Stokes wore a serene smile, but her eyes danced with merriment. Marianne began to wish she was anywhere but there. “Perhaps we may return home soon?”

  “I shall ask Frank to have the carriage sent ’round,” her aunt said.

  As soon as Aunt Harriet was gone, Miss Stokes and Miss Emily rose and approached. Marianne braced herself.

  “I supp
ose you are leaving, Miss Mowbrey? What a pity,” Miss Emily said. Her earrings danced, little stars laughing under her ears as she tilted her head. “It is early, but I daresay you are tired. City hours are new to you. You must rest up and be ready to go shopping with us. Mama says we may go Wednesday.ˮ

  Hope lit up Marianne’s countenance. Here was consolation for a fairly miserable evening—the fashionable Stokes sisters were not going to withdraw their invitation after all. “How delightful! Thank you, Miss Emily. Miss Stokes.ˮ Miss Stokes gave a nod in return. “I was afraid you might not—that is, after Mr Anscombe—ˮ

  Miss Stokes looked one way and Miss Emily another, but Marianne had the impression the sisters were sharing amusement nonetheless. “Oh, you thought we might take your joke badly,” Miss Emily said, crossing her long arms in front of her. “Not at all! We love a joke, do we not, Augusta?” After her sister’s nod, she continued. “We could see we had vexed you with our teasing. Country ladies wear their hearts on their sleeves. We must get you some of the polish of London on that heart of yours, Miss Mowbrey, and then you will find you take things smoother.ˮ

  They suggested arrangements for Wednesday, and then the two sisters sauntered off to sit at the larger card-table with Mrs Cartwright. It looked like Mr Hearn’s whist game might materialise after all.

  “May I help you to your carriage, Miss Mowbrey?” Captain Pulteney appeared at her elbow. The gold epaulettes at his shoulders caught the candlelight. They looked as dashing as ever, but Marianne felt a moment’s unease. She was determined to root it out while she had the chance. Accepting his arm, she walked with him to the foyer. Finding it empty, she seized her chance.

  “Captain Pulteney, is it true that you have never been to Spain? Or Portugal? Never seen combat at all?”

  Captain Pulteney laughed. “What questions, Miss Mowbrey!” He must have seen something in her face that showed distrust of his hedges, because suddenly his face smoothed into seriousness. “I have not, Miss Mowbrey. To tell the truth, I was an officer in a local militia in Hertfordshire not long ago, but then I sold my commission and came to London in hopes of a better place. With the interest of a friend, I was received into a regiment here just this week. In neither case have I seen combat.ˮ