14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

G regory was deep within his estate ledger books, running his finger over columns of sums and notations of ploughed acres, when there came a knock on the library door. He sighed, perturbed at the interruption. Nonetheless, he put aside his quill and stoppered up the bottle of ink with which he was making notations.

"Come," he commanded, his voice carrying loudly through the quiet.

Timidly, as if sensing his master's displeasure, James—Jimmy, to those below stairs—the footman poked his curly red head into the library. The colonel frowned; James was without the powdered wig that was considered an essential part of the footman's livery. He glanced at the clock above the mantle and noted that it was the hour during which the servants typically ate their luncheon.

"Begging your pardon, Sir," James said, stepping more fully into the library. Despite his obvious trepidation, he appeared to be fighting to maintain a servant's blank expression. He bore a small silver tray on the tips of his fingers of one hand; on this tray, a small letter was laid. "This has just ah...been delivered," James said, coming forward to offer the tray to the colonel.

Gregory only continued to frown, eyeing both the footman and the letter suspiciously. He lifted the letter, and expecting James to withdraw, grunted a little at him. "I suspect you are awaiting an answer of some sort, then?" The footman, to the colonel's consternation, merely offered up a cheeky little grin.

Continuing to eye James from the corner of his eye, Gregory withdrew his silver letter opener from a drawer of his desk. Easily, he sliced past the little wax wafer seal, noting that it was store-bought and not signed with a signet or proper seal. He unfolded the letter, and a card fell out—an invitation, upon closer inspection.

He lifted it up, reading aloud, " The pleasure of your company is requested at tea today, hosted by Miss Hillmot, Miss Eliza Hillmot, and Miss Sophia Hillmot. The tea will be laid at precisely one o'clock in the sitting room. " The colonel stopped reading, flicking a glance to the waiting footman. "So I see you've been roped into Miss Heart's schemes as well, then," he stated flatly.

"The young misses needed their invitation delivered," James offered by way of excuse.

The colonel considered, sighed, then rose from his chair. "You may inform them that I am happy to attend," he said at last in a tone that indicated he was anything but. With the air of one who is about to attend an execution—possibly their own—Gregory lifted his dark blue jacket from the back of the chair and slid his arms into it.

James, still stifling a bemused look, bowed and scurried off to relay the colonel's message. Gregory watched him go, heaving another sigh. Though he had been the one to issue the demand for a demonstration of the girls' progress, he could not help but feel a certain sense of dread; the last time he had been thusly summoned had not gone particularly well.

Still, he gamely made his way down the hall to the sitting room. James was duly stationed outside the door, awaiting his arrival. The footman must have done some hasty trotting to have delivered the colonel's acceptance and then to be waiting for him. Indeed, upon closer inspection, it was clear that the poor young man was panting beneath his stately livery.

"Shall I announce you, Sir?" James asked, huffing and puffing as discreetly as possible.

Gregory only gave him a dour look, which James correctly interpreted as affirmation. With one hand, James opened the door to the sitting room, and stepping through, announced the colonel to the room at large. With a bow, James made way for Gregory to enter the sitting room.

"I hope that I am—" Gregory began, but stopped. He knew logically that he had entered the sitting room, but what he saw did not match with what he expected. The shutters and drapes had been thrown open, letting in the spring sunshine. The effect was to lighten the whole room, not just in lack of shadow, but colour as well; the dark blue striped wall coverings were not so oppressively gloomy in the sunlight.

The sitting room had been designated long ago as a room in which Gregory might receive guests and entertain. It lacked the feminine flair that a drawing room did, but one would not entirely know it by looking at it on this day. Though the décor was the same, with the racks of antlers and other hunting trophies still hung proudly on the walls, the heavy wood tables had been covered with lace doilies and tablecloths. A few embroidered cushions had been added to the sofa and the chairs angled before the fireplace. There were vases of little bouquets of flowers on every available surface, violets and lilacs and dandelions even.

A small tea table had been set up behind the sofa, positioned directly betwixt two windows so that sunlight fell in great squares on either side of the table. On this table had been laid a selection of finger sandwiches and some fairy cakes topped with butter frosting. To the side of the table, nearest the sofa, was a smaller table with a complete tea service on it.

So surprised was Gregory by this transformation that at first, he did not even register that his daughters were arrayed in a staggered line near the table. They had eschewed their pinafores and braids, Eliza and Sophia in their smock-dresses only. They had tied wide ribbons high about their waists—green for Eliza, and blue for Sophia—with their hair curled and tied back with matching ribbons.

It was Florence that Gregory's eye caught on, however. She, too, had dispensed with her girls' pinafore, and stood before him in a long white muslin dress. Her hair was not put up, but the hem went down to her ankles, rather than the mid-calf that was typical for girls. She waited with hands folded demurely at her waist, her face placid.

"Hello, Father," she said clearly, in a voice that belied her transition from girl to woman. "It is very good of you to join us—won't you please be seated?"

Wordlessly, Gregory complied, selecting a chair at the table. He waited for the girls to likewise assemble around the table, then looked about. "It seems we are missing one of our number; will Miss Heart be joining us?"

"She will," a voice answered from behind him.

Miss Heart had apparently entered behind him, and had not wanted to interrupt his first impression. Gregory glanced back, fully intending to give her a sour look for her tardiness, as the clock showed a few minutes after one now, but his eyes were arrested and he stared boldly at her.

She had shed her usual drab, grey-brown governess' dress for a linen one in darkest red. Her high-necked chemisette was gone as well, replaced with a delicate gauzy fichu tucked into the neckline of her dress, covering her collarbones. She was without ornament, save a pair of amber earbobs and a matching necklace of rough-hewn little amber stones. All told, she was still dressed rather simply and modestly, but it was not just her manner of dress that had caught Gregory's eye.

Miss Heart had a peculiar mode of walking, in which she did not stride so much as glide; there was a mercurial quality to her economy of movement, like a cat stalking a mouse, and she viewed the whole world as if it squeaked and scampered before her. Gregory had never had particular reason to note this before, as she had presented herself as something of an amorphous entity—a feminine face plonked atop a governess' form. Now, however, there was no denying that she was not only a woman, but very much a young and attractive one.

"Please forgive my late arrival," she said in a dark-honey voice. "It occurred to me that if the girls were going to the trouble of dressing for our honoured guest, then manners dictated that I do the same."

The mention of manners had Gregory scrambling up from his seat, as was only proper. He resisted the urge to wince when his chair scraped backward against the wooden floor. Instead, he lifted his chin proudly and waited for Beatrice to take her seat, which she did with an easy smile. This only served to ratchet up Gregory's irritation; it was as if she was completely insensible to the distress she was causing him.

"I must say, Florence, you have laid quite a lovely table today," Miss Heart continued, turning her smile onto the oldest daughter, who coloured lightly in response.

"Thank you, Miss Heart," Florence answered dutifully, "though I cannot take full credit for it. It was Eliza and Sophia who saw to the lovely flower arrangements."

"You are too kind," Eliza replied, "but it was really no trouble at all; the weather has been so lovely, it was a joy to gather them." She paused, then turned to Sophia. "Sophia, you are also looking...lovely today."

The youngest Hillmot beamed until Florence pointedly cleared her throat. Blinking in a startled manner, she stared at Florence, who tilted her head toward their father. "Oh! Right—Father, we are very pleased you could join us today on this...uh, this lovely afternoon."

Gregory, still reeling a little from Miss Heart's entrance and appearance, gave everyone around the table a measured look. "Yes, I believe we have established that there is much that is lovely today," he said dryly. "The flowers, company, and table are all lovely. I am glad to see that you have all learned your lines so well."

Miss Heart shot him such a withering look that he suspected that she would have kicked him beneath the table if she had been able. In spite of his misgivings, he could not help but feel a little guilty, and also, if he were to be completely honest, a little satisfied that he had rankled Miss Heart.

"Perhaps the colonel will be more agreeable with some tea," Miss Heart suggested with a last baleful glance at him.

Florence, her eye darting back and forth between them, turned her attention to the teapot, and busied herself pouring for everyone. There was a silence then, as little hands selected little morsels of food. There was a great effort on the part of the Hillmot daughters to eat with real delicacy.

At least they are not fighting over the cakes, Gregory thought grudgingly. Even if it was an elaborate performance being staged, it was a charming display; if nothing else, it showed that they were capable of behaving in a civilised manner.

"Might I inquire how your day has been, Father?" Florence asked suddenly, but softly.

"Well enough, thank you," Gregory answered stiffly and automatically. Miss Heart gave the colonel another despairing glance over the rim of her teacup, all green cat's eyes. "I have been attending to matters of the estate," he said, without really elaborating. "It is nothing to concern young girls about."

"We've been exploring the grounds and estate a bit more these past days, have we not?" Miss Heart asked the table, which was met with a general round of nodding.

"And how have you found it, Miss Heart?" Gregory asked after a significant lull in the conversation.

"I confess that the charms of country life had been somewhat lost on me until my arrival here," she replied easily. "I have never been one for country lanes and muddy pastures. However, even I must admit that there are quite a number of lovely vistas about the estate," she continued, quirking one eyebrow at the colonel. "In fact, I believe we found a spot that the girls would do well to capture in watercolours. It's just to the southeast, on that little hillock facing the rear of the house?"

Gregory nodded; he knew it well. It was a particular favourite place of his on his walks. "So you intend to instruct them in painting, then?"

Miss Heart laughed, full and throaty. "Oh goodness, no! I don't know the first thing about painting, or sketching even. I suspect that they shall be able to teach me a thing or two, in fact."

Gregory could feel his brow furrowing at such an illogical course of action. He was unclear how on Earth that would possibly benefit his daughters' education, and was fully prepared to say so, when Florence broke in.

"I sometimes think we—I—ought to take a more practical interest in the estate."

"I've long thought we might do more to understand the native flora and fauna," Eliza agreed. "Or at the least, to see where we might help the farmers incorporate some of the newer agricultural innovations."

"Not only that," Florence continued, "but their health and well-being. The tenants are our responsibility, after all," she said, surprisingly thoughtful and serious.

"Now, I know that there is a fashion about for young ladies to take on charitable duties. However, I will not have you foisting yourself on some poor unfortunate simply because it is the Done Thing," Gregory said firmly.

"Why not? Is charity not preached from the pulpit every Sunday?" Florence countered. "Besides, it is the duties of the lady of the manor to look after the tenants."

"You are not the lady of the manor," Gregory fired back. "Nor are you a lady—you are still a girl in the nursery."

"And whom precisely is to blame for that?" Florence retorted, her tone biting.

Gregory stared at Florence for a moment, trying to keep his anger reined in. "That is not a matter to be discussed at tea," he grated out, slowly.

"I see," Florence replied, setting her own teacup down and fixing Gregory with an unflinching stare. "And when, precisely, is the matter to be discussed?"

"Florence," Miss Heart said quietly, a warning under her breath.

"No," Florence said, folding her arms over her chest as was her habit when feeling defiant. "Father said that it was not to be discussed over tea, which implies that there is a time it should be discussed. Ergo, I am simply requesting to know when that might be."

"Florence—" Gregory said, his voice rising.

"She does have a point, Father," Eliza butted in, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. "From a purely logical standpoint, it does stand to reason that—"

"Eliza, I'm not sure how much that is helping," Miss Heart murmured, reaching over to place a hand on the girl's restless hands.

"I thought we were meant to help the sick and the poor?" Sophia asked, her dark eyes darting back and forth between everyone around the table.

"So we are," Gregory said, struggling to find the means of wresting back control of the conversation.

"Mother would have understood."

Though the statement was quietly said, it landed like a cannonball in the midst of the conversation. Florence's face showed some degree of panic after she said it, but she continued to stare unflinchingly at the colonel. Those four words attached themselves to Gregory's heart like iron bands, squeezing and weighing him down all at once.

"Did Mother care for our tenants very much?" Sophia asked, her thin little voice slicing through the silence.

"Yes, she did," Florence answered without taking her eyes from the colonel, who was frozen, rooted in place by the sudden stab of grief. "She had room in her heart for everyone, and cared very much for their wishes."

"Then shouldn't we try to be like her?" Sophia asked, all innocence and child-like simplicity.

Slowly, as if he were in a dream, Gregory turned to look at Sophia. She gazed back at him with round, dark eyes like a fawn's, her face still redolent with the roundness of childhood. As Gregory stared at her, though, all that he could see for the moment was his late wife's face; they shared the same large brown eyes, the dark hair that tended to wave rather than curl. They even had the same smattering of freckles across their nose and cheeks, like someone had tossed a handful of cinnamon at them.

Abruptly, Gregory stood so suddenly that he ran into the table, rattling the spoons and dishes. Vaguely, he was aware that everyone was staring at him, as if he were the one that had committed some sort of egregious faux pas.

"This tea is over," he heard his mouth say in the hard and flinty tones usually reserved for his regiment.

"But Father, there's still a half-dozen cakes, and—" Sophia began to protest.

"I said, it is concluded !" he said with far more volume and vinegar than he had intended.

"Colonel!" Miss Heart gasped, her face outraged. He saw her put her arm about Sophia's little shoulders, which were curled inward under the weight of sadness. In that moment, Gregory could not decide which was more unbearable: the daughter that wore his departed wife's face, or the woman whom he had been attracted to just moments before. To even look in her flashing green eyes now seemed a betrayal, never mind his being beguiled.

Still in that same strange, dream-like state, Gregory turned on his heel, his eyes not really seeing where he was going. It had been a long while since his grief had been this sharp and all-consuming; his body was tense and trembling with the pain of it. Quickly, before he could be waylaid by anything further, Gregory turned and fled the sitting room, back to the quiet, tomb-like peace of his library.