Chapter Eighteen

B elle did not particularly enjoy the dinner party. Mrs. Hargreaves and Mrs. Cawley spent most of the evening talking about their children. They tried to loop Belle into their conversation by catching her eye and smiling at her occasionally, but the topics they chose never allowed her an opportunity to join in.

Miss Cawley, the middle-aged aunt of the current landowner, seemed sweet, polite, and approachable. During dinner, Belle enjoyed listening to her stories of growing up in Lancashire. She would have been quite happy to sit beside Miss Cawley and listen to her soft, harmless chatter while they waited for the gentlemen to rejoin them. Unfortunately, Miss Cawley settled into a soft chair by the fire and promptly fell asleep.

I should have brought a book after all! Or a sketchbook. Or some kind of needlework. Embroidery did not interest her to the extent drawing did, but she enjoyed learning new patterns, or sometimes even designing them. It could be fun to work on objects that could be used by people she loved. For example, she intended to embroider George’s initials on a set of new handkerchiefs, since he seemed to lose handkerchiefs at an alarming rate. She’d left her book at home as she knew some people would think it rude to come prepared for reading, but she could certainly have brought her needlework with her.

Arabella glanced about the drawing room, hoping to find something with which to occupy herself. She would have settled for a lady’s periodical, which might have given her fashion plates to study or a story to read. But she saw no reading material of any kind in the room. Perhaps the Cawleys kept all their periodicals in the library.

With nothing to do, she stared into the fire and thought about what color she should use for George’s monogram. She had never asked him about the Kirkland family arms. Did the Kirkland family even have a coat of arms? George ought to have one, since he was quite clearly a gentleman. She should ask him about it sometime.

“Mrs. Kirkland?” The gentle prompt came from Mrs. Cawley.

Arabella’s heart skipped a beat at the sudden interruption. She snapped to attention, feeling vaguely guilty for having let her mind wander so far. “I’m very sorry. I’m afraid I was woolgathering. What did I miss?” She forced the corners of her mouth into a smile that she did not genuinely feel.

“Mrs. Hargreaves was wondering where you were from, and I told her that I thought you came from Derbyshire. Is that right?”

Arabella relaxed. A question that simple carried no threat. “Yes. I grew up near a little village called Norton Combe. So did George. My husband, I mean. Of course he wasn’t my husband while we were growing up.” She had to stop babbling! “The elder Mr. Kirkland—my husband’s father, I mean—is the vicar there.”

“Norton Combe, you say?” When Arabella nodded, Mrs. Hargreaves continued. “Do you by any chance know Lady Canning? I went to school with her, more years ago than I prefer to admit, when she was Miss Hallingstone and I was Miss Edwards.”

“You went to school with my mother?” Odd that her mother hadn’t said anything about having an old school friend near Pendleford! But it had to be her; Hallingstone was too rare a name for there to be any mistake.

Mrs. Hargreaves raised her eyebrows and exchanged a look with Mrs. Cawley, as if Arabella had said something significant.

“I am Sir Michael Canning’s eldest daughter,” Arabella added, in case she had been unclear. “My mother’s maiden name was Hallingstone.”

Mrs. Richardson leaned towards Arabella. “I am so glad to hear that. When Richardson and I heard that Dogwood Cottage was to be occupied by the nephew of a manufacturer, well, we were a little concerned.”

“Concerned?” Arabella wrinkled her forehead as she glanced at each of the three women. She sensed undercurrents here that she couldn’t quite fathom.

Mrs. Richardson nodded. “You see, the ladies of the parish want to improve the tone of local society. We thought perhaps your Mr. Kirkland had been raised in Preston, among the factories, so we were a little afraid that... well, that he wouldn’t quite understand our way of life. You know, out here in the country.”

“Oh no!” Arabella exclaimed, happy to be able to reassure them on that point. “George worked in London for a few years, but before that, he grew up in the country. In fact, the vicarage is closer to Oliphant Hall than to the rest of the village, so George and his sister played in our park as often as not...” She blushed when she realized she’d begun babbling again. These ladies had not asked for her life story!

But her answer seemed to please the other women, particularly the hostess of the party. “Precisely! A vicar’s son and the daughter of baronet must always be acceptable in good society.” Mrs. Cawley beamed, as if Arabella had done well in choosing to be born the daughter of a baronet rather than a tradesman.

Arabella’s whole body stiffened. “I see.” Her new neighbors were all relieved to find that she came from the same genteel background they did. What would the surgeon’s wife have thought if she were here? Mrs. Arkwright might have provided a different opinion, given that surgery was not considered as genteel as some professions. The wife of a physician could be presented at court; the wife of a surgeon could not.

Eager to change the subject, Arabella asked, “What is the local society like here? Are there assembly rooms in Pendleford?”

Mrs. Cawley wrinkled her nose. “I wish there were,” she confided. “The Dove and Rose has a room that used to be used as a ballroom, but the inn doesn’t have the proper facilities for large gatherings.”

“Inadequate withdrawing rooms,” Mrs. Hargreaves explained. “Perhaps the ladies of the previous century did not mind being forced into a little closet for necessary functions, but it would not do today!”

“Unfortunate,” Arabella murmured, though in fact she didn’t particularly mind. She enjoyed dancing, but had never been particularly good at it. When she did dance, she much preferred an informal hop where she already knew the other dancers. “Do you ever host balls here at the Lodge?” The drawing room certainly seemed large enough for a small party.

“Not formal ones,” Mrs. Cawley said. “But at our party last Christmas, we did roll up the rug and dance a few reels.” She looked about the room, catching the eyes of the other guests. “Now that there are more genteel families in the area, we might do that more often.”

“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Richardson proclaimed. “And far better than a public assembly, the company would be more select.”

Arabella bit her lips to hold back a sharp retort. A scrap of verse from the Bible popped into her mind, unbidden: “when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: And thou shalt be blessed...” The clergyman’s wife must have forgotten that passage. Or perhaps she did not interpret it literally.

By now, Arabella’s head ached from the dual strains of reading between lines of dialogue and holding back her genuine reactions. Instead of arguing about what constituted select society, she restricted herself to saying, “That sounds lovely.” After that, the conversation shifted, and she fell silent again.

The rest of the chat remained harmless, as it concerned Mrs. Cawley’s indecision about whether or not to try growing orange trees in the conservatory that had just been added to the Lodge.

But the damage had already been done, and Arabella’s headache grew worse over the remainer of the evening. By the time she and George departed Waterbury Lodge, she was content to lean back against the squabs of the carriage seat and rest in silence. George did not seem to mind. He, too, was in a brown study.

She left him to greet the overly enthusiastic puppy. Just how big was it going to get, anyway? She could not remember whether it was a bulldog or a mastiff. When George brought it home, she’d been so shocked that he got a dog without talking to her first that she neglected to ask questions about its breed, projected size, or training.

To be sure, this was George’s house rather than hers. He was the man of the family. But if George had asked her, she would have reminded him that she did not particularly want a dog in the house. Dogs were dirty and smelly and if they loved you, they got slobber and dog hair all over you. If they did not love you, they might hurt you. She doubted that so friendly a puppy would bite a family member, but it was always a possibility.

Now she wondered about the practicalities of the pet. Would it sleep in the house at night, or in a kennel? Was it housebroken? Would it bark every time a tradesman came to the kitchen door with a delivery? If she and George had children, could the dog be trusted with the children?

That last consideration stopped Arabella in her tracks. She rested a hand on her abdomen, wondering if she was with child yet. She ought to know soon enough, since her courses were due any day now. Either she would spend a day incapacitated with headache and cramping, or her life would change forever. How strange that those were her only options! Not for the first time, she thought there ought to be a better way of managing “women’s matters.”

As soon as she got to her bedchamber, Arabella rang for her lady’s maid. Then she stepped into the dressing room—now her own private studio—to begin the process of removing all the accoutrements necessary for dining out.

Jenny arrived to help her, smothering a yawn beneath one hand. “I hope you had a pleasant evening out, ma’am.” She unclasped Arabella’s necklace and returned it to its place in the jewelry box.

“Pleasant enough.” Had she been alone with Jenny, Arabella might have told her about the awkward moments and strange undercurrents in tonight’s conversations. She sometimes used Jenny as a sounding board when she feared she might have made some conversational misstep or other social faux pas .

But George had already followed her upstairs; she could hear him quietly singing to himself in the bedchamber. Rather unfortunate that he had so little sense of pitch, given how often he hummed or sang to himself!

Arabella would not have minded confiding some of her social struggles to her lady’s maid, but she did not want George to overhear any complaints about the evening’s entertainment. He seemed disposed to like the Cawleys. Though he had assured Arabella that he did not expect her to entertain lavishly, she knew he would want to return their neighbors’ generosity and have them to dinner.

Or could they get away with a card party after dinner? Arabella brightened as she considered the possibility. She liked card parties better than dinner parties. Card games provided both a common focus for conversation and, when needed, a reason to remain silent. Everyone understood that some players preferred not to chat during an intense game.

Besides, Arabella was quite good at vingt-et-un . She won more often at that game than at any other, having learned long ago to school her face so as to hide her true emotions. Whist was more of a challenge, but she might do well enough if partnered with George.

Once she’d donned one of her new, lace-trimmed night rails, Arabella dismissed Jenny. She drew a deep breath and went to face George, hoping he would not be in a chatty mood tonight. Her head still ached and she had rather not lie in bed talking, as they sometimes did.

She found George sitting in bed with his lap desk, a pencil in hand. He frantically scratched something into his notebook, so deep in his work that he did not look up when she climbed into bed.

Arabella watched him write, fascinated by the sight. She had sometimes seen him pull out his notebook to jot down an idea, but up until now, he had done all of his serious writing in his study. She had never seen him working in bed.

“What are you writing?”

He did not answer. His eyes kept following the line of writing as he scrawled whatever-it-was. She leaned over, hoping to catch a glimpse of his work, but he jerked the notebook away.

“Belle! Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to look over someone’s shoulder?” He smiled ruefully.

“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to ignore someone when they ask you a question?” She meant to make a joke of it, but hurt infused her voice. How could she not be curious about what he was working on if he sat right beside her, writing as if his life depended on it?

The slightly disgruntled look vanished from his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I just didn’t hear you say anything.”

Belle opened her mouth, intending to ask how it was possible for him not to hear her when she sat only inches away from him, but she thought better of it. Hadn’t he always been that way? Half the time he growled when anyone disturbed him, and the other half of the time, he was blithely unaware of what went on around him. That was just George.

Instead, she repeated her question. “What are you writing? Is it a book review or an essay?”

George closed the notebook with a snap and put it on his nightstand. Then he ran a hand through his hair. Why, Arabella wondered, did he seem so flustered?

“Nothing like that. I mean, nothing that I’m writing for a periodical. Just some ideas I wanted to jot down before I forgot. You know how forgetful I can be.” This time, his smile put a crinkle in the corners of his eyes. “I suppose I ought to stop writing and get some sleep, unless…?” He arched one eyebrow suggestively, and his gaze slid from Arabella’s face to her barely dressed body.

Heat rushed into her face and she averted her eyes. She idly tugged on a strand of her hair as she tried figure out how to explain that although she very much enjoyed lying with George, she needed time to recover from an evening in company. In the end, she fell back on an explanation that, although true, only addressed half the problem.

“I have a headache,” she reminded her husband, “so I would like to go straight to sleep tonight.”

“As you like. I forgot about your headache.” He leaned closer and brushed a kiss against her cheek. “If I read for a little bit longer, will my candle keep you awake?”

“No, of course not,” she assured him. A single bedside candle did little to dispel the darkness. “Good night, then.” She returned his kiss with one of her own, though she still felt shy making such overtures.

But after she had turned on her side and closed her eyes, the scratch-scratch of pencil on paper resumed. Rather than reading, George had gone back to writing. What was he working on, that he had to keep it secret? The question might have kept Arabella awake if it had not been such a long, exhausting day.