Chapter Nine

F our days after Arabella accepted his proposal, George Kirkland walked into the vicarage at Norton Combe and drew a deep breath. The house smelled of lemon-scented furniture polish and something delicious baking in the oven. The familiar scents felt like a balm to his soul.

The upper housemaid, Mary, greeted him in the foyer. “Master George! Your parents will be quite surprised to see you.” The inflection in her voice turned it into an implicit question.

“I am sure they will, Mary. It’s been a week full of surprises.” George grinned as he imagined how the Kirkland elders must have reacted to his letter, assuming they’d already received it. It was possible that he’d beaten it home. “Are my parents at home?”

“Mrs. Kirkland is out paying sick calls,” Mary told him. “She should be back before dinner, though. Mr. Kirkland is in his study.”

“Right.” George handed Mary his hat and walking stick, then headed up the stairs to his father’s study.

The previous incumbent had used a room on the ground floor as his study and library, but Mr. Kirkland found the ground floor too noisy on a normal day. He had taken over one of the bedrooms on the first story, building bookshelves along the walls at his own expense. No one was allowed in the study without explicit permission from the vicar, who guarded his space as fiercely as a watchdog.

George tapped lightly at the study door, ready to retreat if his father was in the wrong mood. But he was again in luck, for the elder Mr. Kirkland called “Come in!” in a voice that was, if not welcoming, at least not forbidding.

“Hullo the Pater!” As usual, George found his father buried in scholarship. A stack of books sat on the left side of his writing table, and a mess of inked-up papers sprawled all over the right side. “Working on a sermon?”

His father sat up straight and pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “It’s a letter to the editor of the Derby Daily Mail ,” he explained. “A complaint about the local circulating library.”

“What’s wrong with the circulating library, then?” George leaned against one of the glass-fronted bookcases. The room contained only two chairs, one of which was occupied by his father. A box of old periodicals took up the other chair. He could have moved the box to sit down, but he had been seated in a carriage for two days, and he preferred to stand.

The look of pleased interest on his father’s face morphed into a scowl. “Circulating libraries promote nothing but the most frivolous of modern literature.”

Ah, that old complaint! His father had very old-fashioned views on the subject of novels. The Reverend Mr. Kirkland made allowances for religious tracts that used narrative to teach religious principles, but he had little tolerance for works of pure entertainment. George drew a deep breath, preparing to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters, but it was too late.

“For every one good book of information, there must be at least a dozen novels!” His father’s voice grew louder as he launched into a tirade that George had already heard many times before. “And not just any novels. The sickliest flights of fancy ever written! Half of them written by uneducated scribbling women, the other half by gentlemen who ought to know better.”

“Indeed?” George interrupted. “How terrible! It is a good thing the people of Derbyshire have you on hand to warn them of the danger, sir. By the way, did you get my letter—”

“I wish that you would write a good, scathing review of books like Clermont and Mysteries of Udolpho ,” Mr. Kirkland continued. “Young people continue to read such nonsense, though many volumes of better work have been published since then.”

“I’m afraid Gothic novels are not my line, Pater.” George used his most soothing voice. At least he could afford to be sincere about that. Though he’d written any number of things that his father would have disapproved of had he known about them, George had never tried to write a Gothic novel. “But you might like the essay I’m writing about Dr. Mesmer’s legacy.”

He hadn’t thought about that article for days, not since Uncle William’s fateful dinner party. Wasn’t it due in a few weeks? Or... his whole body stiffened, except for his heart, which pounded as if he had just galloped up a flight of stairs.

“I say, do you know what day today is?” Please let his calculations be wrong!

His father wrinkled his brow. “It is Thursday, the twentieth of June. The day before Midsummer. Why do you ask?”

A chill ran down George’s back. He had promised Robert Halsey that he’d hand him the essay no later than the twenty-fifth of June. But he had barely started it. All he had was a page of scribbled notes. Those notes—and all his research materials—were back in London. Damn. Halsey was a good sort, but the last time George turned in an article a few days late, the editor had very drily reminded George that that sort of thing just wouldn’t do when a man had a journal to get out on time.

The essay on Mesmer was going to be more than a few days late. George hoped to marry Belle next week, and he meant to take her to Bath to visit his uncle immediately after the wedding. How on earth was he going to finish the essay? He covered his mouth with his hand as he faced reality: he was not going to finish the essay. It would not get to Halsey in time to be published as scheduled. And he would probably never be asked to write an essay for The Current Review again. His heart sank. He’d liked working with Halsey.

“Is something wrong?” His father cocked his head to one side, clearly puzzled.

“Just remembered a task I have to do,” George replied. “It has nothing to do with our conversation. Very sorry to have lost focus.” He swallowed, trying to get the lump out of his throat. It does not matter , he told himself. If Uncle William gave him the cottage and the promised funds, George would no longer need to write essays about quack physicians in order to keep himself fed. If.

Perhaps, after all, George should have gone into the church, despite knowing he lacked the moral character for it. But would he have done any better at writing sermons? If he’d become a curate, he probably would’ve spent the rest of his life burning the candle at both ends every Saturday night while he tried to finish his sermon. Not for the first time, he wondered how other people managed to get their tasks done on time. Ahead of time, even!

“Anyway, Pater, enough about my writing.” He did not want to think about how colossally he’d messed up with regard to that essay. He’d dash a note off to Halsey with his most fervent apologies. Surely a man could be forgiven for such an error when he was about to be married? George would have been more sanguine about his chances of being forgiven if turning in an article past the promised time had been an aberration rather than his habit.

He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Did you get my last letter? Dated this Monday last?”

Mr. Kirkland’s face brightened. “Ah, yes! How could I have forgotten? Congratulations on your betrothal. Your mother and I are quite pleased to hear you are settling down.”

George’s shoulders relaxed. There had been no real reason for him to fear parental disapproval over this engagement since his parents had always liked Belle. Even so, he’d been a little anxious.

“What does Sir Michael say about it, though?” his father asked.

That put the tension right back into George’s spine. “I haven’t spoken to him yet,” he admitted. “Naturally, I wrote to him. We both did, Belle and me. But I came straight here when I got into town, and I haven’t called at the Hall yet.”

His father’s smile faded a little. “You had best do that without delay. Sir Michael may be displeased that you did not ask his permission before proposing. I am sure the Cannings were no more expecting this announcement than were your mother and I. Sir Michael will not want to be kept waiting.”

“I suppose not.” George glanced down at his travel-worn clothing. “But I think I’d better change my dress first.” And perhaps fortify himself with a cup or two of tea. He had no idea how Sir Michael would react to the news. Was it too much to hope that the baronet would be as pleased as the vicar was? He feared it might be.

George’s visit to Oliphant Hall was further delayed, not only because the cook insisted on serving him a slice of fresh-baked cake along with his tea, but because his mother returned home from her sick calls. Mrs. Kirkland collapsed onto the uncomfortable settee in the parlor and gratefully accepted a cup of tea.

“George, how on earth did you convince Arabella Canning to marry you?” she demanded. “I thought she meant to stay a spinster, given the way she’s rejected every other suitor.”

“Have there been many suitors, then?” George mumbled through a mouthful of cake.

“I should think so.” His mother brushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes and took a sip of tea. “I know that John Thurston was quite broken up when Arabella turned him down, some two or three years ago. And there have been other men who pursued her over the years. But she is so reserved, it’s hard for anyone to approach her. Some of the gentlemen find her standoffish.”

George followed his bite of cake with a gulp of strong, black tea. “There you are then,” he said cheerfully. “It isn’t at all hard for me to approach Belle since we have known each other all our lives. Hence, I succeeded where others failed.” In truth, he did not know why Belle had accepted him when she had turned down a man like John Thurston, who stood to inherit a comfortable manor and at least two thousand a year.

“Well, I wish you both all happiness in the world,” his mother said, “but you have not given us much warning. If you really intend to marry within the week, I had better talk to Lady Canning about the wedding breakfast. Have you spoken to the Cannings yet?”

George swallowed his last bite of cake so abruptly that he nearly choked. He had to pour himself another cup of tea to wash down the morsel. “That’s where I’m going next, after I change out of these clothes.” And, perhaps, after another cup of tea. He would need all his fortitude for this conversation.

Half an hour later, George sat in the least comfortable chair in the Blue Salon at Oliphant Hall, restlessly bouncing one foot up and down. The butler had ushered him into the room, blandly informing him that Sir Michael would see him as soon as he finished meeting with one of his tenants.

To George, the wait seemed interminable. He was astounded when he checked the clock and saw that he had only been in the room five minutes. It felt like a quarter of an hour. He got to his feet and paced back and forth, only to discover that the room was too small for pacing. He could cross from one side to another with just a few strides. Why couldn’t the butler have sent him to the drawing room? There would’ve been room for a man to move about there! He hardly had room to breathe here.

“Ah, Mr. Kirkland.” Sir Michael stepped into the room, wearing the country version of morning dress: buckskins, top boots, and a waistcoat that was serviceable rather than fashionable. “Thank you for waiting. Won’t you sit down?” He gestured toward a chair by the fire.

“Yes, thank you.” George did not want to sit down, but he could scarcely hold a conversation with his future father-in-law while walking back and forth across the room. He thought more clearly while moving, but he had long since learned that other people generally preferred to be stationary during their conversations.

The moment he sat down, his brain, which had been feverishly working out what he wanted to say, promptly quit working. In an attempt to gain time, he looked down at the floor, pretending to admire the handsome Axminster carpet.

“I like that rug. It’s new, isn’t it?” He wanted to put Sir Michael in a better frame of mind if he could, the current expression on the baronet’s face did not look promising.

Sir Michael looked at the rug, too, and frowned. “Not really. We must’ve had it for at least two years. But I suppose you have not visited during that time.”

George flinched at the hint of rebuke in Sir Michael’s voice. “It has been some time since I last visited,” he admitted. “I came home the Christmas before last, but you all were away.”

That year the Cannings had gone to a Christmas house party at some nobleman’s estate. At the time, it had not seemed to matter that Belle was away. Now he wondered what would have happened if he’d spent time with Belle before Uncle William announced his “race” to win the cottage. Would George have considered…?—But it was no good pondering what might have been.

“Indeed.” Sir Michael nodded, but his stiff posture did not relax in the slightest. “And last summer, you were home for a week, but did not even call on Belle, did you? Strange, since the two of you claim to be so attached to one another.” He stared at George until George dropped his gaze. Sir Michael’s blue eyes were an icy pale shade, nothing like the rich violet of Belle’s eyes.

Heat flooded George’s face, sweeping all the way to the tips of his ears. He’d hoped this would be a friendly meeting. He’d known that he might have to listen to boring details about settlements, but he had not come prepared to defend himself.

“When two people have known each other as long as Belle and I have, they can pick up the threads of friendship even after the passing of time.” He risked a quick glance at Sir Michael’s face, and inwardly cringed. Judging from the set of Sir Michael’s jaw, he did not like George’s use of a childhood nickname. Or maybe he did not like George.

“And yet,” the baronet said, “never, in all of that time, has my daughter mentioned any romantic attachment to you. On the contrary, when we asked her if there was any suitor she favored, she always told us that her heart was free. You can imagine my surprise when I learned that the two of you wished to be married so suddenly.” Sir Michael propped his chin up on his hand as he continued to fix George with his icy stare.

George swallowed, trying to reduce the uncomfortable dryness in his mouth. “I suppose our engagement was unexpected.” He could hardly deny that. Everyone who knew either George or Belle must be surprised at the news.

On the journey home, he’d toyed with the idea of claiming that he had long been in love with Belle, and only waited to propose until he had the means to support her. That would have made for a romantic, touching story. But he did not trust his own acting ability. Besides, as he knew from past experience, once one started to tell lies, the work of maintaining those lies grew heavier and heavier.

Instead, he stuck to the facts. “Belle and I will deal very well together.” Sir Michael’s face looked more thunderous than ever, so George hurried on before he could be interrupted. “Thanks to my Uncle Kirkland’s generosity, I can provide a comfortable life for her.”

“My daughter deserves more than a comfortable life,” Sir Michael argued. “She has been raised in the lap of luxury. And her definition of comfort may be quite different from yours, Mr. Kirkland. She is used to socializing with the best families, you know.” He looked George up and down, the scowl on his face suggesting that he found fault with everything about George’s appearance, from the scuffs on his boots, to the ink stains on his right hand, to the fact that his topcoat was out of date.

By this time, George’s nerves were making him jittery. He rested his hands on his knees to keep from tapping his foot. “I understand that I may not be the suitor you would have chosen for Arabella,” he acknowledged. “But she has chosen me. That is, she has accepted my offer of marriage. Don’t you think she should have what she wants?”

Sir Michael shook his head. “I simply do not see why she wants to marry you, Mr. Kirkland. She could have done so much better.”

George’s face flushed scarlet again, but this time, he forced himself to keep steadily meeting Sir Michael’s gaze. “Perhaps she felt more comfortable marrying an old friend than a suitor whom she’d only encountered at balls and parties. I imagine she knows me better than she did any of her other suitors.”

Sir Michael snorted. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one booted leg over another. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Kirkland. I will respect my daughter’s decision, even if I do not understand it. But I wish you could explain to me why the two of you must marry in such a hurry.”

George licked his lips nervously. He did not want to reveal all the details of Uncle William’s ridiculous challenge. That would not reflect well on the Kirkland family. But he was perfectly willing to let his uncle shoulder the blame for the hasty wedding. George would never have rushed into matrimony like this if not for his uncle.

“My uncle is in ill health.” Best not to admit that “ill health” meant “gout,” and that Uncle William hadn’t had a bout of the gout in years. “I believe he wants to make sure that he lives to see....” His voice trailed off as he realized that talking about the “next generation” of Kirklands might be a mistake. Sir Michael might not like being reminded that after the wedding, George would take Belle to bed.

Sir Michael raised one eyebrow. Since his eyebrows were thicker than George’s, the expression looked far more effective on his face. “Well? I am waiting to hear what your Uncle Kirkland’s ill health has to do with marrying my daughter.”

Fortunately, inspiration struck George in the nick of time, as it so often did. “My uncle wants to meet her. In fact, we plan to visit Bath immediately after the wedding.” He smiled hopefully. “You must know how it is when one has demanding relatives.”

He had written to Uncle William with the news of his betrothal, but he had not yet received an answer. How could he, given that he’d left Newton Park the day after posting the letter? But it would be very like his uncle to want proof that George was married, so he did plan on taking his new wife with him to Bath.

Besides, Belle would probably expect some sort of wedding tour. And, in any case, George had no home to which he could take her yet. He could certainly not expect her to live in his cluttered chambers in London! He had no idea how quickly they could move into Dogwood Cottage. All he had was a vague hope that spending a week or so in lodgings in Bath would give him a chance to work out their new living arrangements.

“I see.” Sir Michael narrowed his eyes. “Do you have some sort of expectations of this uncle of yours?”

“Yes,” George said baldly. “He is being quite supportive. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” Well, that wasn’t true. He did know what he would do. He would be back in London, working on that very boring article about Franz Mesmer. He might even have finished it on time, if not for the hasty wedding. “Have you any more questions for me?”

“I suppose not,” Sir Michael reluctantly concluded. “I can only say that I hope you and Belle know what you are about.”

A genuine grin split George’s face. “Belle is far more levelheaded than I am,” he confided. “You can trust her judgement, even if you don’t trust mine.”

The baronet shook his head, but a rueful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That is not exactly reassuring, young man. But I suppose Belle must know what she is doing.” He cleared his throat. “Now, as to the settlements, I am meeting with my solicitor this afternoon. He will likely call on you tomorrow. I certainly hope we can work things out to our mutual satisfaction.”

“I am sure we will,” George said quickly. Though, in fact, he had no idea how he could promise Belle set amounts of pin money, when he was not certain how much of an income he would have. If only there were time for him to meet with Uncle William before the wedding to talk over financial matters! But it could not be helped. He could only trust that everything would work out.

Everything would work out, wouldn’t it?