Chapter Eight

Briggs

“Do you think my blue coat is suitable?” Westley fidgets in the mirror, adjusting his collar, buttoning and unbuttoning, leaning to one side then the other. Lord, I just want something to eat.

“I don’t think any coat is appropriate in this infernal heat,” I mutter.

“Briggs, please,” says Westley, turning. “Focus.”

I rest one foot across the opposite knee and lean back in the brocade chair in the corner of the drawing room of Mistlethrush Hall. I’ve been ready for exactly half an hour: at the time that Westley told me we should depart for the picnic Miss Barlow has planned for all of us. And I’ve sat here ever since. I focus on the scrolling details of the ceiling.

“So which one?” Westley demands.

“Of what?”

“Coat, Briggs! Please, pay some attention to me, would you?” He continues his study of himself in the mirror and then finally asks, “Do you think Miss Rowley’s other cousin, Mr. Browning, will be joining us?”

“Probably,” I reply. “I don’t believe he’s returned home yet. Why? Afraid he might be wearing the same color as you?”

Westley rolls his eyes.

I run my hands down my face, groaning. Then I turn to my little brother, who has theoretically been in the room, but his nose is buried in a book. “What do you think, August?”

“About what?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the page. I think he’s reading about insects. Ants, specifically.

“Which coat should Westley wear? The green one or the blue one?”

“Don’t care,” says August. He flips the page.

Westley turns back to his mirror. “I think the green one, don’t you?”

The green one makes him look like a peacock. Which is appropriate. “Yes, the green one.”

“Are you just saying that to appease me?” He doesn’t turn from the mirror and rakes his fingers through his messy blond hair.

“Yes, I am.”

“All right.” He sheds the green coat and slips back into the blue one. “Let’s go.”

“Brilliant.” I practically leap out of my seat, stride across the drawing room and down the hall to the main foyer, give my mother a peck on the cheek before we get to the door, and then mount my horse, which waits for me in the drive.

“August!” I call from atop Apollo.

My brother reluctantly appears in the doorway of Mistlethrush, practically dragging his feet. “I don’t want to go on a picnic,” he says. “It’s too hot, and I’m right at the exciting part of my book.”

I arch a brow. “The book about ants?”

He scowls. “Yes, the book about ants, and I don’t appreciate your tone, Briggs.”

“It’s one afternoon, August. Miss Barlow is expecting us.”

“And we must all fawn over and appease Miss Barlow,” he mutters as he strokes his horse’s neck. Then he’s suddenly struck by something. “Or perhaps it isn’t Miss Barlow at all.”

Here we go.

“Perhaps Miss Rowley is expecting us, and despite your most adamant protests, it’s she who you can’t bear to disappoint.”

“Get on your damn horse, August.” Once he’s up in the saddle, I reach around and grab the reins, pulling the animal closer to me. “And don’t you dare say anything to embarrass Miss Rowley this afternoon.”

August chuckles and swats my hand away. “Me? Embarrass Miss Rowley? That’s certainly your area of expertise, Briggs, and I couldn’t dream of filling your comically oversized boots.”

I throw my hands in the air, offering him a snort of contempt, but August trots forward ahead of me and Westley, leading the way to Wrexford Park.

When we arrive, Miss Barlow is already waiting in her father’s barouche with Miss Amy, shading her eyes from the sun with her hand. She turns at the sound of horse hooves approaching and offers me a flustered sigh.

“My cousin is taking her time dressing, and now I’m afraid we’ll be late to the picnic,” she cries. “How will it look if the lady who organized the picnic is the last to arrive?” She pauses but doesn’t exactly wait for my reply. “It will look poorly planned, Mr. Goswick!”

“My thoughts exactly, Miss Barlow,” I reply. “Let me see if I can rally Miss Rowley.”

“Yes, if there’s anything that will encourage her to make haste, it’s Briggs rushing her,” says August expressionlessly.

I dismount Apollo, patting him on the neck, and cast my brother my most withering glare.

“Be gentle, Mr. Goswick,” says Mr. Browning, who has trotted up beside Westley on a chestnut mare. He offers him a nod and touch of his hat. “But also, be firm. I’ve been rushing Blythe along all morning.”

“I will be persuasive,” I reply, entering the shadowed foyer of Wrexford Park. I breathe in the coolness of the space, relieved to be out of the sun Miss Barlow frets under, and realizing now that I’m here that I don’t exactly know what to say to Blythe that wouldn’t appear condescending. I woke this morning vowing, at least to myself, to be the utmost gentleman where it concerns Miss Rowley.

As it turns out, I don’t need to say anything. Blythe appears at the top of the stairs, flattening the flowered skirts of her dress with the palms of her hands. She wears a peach sash about her waist to match the one that adorns her straw sunhat, and she takes a shaky breath before she realizes that I’m watching her.

“What do you want?” she asks, her brows coming together.

“And a merry hello to you, too,” I start. “Your cousin wished for me to check on you.”

“I’m fine. Besides, a little extra time in the outdoors will do her good.”

She descends the stairs, lifting her skirts so that I catch a brief glimpse of her perfect ankles. Ankles, I imagine, that lead to perfectly shaped calves, softly curving knees, and supple thighs. I shake my head to rid myself of these daydreams as quickly as possible, and as she breezes by me, the scent of apples follows her.

“Are you coming?” she asks from the doorway.

I blink, trying to remember why I’m even here in the first place, and manage to offer a choked, “Yes.”

I catch up with her at the barouche and offer her my hand as she takes a step to climb inside.

She stares at it for a moment, then meets my eyes. “I can do it myself.” She lifts herself upward, but despite her most adamant protests, her foot slips, and before she can fall backward, I have her around the waist. She’s frozen in my grip, her breath coming fast, but she clings to my forearms, and I let her for as long as she needs.

“I’ve got you,” I say quietly.

She nods, her hands clenching my sleeves. “Thank you,” she finally murmurs.

“But of course,” I say with a small smile. I push her forward a bit so that she’s back on her own two feet and then offer her my hand once more. She doesn’t deny it this time, and I hold on to her until she’s seated across from her cousin.

“Are we ready now?” Miss Barlow asks, turning so that she can ascertain the response of me, Westley, and August. “We’re going to be dreadfully late, but you do look nice, Blythe. That color suits you.”

“Do you think so?” she asks, examining her dress.

My brain is screaming, Yes, it suits you. Clearly, it suits you. Everything suits you. But I just smile at them both as their barouche lurches forward.

We ride for some time past the properties of both Mistlethrush and Wrexford, pretty fields of wildflowers, horses in their bright green pastures to our destination: a hillside overlooking a pond. The ladies discuss the new milliner in Brumbury, and Westley tells me and Mr. Browning of his plans to renovate his estate, Brompton Place. August sulks behind us. When we arrive, several of our neighbors are already there, including Reverend Knox and his new wife, along with his sister, Miss Abigail Knox. Which is just what I planned. Miss Barlow had asked me to make sure I invited people to her picnic, but only fun people. People who wouldn’t bring the party down. I’ve done as she asked of me.

Well, mostly.

We dismount our horses, leading them over to a shady tree, and then assist the ladies down from the barouche. I offer my hand to Charlotte Barlow, which she takes, willingly, but then pauses and squeezes.

“Mr. Goswick,” she says, staring out at the forming group of picnic-goers. “Please tell me you didn’t invite Mr. Dormer .”

I squint to see him more clearly. Ah, there he is. Short and squat, his bald spot gleaming as he takes off his hat upon seeing Blythe arrive, his facial hair spotty and his shoulders round and hunched.

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you that, Miss Barlow.”

She slaps me on the shoulder. “How could you? When Blythe sees this, she will—”

Before Miss Barlow can even finish her sentence, Blythe comes from around the opposite side of me and punches my other shoulder.

“Ow.” I rub where her knuckles made contact. “You know, despite outward appearances, I happen to be a very sensitive man.”

“I hate you,” says Blythe, trying to hide behind August so that Mr. Dormer can’t get any closer.

“You asked me to take care of him,” I remind her.

“And how is this fulfilling that promise?” she whispers at me.

“Trust me, Miss Rowley,” I all but beg. “This is according to plan.”

“Miss Rowley, are you being shy over there?” calls Mr. Dormer from the blanket. “I’ve saved you a seat right next to me.”

“Right next to him!” I crow. “Is that not considerate, Miss Rowley?” I offer her my arm, which she pushes out of her way and marches over to where Mr. Dormer pats the spot he’s saved for her.

“We couldn’t have asked for better weather,” says Westley, hoisting one of the picnic baskets from the barouche with the help of Mr. Browning.

“It could have rained,” August mumbles.

“Oh, come now, Mr. August,” says Miss Barlow, settling down on the blanket under her parasol. “I won’t have your sour mood ruining our fun today. Besides, I packed your favorite. Pickled beets.”

I have to give Miss Barlow credit; she knows how to win August over when she’s certain he’ll be the most disagreeable of the party. I sit myself down on the opposite side of Blythe and catch her withering scowl. All right, perhaps August is not the most disagreeable of the party.

And really, I understand Blythe’s assumption right now. I was put in charge of invitations, and I went and invited the last person she wanted to spend time with. She just doesn’t understand the method to my madness, but that will all change soon.

Beside me, Blythe takes a deep breath as Mr. Dormer anxiously glances in her direction. The awkwardness is all-encompassing, and even I’m becoming uncomfortable.

“I think we should eat,” says Miss Barlow, folding her hands in her lap. “Mr. Parker, will you help me with passing out plates?”

Westley obeys his hostess immediately, while Blythe pulls a book out from behind her and throws herself into the pages of the story.

“Ah, you like reading,” says Mr. Dormer, leaning toward her. “I admire a lady who reads. Wants to expand her mind.” He pauses, sitting up a little taller. “‘Let the wise hear and increase in learning…’”

Ah yes, another Bible verse. Exactly what I was waiting for.

Mr. Dormer raises his brows, waiting for Blythe to finish his quote.

But from across the picnic blanket, it is Miss Knox who says very quietly, almost too quiet to even hear, “‘And the one who understands obtain guidance.’”

Mr. Dormer almost immediately perks up at this. “Ah, exactly! Miss…? Oh dear, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Knox,” I reply, leaning forward to interject. “Miss Abigail Knox. I am pleased to introduce you to Mr. Dormer—who loves to quote the Bible.” I raise my eyebrows in Blythe’s direction. Come on, Blythe. At least recognize that this is a rather cunning plan.

She returns her attention to her book, but not before I catch her glance in my direction, then quickly back at the page, the tiniest of smiles momentarily gracing her lips.

“Do I dare ask what your favorite Bible verse is?” Mr. Dormer asks.

Miss Knox looks as though she may explode from excitement. “Proverbs,” she says.

“Thirty-one?” Mr. Dormer prompts.

“Verse ten!” they cry at the same time.

“Oh, good, things in common,” says Miss Barlow. “Cold chicken, anyone?” She offers the platter around the picnic blanket.

“Once we’re finished eating, Miss Knox,” says Mr. Dormer, “perhaps you would allow me to join you on a walk around the pond? I feel there are so many things we share.”

“It would be a delight,” says Miss Knox, her cheeks turning bright red.

“Hm,” I say quietly so that only Blythe can hear. Conversation buzzes around us. “It appears I’m so good at matchmaking that maybe I don’t need your help with Miss Dixon after all.” I bring my left knee up and rest my elbow on it.

Blythe snorts and turns a page in her book. “Where is Miss Dixon, anyway?”

“She stayed behind at Mistlethrush. She has a cold.” I take a piece of chicken from the platter and put it on my plate.

“A cold!” Blythe cries.

The entire party turns and stares at us.

“There’s a blanket back in the barouche if you’re cold, Blythe,” says Miss Barlow. Her expression maintains affable picnic-goer, but there’s a threatening tone aimed in my direction that I would not cross.

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you,” says Blythe. She inclines her head ever so slightly in my direction, and once the rest of the group returns to their prior conversations, she continues our discussion. “I will give you credit, Mr. Goswick. There are times when I’m truly astonished by how astute you can be when it comes to matters I thought well above your intellect. Like pairing Mr. Dormer and Miss Knox: a stroke of genius. But this? This is ridiculous.” She takes a sip of her tea and then repeats, “She has a cold .”

“As I said.” I take a bite of my chicken and dab at my mouth with my napkin.

“And you left her?”

“Should I have brought her?” I ask. “Pulled her out of bed, made her get dressed, shoved her in a carriage, and supplied her with a handkerchief for her running nose?”

Blythe rolls her eyes at me. “No, you fool. You should have stayed behind with her. Made it very clear that you would not be attending today’s events because you wanted to make sure you were present in case she needed anything or, by some unfortunate stroke of fate, became even worse. You should have loudly professed that the day would have held no joy for you if she were not present.”

I frown and then lift her book from her lap. “Just what exactly are you reading, anyway?”

Slapping the book back down, she pulls it from my grip and shoves it behind her. “You know I’m right.”

“Maybe, but why are you so angry? You told me to take care of Mr. Dormer, so I took care of Mr. Dormer.”

She smiles up at the sky, shaking her head. “Of course. It all makes sense now. There were two tasks, and you are only capable of comprehending one thing at a time.” She pats my knee and clucks her tongue in pity. “I apologize. I won’t overestimate you again.”

“How gracious of you, Miss Rowley. Your generosity knows no bounds.”

She takes a raspberry between her forefinger and her thumb and pops it into her mouth, her lips closing as she chews, and this is strangely an action I could watch over and over again. Finally, after some consideration, she speaks.

“When you get home this evening, this is what you shall do.”

“Wait, let me get a pen so I can take notes.” I pretend to search for one, but Blythe ignores me.

“You will have Cook prepare her some broth and hot tea with lemon and honey. When you stop at Wrexford, I will supply you with one of my best jars. You will take a tray up to her yourself, and you will ask after her condition. Don’t stay too long. You don’t want to look like a begging puppy.”

“Of course not.”

“And you feel you’re capable of handling this?” she asks, making an exaggerated pouting face.

I squint and offer her a grimace in response. “I’m surprised you’re even being this helpful, Miss Rowley.”

Blythe shrugs, taking another raspberry. “Well,” she says. “You followed through on what you promised, and I will do the same. Partners?” She offers me her hand.

“Partners.” We shake on it.