THE TENTH CHAPTER
Men should be what they seem.
—Othello
The rest of the afternoon idled pleasantly by. The Roma provided us with a simple tea—just thickly-cut bread with fresh butter—but, sauced with the lovely view and the brisk air, it was utterly delicious. Father managed to avert a disaster by purchasing Mephistopheles from Sir Cedric himself, and Plum completed a rather superb series of sketches from his vantage point on the little outcropping. Mrs. King insisted upon telling the party of her ominous fortune, and though the ladies responded with murmurs of sympathy, the gentlemen jollied her out of her fears by telling the most outrageously silly ghost stories. Father went to great lengths to soothe her worries by insisting the ghosts of Bellmont Abbey were of the very best sort, and terribly friendly as well.
“That is precisely what I am afraid of,” she pointed out, and the entire group broke into laughter. She laughed as well, and after that seemed much more at her ease.
Alessandro was prevailed upon to tell us tales of Tuscanstrega,and Mr. Ludlow and Mr. Snow made their contributions as well, relating folktales of their travels to India and China. Then Jasper was persuaded to bring out his guitar and sing a few Gypsy songs. Several of the children had crept quite close to hear the ghost stories, and they sang along with Jasper’s melodies, a high, sweet chorus, not as pure as any in Westminster Abbey, but just as engaging. They were enchanting, and it was not until the sun had sunk completely below the horizon that Father rose to his feet and motioned toward the gathering darkness.
“It will be full dark soon, and I do not like the look of that sky. The temperature is falling as well,” he added, rubbing his hands together briskly. “I think we shall be in for a bit of snow from the look of the cloud just over the Downs.” Naturally the gentlemen had to spend another quarter of an hour debating the weather as the ladies stood shivering, Portia rolling her eyes at me behind Father’s back. In the end, they all agreed that, yes, it was indeed growing colder and darker and we ought to depart at once for the Abbey.
“Thank God for that,” Portia muttered, thrusting a hand into the crook of Alessandro’s arm.
We made our thanks to our hosts and pressed coins upon the children. As we picked our way to the carriages, Mr. Snow fell into step beside me.
“What think you now, Mr. Snow?” I teased gently. “Do you have a better liking for our travelling friends? Or do you still mean to reform them?”
He smiled and took my elbow in his hand, guiding me over stones in the dusk. “They do seem happy enough, I grant you. But it will be cold tonight, bitterly so, and I cannot help but think of them, shivering in their caravans, huddled together for what meagre warmth they can find.”
I glanced ahead to where Brisbane strode, tall and strong, a far cry from the starveling child he had once been.
“If today teaches you anything, Mr. Snow, let it be this—you must never underestimate them. No race on earth has a greater capacity for survival.”
Mr. Snow sighed theatrically. “It is difficult for a man to admit his errors, my lady, but how can he resist so lovely a teacher?”
This gallant speech was accompanied by a lightly mocking smile. I fixed him with my sternest expression.
“You are outrageous.”
“You are not the first to say so. And since you have seen this leopard in all his spots, let me say further that I am extremely pleased to have been invited to join this happy party, if only because it means I shall be in proximity to the most enchanting lady I have met in a very long time.”
His charm was thick as treacle and just as cloying. He could be a merry companion, but I was in no danger of falling prey to him.
“Tell me, what led you into the church? Did you always have a vocation for the religious life, or were you converted in a brilliant flash of light, a new St. Paul on the Damascene road?”
If he was disappointed his attempt at flirtation had fallen flat, he bore no grudge. He relaxed then, and I decided I liked him better when he was at his ease.
“I was in the army, that last great hope of all second sons. My father was a knight, and a poor one at that. My elder brother inherited a crumbling estate in Surrey and four sisters to keep. I was bought a commission and sent into the world with a pat on the head and one good suit of clothes.” I slid a sidelong glance at the suit he wore now. Well-cut and fashioned of quality tweed. His tastes were beyond the reach of a curate’s meagre compensation, and I wondered idly how he managed.
“And did you like the army?”
“I did, actually. I found I was terribly competent at standing in a row and marching where I was told. I was even rather good at shooting. I did, however, find it quite disturbing when my opposite number in a skirmish decided to shoot back atme.”
“I can well imagine,” I murmured.
“I was lightly wounded, not enough to maim me forever, but enough to permit me to leave the army without lifting eyebrows. My brother prevailed upon connections of his to find me a living, and so I entered the church. This is my third parish, and I must say, it is my favourite thus far. I find I am suited to the contemplative life.”
He was smiling again, that small smile that hinted at some greater amusement and invited me to smile with him. He seemed to take nothing too seriously, including himself. We had reached the carriages by then, and he handed me in, leaving his hand in mine a trifle longer than strictly necessary. I watched him as he strode away. He reached his conveyance just as Emma moved to enter the carriage. She stepped back shyly, but he put out a hand, smiling as winsomely as he had at me. She laid her tiny hand in his gloved palm, darting a tremulous glance at him from under her lashes, and I sighed. It was a pity that something as mundane and dull as money should prevent a marriage between otherwise suitable partners.
As we rode back to the Abbey, Brisbane again stared out of the window, and Alessandro was a captive audience to Mrs. King’s prattling, leaving me free to think on Mr. Snow. He was mischievous and gallant, and I would wager there was a fair bit of roguish Irish blood in him. But I knew better than to think his attentions were reserved for me alone. I had observed his flattery toward Portia as well, and it was not difficult to understand him. An impoverished younger son with a sybarite’s tastes, his way in life would be greatly eased by the acquisition of a rich wife. He had scarcely spoken two words to Emma, not out of any inherent unkindness, I decided, but simply because she was poor, and a poor lady could do nothing but weigh him down, like stones in a drowning man’s pocket. No, his charm had been directed solely at the unattached ladies of means—or at least the ladies hethoughtwere unattached.
It seemed impossible he could have failed to hear the gossip that followed Portia, and he had even met Jane, although it was possible he had not guessed the precise nature of their relationship. Or perhaps he had and was prepared to be a liberal husband about such matters. After all, the Duke of Devonshire had entertained a similar arrangement between his wife and her best friend, I mused. Of course, the lady in question had shared her bed with the duke as well as his wife, but for all I knew that might have been an attraction to Snow.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Mrs. King said suddenly, smiling winsomely at me.
“Not for a pound,” I replied tartly. “Look there, the Abbey. How lovely it is, blazing with lights! Quite the faery palace.”