Page 26 of A Gentleman's Reckoning
“What a pleasant surprise to see you here, Miss Buxton. Perhaps I might escort you both to wherever you are going?” He followed Margery’s searching glance behind him and perceived Mrs. Buxton, who had just arrived. He bowed. “Mrs. Buxton, how do you do?”
She returned his greeting and answered the question he had asked Margery. “You may escort my daughter and Lady Eugenia if you would be so obliged. I had hoped to visit a stand on the opposite end of the bazaar that sells soaps.”
Margery brought an enigmatic gaze to her mother that held a degree of irritation to those who knew her. This caused Geny to turn away to hide a smile. She could read her friend very well and, despite the challenging look, she quite suspected that Margery was not as opposed to Mr. Thompson’s suit as she let on. Geny had never seen her friend show anything but indifference to suitors in all the years they had known each other, but Mr. Thompson seemed to unsettle her.
“I am happy to oblige,” he replied, smiling at Mrs. Buxton. He turned a teasing gaze back to Margery, as though he knew she was disgruntled about this turn of events, and gestured forward with a smile. “We will not be successful in walking three abreast. I will follow both of you.”
“You are most obliging,” Margery replied in a dry voice, andGeny turned away to swallow the laughter that rose up. When she looked back, Margery sent a look warning her not to tease. It would be difficult to restrain.
Under other circumstances, Geny would be the first at the table heaped with cloth to sift through it. She was in search of both rags for samplers on which younger orphans might practice their stitches, and the finer cloth that could be used to sew clothing and other articles. The younger orphans practiced sewing pinafores and serviceable skirts that could be worn, and the older ones made more complex garments that would train them for working with a modiste if they became skilled enough.
There was only enough space in the crowd that had gathered for one of them to squeeze in and sort through the cloth, and Margery turned to her.
“My lady, you will be pushed and shoved. I know precisely what you are looking for; I beg you will allow me to find it.”
Margery did not give her a chance to protest, and Geny submitted to it, once again concealing her amusement. Her friend was quite determined to avoid Mr. Thompson. As for Geny, she was not likely to receive a better chance to learn why this was and was determined to seize it.
“Mr. Thompson, how are you acquainted with the Buxtons?” she asked. People streamed past them, but Mr. Thompson held his ground and somehow shielded her from the unceasing flow of humanity.
“My father was friends with Mr. Buxton before my father’s death. They were rival merchants in ceramics but could never be bothered to dislike each other.”
He grinned, and Geny returned it. Oh, she would most definitely tease Margery. What was there not to like in this man?
“So you have known Miss Buxton since…?” She allowed the question to dangle.
“I suppose our whole lives. But I have been away for many years—much of the period of time that she would rememberme. I was learning the trade from my mother’s brother in Wales.”
“Oh.” Geny could not hide the surprise in her voice. “So your mother is Welsh.”
He shook his head. “No, but my uncle moved to Nantgarw and started a factory there. Although my father’s talent lies in earthenware, it was my mother who brought the knowledge of finer ceramics into the marriage. She wished me to learn porcelain painting from my uncle, so I might improve on the designs she was already helping my father with.”
“That is most interesting,” Geny said. She glanced at Margery, pressed on both sides but undaunted in her search. “Have you found topics of interest with Miss Buxton, then? Considering that both of your families are in the same trade.”
“I am well aware of how close you and Miss Buxton are, Lady Eugenia. Without wishing in any way to be impertinent, I believe you must already know the answer to that. Miss Buxtonneverspeaks of trade if she can help it.”
Geny laughed. “It is much too fatiguing, I am sure she tells you.”
“Indeed.” He, in turn, glanced at Margery, who kept her back to them as though the cloth selection interested her very much. The general buzz from the crowd gave their conversation a degree of privacy.
“She speaks of all the balls she attends, assuring me that dancing is the only thing that interests her. Dancing, new gowns, and jewels.”
“It sounds very much like her, but I wonder if you are aware that it is not truly who she is.”
Mr. Thompson looked intrigued. “To own the truth, Miss Buxton puzzles me exceedingly. She informs me in so many words that she is uninteresting and shallow. And yet anyone who can say such a thing could not be uninteresting and shallow,could they? For someone who is both of those things would not know it.”
“Miss Buxton attends balls to oblige her mother. She enjoys sitting quietly with me and talking, and she enjoys making clothing or stockings for the orphans.” She smiled at him. “So you see? Not quite the frivolous nature she would have you believe.”
“Why do you suppose she does it, then?” he asked—humbly, Geny thought. “As much as she pushes me away, I do not have the feeling her heart is engaged elsewhere, or that she is truly bothered by my presence. If I thought she were, I would cease to pursue her so openly.”
“Ah, Mr. Thompson. As much as Icouldanswer your question, I do not think I shall.” Geny tucked her hands behind her back, a smile hovering on her lips.
“The solidarity of two females, I suppose,” he replied, looking resigned.
She nodded. There was a comfortable pause in their conversation, and as much as the bazaar was active around them, Geny was protected from it by Mr. Thompson’s presence. No space in front of the table had opened up, and she could see that Margery was haggling with the vendor over a pile of cloth she had chosen. Geny turned back to look at Mr. Thompson, suddenly growing nervous. She wished to bring up what he had said about Mr. Rowles and felt that fate had given her a chance to do it now.
“Margery told me that you believe to have recognized Mr. Rowles, the man who works as steward in the foundling asylum—only that you believed him to have been a Mr. Aubin at first?”
“That is so.” He furrowed his brows. “If Miss Buxton had not insisted that his name was Mr. Rowles, I would have been certain it was he. However, I cannot credit my memory—especially under such unfavorable circumstances—enough todiscredit a lady’s word. It is only that they share a great likeness.”
