Page 48 of Refining the Debutante
Mr. Dalkins’s mustache drooped, and he smoothed it away from his lips. “You are aware of our meager harvest. There are several families that will not have enough for both rent and food.”
“Surely this has happened before.” Ethan enjoyed the responsibility of overseeing things in his father’s absence, but he did not like the weight of such heavy decisions. “What would my father do in this instance?”
Mr. Dalkins sighed. “There have been plenty of rough seasons, but this is the worst I have seen. Your father runs his estate with a firm hand, which keeps the tenants in check. I have never known him to give an extension for rent. I fear such rigidness will mean the expulsion of many loyal and hardworking families.”
Ethan drummed his fingers on his leg. There had to be a simple solution, but he was lost to it. “What is it you suggest, then?”
“Merely that you determine whether the loss of rent is greater than the value of the tenant. There are plenty in need of work, but a dependable man is hard to come by.”
“You have made several excellent points,” Ethan said grimly. “I will accompany you to collect the rents. I would like to see how bad things really are.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Roderick. You should be at the horse races.”
“I insist, Mr. Dalkins. When we are finished, we can see where our accounts stand. I am sure we can come up with a reasonable extension for those who need it. I believe my father is a fair man and would agree.”
Ethan saw Mr. Dalkins out and stood at the window for a moment. It was awfully cold for a family to lose their home this time of year. An image of Miranda, half-starved with her dirt-stained cloak dancing in the wind, came to his mind. The thought of such hardship left him greatly unsettled. Then another image came to his mind. He could almost see Miranda finishing her walk just outside the window where he had watched her only a few weeks before. He pressed his eyes closed.
Chapter 20
“I have invited Mr . Roderickand his sisters for dinner tonight since we did not see them as planned for Michaelmas,” Lady Callister told Miranda over breakfast. “The man cuts quite a dashing figure, would you not agree?” She flicked open her fan and started fanning her face.
“Um, yes,” Miranda answered, wondering if the room was too warm or if she merely felt annoyed with Lady Callister’s flippant compliment about Ethan. Her employer had a soft spot for all things romantic, and her comment about Ethan was nothing different from her comments about the heroes in her novels. Miranda smoothed her dove-gray muslin skirt, wishing Lady Callister had given her more notice about their company. How would she dress for dinner? Should she wear her hair higher on her head or lower, by her neck, with a few tendrils framing her face? Which would Mr. Roderick prefer?
“I asked if you would finalize the menu with Cook,” Lady Callister said, interrupting Miranda’s woolgathering. “I was planning on a crumble for dessert, but Mr. Roderick prefers—”
“Trifle,” Miranda finished. “Or so it was when I last visited,” she amended. “I will inform Cook.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Miranda stumbled through her music, hitting more wrong notes than usual. Lady Callister excused herself, saying she had to lie down because a splitting headache had formed. This left Miranda to do whatever she pleased for the afternoon, which would have been nice had she not needed a distraction. She put on a spencer jacket and bonnet and took a long walk. The fresh air reminded her of her last walk with Ethan. How should she act when he came? When she had seen him last, he’d been eager to be rid of her. He bounced from friendly to cold, and predicting his mood toward her was as useless as wondering when her father would return to England.
When the dinner hour came, Miranda trembled with nerves. From the drawing room she heard a commotion at the front door and imagined a footman collecting hats, Ethan’s greatcoat, and his sisters’ cloaks. How could Lady Callister act so calm? There she sat, pulling at the threads in her sewing box, trying to untangle a mess of knots. The voices came nearer, and Miranda stood. She took several shallow breaths and forced her arms to relax at her side.
Ethan stepped into the open doorway, his cravat nearly straight and his hair glistening from a light sprinkle of rain. Butterflies danced in Miranda’s stomach. His eyes met hers, and he dipped into a bow, his expression serious. Miranda searched for a sign of his pleasure to see her, but Hannah stepped around him and stole her focus. She, at least, smiled at Miranda, reminding her to breathe. Hannah’s eagerness was exactly the prescription Miranda required to endure Ethan’s presence.
“We have missed you at Stonebrook Hall,” Hannah said, rushing toward her.
Miranda looked up and saw Jane’s scowl. Perhaps Hannah ought to have employed the use of a singular pronoun in her declaration. It seemed no one else had missed Miranda at all.
Taking Hannah’s outstretched hands, Miranda squeezed them. “I have longed to see you as well.”
“No use starving ourselves,” Lady Callister said. “Come, Mr. Roderick, walk me in.”
Ethan extended his arm, and Lady Callister rested her gloved hand on his. Jane came next, and then Hannah, and Miranda followed last. She was seated at the middle of the long lace-covered table, but because of the configuration of seats, she was on one end while Ethan and Lady Callister were on the opposite. Hannah sat between Miranda and Ethan, and Jane across from her brother. So much for concerns over dinner conversation.
“Miss Bartley, please inform your friends of the progress we have made this past month. I do not want Mr. Roderick thinking our time unproductive.”
Miranda almost laughed. She had just convinced herself silence would be best. “Gladly. Lady Callister runs a tight household and could give our mutual acquaintance Captain Grant a lesson or two.”
Hannah giggled but slapped her hand over her mouth when no one else laughed. Jane’s scowl deepened.
“Miss Bartley, I was referring to your progress, not my own.” Lady Callister’s mouth was firm, but her eyes revealed her amusement.
Miranda warmed to the opportunity to speak freely. This was not some dry group she need endure, after all. These were her friends—Ethan, Jane, and Hannah. They knew her, and she need not slave over impressing them. She could be herself.
“I am learning to play the pianoforte and could rival any seven-year-old future debutante. I take my exercise in the garden daily and have successfully prevented any new freckles. And I am thoroughly enjoying reading—”
“Enough!” Lady Callister said, nearly choking on her pea soup. “Perhaps dear Miss Jane might tell us how her sister’s wardrobe preparations are coming. Hmm?”
