Page 12 of An Unwitting Alliance
Cassandra scrunched her nose. “I do not follow your rationale.”
“It’s perfectly genius. The gentlemen of the neighborhood will have to rush to our rescue. Whether they want to court you or me, either will help. It is plain that Mama and Papa see the need for one less person in the house.”
“I thank you for your efforts, but it’s an absurd idea.” Cassandra set down her pen. “Truly, Megan, I would rather be a spinster than throw myself at a man.” She cringed, knowing she had tried to do that very thing with Mr. Gibbons the night of the ball and planned to do the same again to another gentleman once she returned to Bradford. But love would be part of the equation this time, so it wasn’t the same exactly, was it? How she deplored the idea of an arranged marriage the more she thought on it. No one should be forced together like prisonmates under the guise of a happy marriage.
“A spinster?” Megan shook her head. “You would be so unhappy without a family of your own. And what about Patricia Pollard?”
“What about her?”
“She will discover that your engagement was arranged and either mock you for not securing a husband on your own or ridicule your failure in losing yet another man. You should have heard the things she said about you while you were away.”
Such a depressing thought added misery to an already insufferable scenario. And, worse, Patricia had somehow learned all about Mr. Gibbons. “I shall not say a word about the engagement, and I expect your lips to stay equally sealed on the matter. Anyway, I hope to be back in Bradford with Aunt Evans soon enough.”
“Do you think Mama will let you go to become a spinster? Perhaps you should reconsider Mr. Harwood.”
“I am not marrying a stranger.” Cassandra pushed back her chair and turned to face her sister head-on. “You cannot shortcut happiness. I learned that in Bradford. You want what Mama and Papa have: a relationship based on mutual love and respect. They survive on it.”
“What about you?” Megan asked, her words careful.
Cassandra folded her letter. “I certainly will not settle for less, which is why I hope to go to Aunt Evans.” She couldn’t think on the particulars of finding the man she’d dreamed up—if he existed. It was too overwhelming. She had to focus on the first step of getting permission to stay with Aunt in Bradford.
“But you will marry... someday?” Megan’s concern touched her.
Yes, she was determined to marry, but she had to speak with caution since she was Megan’s example and wanted to protect her sister’s future happiness. “I shall try, but if my life is destined for spinsterhood or in service, I will have to be content, won’t I?” She gave her sister a confident smile—one that was hard to feel when she was not being quite honest. A hint of fear crept into her mind, but she pushed it back out again. The day of reckoning was not yet. Tomorrow, with the arrival of Mr. Harwood, she would have time enough to worry.
* * *
Tom’s first sight of Fairview made him draw his horse up short. His mother had not exaggerated when she had said their stations were quite different from that of the Vails. The pale-yellow brick was stately enough, although the size of the house was quite small and narrow, and the painted shutters showed years of wear. With a quick perusal, he could ascertain that they were not wealthy enough to employ proper gardeners either; the lawn and flowers lining the house grew quite wild. The inside would no doubt be in similar standing. Could the family be chasing his title and future assets?
As he directed his horse up the lane, he saw a flash of flaxen hair from the corner of his eye, but when he turned it disappeared, followed by a swish of skirts, behind the house.
Odd.
Something about the hair color drew an unbidden memory of the not-Miss Smith to his mind. Her stormy eyes and dancing curls had proven hard to forget. His pulse involuntarily sped as it did every time he thought of her. He had done his best to identify her, but without a name, Lady Kellen had not been able to discover which of her guests he was in search of.
Pushing his frustration over losing the woman that night aside, he drew Zeus up by the small portico and swung down from his horse. A stableboy, probably fourteen or fifteen, came at a run toward him, no doubt expecting his arrival. Tom handed the reins over and gave instructions as to how he wanted his stallion fed and watered. The boy listened attentively and was rewarded with a coin before attending to Zeus.
Removing his hat, Tom ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to bring some measure of comeliness to the wind-ragged mess. He looked at the rather ordinary door with its plain knocker and hesitated. Miss Vail was probably as ugly as sin and as temperamental as her letter had claimed. But he had seen a tiger tamer at a circus in France, and surely it would not be much of a challenge if both the tiger and the tamer were on the same side.
He took a deep breath to fortify his courage and marched up the few steps. He rapped smartly a few times and rubbed his palms down the front of his trousers. He had never lacked bravery before, and he was not going to start now. When he’d told his friends he enjoyed a challenge, he’d meant it.
A boy stuck his head out the door, the nutmeg mop on his head partially combed. “He’s here!” the boy yelled.
Apparently, not only did they need a gardener but a butler too.
A large hand pulled the door open, and the boy scurried behind the man who stepped before him.
“Pardon the young lad.” The man was no older than Tom’s father, and his serious demeanor did not hide his obviously high threshold of patience. “I am Mr. Buttars, the butler at Fairview. Might I ask who is calling?”
Tom was grateful the Vails were not in such dire straits that they could not employsomehelp. “I am Mr. Harwood. Mr. Vail is expecting me.” Or should he have said Mrs. Vail since it was the mamas who directed all the matchmaking?
“Please come in.” The door opened wider, and Mr. Buttars stood to the side for Tom to pass through.
The vestibule was small but clean, and a large mirror currently reflecting his own image hung on the triangular wall of the side of a staircase that ran perpendicular to the door. Below the mirror was a narrow table with fresh flowers adorning its top.
Mr. Buttars took Tom’s hat and directed him into a sitting room larger than he had expected. A long sofa fit comfortably under a bay window, flanked by two settees. Opposite the window was a fireplace crafted with the same yellow stone as the house. Doors across from him led to who knew where, but he was sure he would soon find out if he indeed stayed the entirety of the two weeks.
“Please be seated,” the butler said. “Refreshments will be up directly, and the family will see you shortly.”
