Page 9 of Married By Twelfth Night
An elbow flew into her rib from Mama. Grace was tempted to pass it on to Richard for his splendid idea. She had managed well enough the night before, but she didn’t generally like wandering the garden in freezing temperatures.
“Yes, Mr. Dobson.” Her words came out in a long sigh. “I will return in a moment.”
Grace stood with more elegance than Ruth, but the glare she speared Richard with to communicate that this was all his fault likely ruined any decorum her exit held. Instead of sending a maid to fetch their cloaks, she and Ruth both collected their own. There was no hurry for either of them to return. Grace walked as slowly as possible, stalling the inevitable while simultaneously planning how to escape Mr. Dobson. That phrase was beginning to be the theme of her life: escape Mr. Dobson. Should she extend their walk to a ridiculous length until he was both frozen and insanely bored? If only she wouldn’t be plagued with the same fate.
Should she pretend to be ill? She was starting to feel the beginnings of a headache. But that wouldn’t send Mr. Dobson away for good. She needed an absolute end to his attentions. This couldn’t continue!
The four of them soon gathered at the front door, ready to begin their expedition. Ruth stepped behind Grace as the door swung open, as if the outside world would devour her. Grace knew otherwise. Ruth loved walking their grounds, just not with company. She felt strangely protective of her older sister and stepped more fully in front of her while she could. Ruth was a genuine person, kindhearted and sympathetic. But she had no confidence in herself and feared Society’s disapproval. They were opposite in that way. Grace didn’t want todisplease Society, but she did not fear them. They were too flawed for her to esteem their judgments were any better than her own.
Richard led the group through the door and down the wide steps to a gravel path that ran in front of the house and circled around it. The sun was beaming, and despite the bite of cold on her cheeks, it was more tolerable than Grace expected. Mr. Dobson moved to her side. The width of the path did not allow for three people to stand side by side, forcing Ruth to step forward to join Richard.
Grace wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand, but Ruth would not have welcomed it. Her sister did have some pride, and Grace would respect it. She almost wished someone would squeeze her hand though, for her task was just as formidable as Ruth’s.
Mr. Dobson let the first couple lead until there was a respectable distance between them and Grace could no longer hear the conversation ahead of them—which had been one-sided anyway, with Richard doing all the conversing. Mr. Dobson did a fair share of talking of his own but not prying speech from her like Richard was doing. Mr. Dobson spoke only of himself and his accomplishments, which included his vast collection of buttons, the detailed map he had drawn of his own garden, and the poetry he had written about his mother.
She was actually jealous of Ruth. Richard was a man of sense, no matter if he had neglected his sister in her time of need. But what could they be speaking about?
She had the next hour to wonder.
Which was not an easy feat. No number of ornamental evergreens glistening with the morning frost, or the seamless gray sky, or the excited chirping of the goldfinch in the bare treetops that lined the back garden could fully distract her from Mr. Dobson’s personal oratory. He had little inflection in his voice, which she could not blame him for, as he was likely born that way. But she could blame him for hiswandering hands. He kept trying to reach for her own, which she swatted away time and again.
“Mr. Dobson, it is not appropriate for you to hold my hand when we are not even engaged.” She had said this twice already, in the firmest of voices, but Mr. Dobson had selective hearing.
“This can be remedied, Miss Steele.” The pleasure in his voice was only noticeable because he said it louder, with more surety. “Marrying you is my family’s greatest wish. I consider myself a dutiful son, and I always do as Mother tells me.”
That sentence hit like a nail in the matrimonial coffin she would soon be buried in, and her anxiety mounted. Mr. Dobson would never listen to a word she said. Unless, of course, his mother approved it. If Grace did not have a plan to thwart the man by dinner, she would fast her meals until she did. This had to end! Each interaction terrified her more than the last. She would not be surprised if he made an appointment to speak with her father within the week. What had she done wrong in her life to deserve this?
“Not to mention, Miss Steele,” Mr. Dobson said, “The tip of your nose reminds me of a little button. You must know my partiality toward a likeness as that. It is a sign from heaven.”
Or devilish bad luck. Why couldn’t Richard have come to see her instead of Ruth? She could amuse the man for an hour before sending him back to his miserable existence where he was the most important person in his own world. Perhaps that was a tad exaggerated. For the first time, she regretted haranguing him through the years. Even if it had been a most enjoyable sport. Anything was better than Mr. Dobson.
Chapter 5
Richard stared at hisaunt’s letter, reviewing the absurdly specific list of qualifications for his wife. “Utterly impossible!”
As soon as he had returned from meeting with Aunt Edith’s solicitor, he had written to see if she would budge on any of the qualifications. Her response had arrived this morning and had irked him to no end.
It is my money, and I can require whatever I see fit.He dropped this new letter into his desk drawer, along with the first, and locked it away. Stashing his key under the picture frame above it, he marched to the window and leaned onto the sill.
Belside’s lands sprawled before him—the pond he fished and swam in the summers, the grove of oak, ash, and beech trees where he’d built a fort with his friends, and the half-circle gravel drive where he’d left and returned a million times. This was home.Hishome. His entire world.
He massaged his right temple that was beginning to pound. Why had he been so absorbed in his own life before? Could he have helped Father with the estate instead of wasting his time with his friends or poring over useless books at Oxford? Now he was desperately courting a list instead of courting for love.
And how was it going?
His morning walk with Ruth Steele had been a disaster. She’d said no more than five words altogether. How was he supposed to marry someone who was frightened of him? There was no way he could win her over in six weeks. Correction, five weeks now.
A noise came from down the corridor toward Bridget’s room. Grace must’ve arrived. He imagined her telling his sister about the horrors of the morning. There would be a discussion about him too—about why he had called on Ruth.
Let them speculate. No one in Wetherfield knew about Aunt’s letter and no one ever would. It was better that way. He would burn it at some point to protect his future wife.
His hand lowered to the bridge of his nose, and he pinched it tight. He needed a plan to woo Ruth. A master plan. Like the time Bridget had broken the window on the house when practicing cricket with Grace a few summers back. He had warned them that Father didn’t like girls playing cricket and wasn’t going to be happy about it. When he’d returned from an evening with friends, he’d found the window repaired and had been threatened if he dared say anything about it.
He’d laughed at the threat. A bunch of adolescent girls didn’t scare him. He told them he wouldn’t tattle if they would tell him how they’d managed to fix it without Father knowing. Their plan had been one of many that had made him shake his head in wonder. They had convinced the gardener to take the window from the shed that was the same size and fit it to the house. Then they had paid the gardener for a new window for the shed that they knew Father wouldn’t notice. It had been a brilliant idea.
Brilliant was what he needed right now.
Launching away from the window, he jogged across his room, threw his door open, and marched down the corridor to Bridget’sroom. A faint sound of voices traveled through the door. He made a fist and knocked.
