An Unusual Courtship (6 page)

This cooled Percival’s pleasure, for it did indeed seem that Mr. Everett was doing everything he could to make a polite refusal to the request. “Yes, of course,” Percival said. He faltered briefly, cleared his throat, and tried to recover the situation somewhat by commenting: “Surely, however, it would be you who would be much occupied by the attentions of all the women present, for I am common and ordinary in their estimation, having known me all their lives, while you are a handsome and mysterious gentleman up from London.”

“To be sure,” said Mr. Everett, with surprising coldness, “I would prefer to avoid dancing altogether.”

Percival blinked in surprise, uncertain if he ought to take offence. “Why, Mr. Everett, does it not please you to dance?”

“It does, betimes,” Mr. Everett said. “But I fear, Mr. Valentine, that I am in an ill mood tonight, and I would be poor company as a dancing-partner.”

“I would still have you,” Percival said. “If you would be willing. And perhaps indeed it may lighten your mood, for I would most earnestly desire to do anything I might which would make you smile.”

That did make Mr. Everett smile, a little. “You are entirely too good and earnest, Mr. Valentine.”

“You do me too much honour, Mr. Everett,” Percival said. “Certainly I may have some qualities of roguishness.”

“I believe it none whatsoever,” Mr. Everett said. His smile was wider now. “I think you are woven entirely of courtesy and account-books.”

Sensing that he was being teased, Percival flushed and prickled. “I am—I have other qualities! Indeed, I—I am entirely too familiar with the ladies of my parish.”

“Oh!” Mr. Everett said, beginning to laugh, being much returned to his good humour of their first acquaintance. “
Are
you?”

“I am indeed,” Percival insisted, lifting his chin proudly at his very slender claim to being a rake-shame. “I am even so profligate as to kiss certain ladies upon their cheeks.”

Mr. Everett gasped and clutched at his heart. “Mr. Valentine! Do not say so!”

“Well,” Percival said, since Mr. Everett’s play-acting was rather good and Percival entertained the sudden worried notion that Mr. Everett might in fact have believed some scandal upon Percival’s character, “to be sure, they are all widowed ladies, and such as I have known since I was the smallest child, for I would certainly never take such familiarity with a maiden lady.”

“I am
much
reassured,” Mr. Everett said, coughing as he attempted to quell his laughter. “I think that perhaps I may even deign to continue our acquaintance, despite this most shocking revelation.”

“That is very kind of you,” Percival said, holding his chin up, although he was not entirely sure if they had determined whether or not Percival was
entirely
starched and strait-laced. It worried him briefly that he might have become a matter of sport amongst his new friends because of his pedantic leanings, but he hoped indeed that the Boltons and Mr. Everett were all three too good-natured to make such sport at the expense of their acquaintances.

Percival found himself pulled away from Mr. Everett as the party got fully underway. They were both called upon frequently to dance—Percival on account of being well-known and generally well-liked in the district, and Mr. Everett on account, as Percival had expected, of his handsome face and mysterious demeanour. Mr. Bolton likewise was kept very busy, due to his lively demeanour and wit, and Miss Bolton was in such demand that her friends were only able to secure dances with her because of having prior claims.

The musicians were quite skilled, and Percival was proud of having procured them. Miss Bolton had provided the players with the music of some of the most popular new songs from London, including more than one waltz, but those were interspersed with more familiar dancing tunes. All the country gentry in attendance were familiar with the country jigs that were played, and the dance floor was kept quite full with energetic reels.

Mr. Everett cut quite a fine figure as he danced. Percival found his eye drawn to him, again and again. There were quite a few dances to be had, and Percival watched his friends and acquaintances with great pleasure. He saw that Miss Bolton danced several times with Mr. Humphrey, the rector, and that Mr. Bolton seemed to have earned favour in the eyes of all three daughters of the Beckinsale family.

True to his word, Mr. Bolton took a turn with Percival. He danced well, with great energy and cheer, and Percival enjoyed himself thoroughly.

The few waltzes that were played were all entirely unfamiliar to Percival. During them, he lingered near the sides of the dance floor, along with a generous contingent of the other guests who either did not know or approve of waltzing.

Mr. Everett found him during one of these. “Do you not waltz, Mr. Valentine?”

“I’m afraid I have never learned,” Percival said.

“I did promise you a dance,” Mr. Everett reminded him, with a half-smile that hinted at warmth. “If you will take a turn with me, I should gladly teach you.”

“I shall,” Percival said, although he knew that he might perfectly well make a fool of himself by dancing poorly at the new style. He knew that it had become widely popular in France and Germany, but several of his parishioners were strongly of the opinion that such an intimate dance—between couples, rather than performed in a group, and with the gentleman’s arm so brassly enfolding the lady’s waist—was a shocking vulgarity upon a polite dance floor.

“I hope you will allow me the lead?” Mr. Everett asked, offering his hand to Percival and placing his hand on Percival’s waist. “At least until I have taught you the way of it, and then we may switch off as you please.”

“Oh, so you intend to waltz with me more than once?” Percival asked him, smiling as Mr. Everett led him onto the floor.

The question earned a little bit more of a smile, and Mr. Everett’s eyes remained upon his face as they swirled among the other dancers. “I think I may,” Mr. Everett said. “If only so that you may master the style and seem wonderfully urbane among the ladies of the district.”

“You are very thoughtful, Mr. Everett,” Percival said. He felt his cheeks warming as they danced. Mr. Everett held him quite close, near enough that Percival could smell the sweet scent of violets and anise on Mr. Everett’s breath from the French pastilles that he favoured. Percival expected that he should taste as sweet, and was overcome with a sudden longing to find out.

Mr. Everett guided him gently, giving quiet instruction as Percival followed. He very kindly refrained from commenting about Percival stepping on his toes as Percival clumsily attempted to keep up with the unfamiliar steps.

Their dance ended all too shortly, and Percival felt cold and lonely in the absence of Mr. Everett’s arms around him.

Distracting himself by engaging in several more of the dances that followed, Percival kept ever aware of Mr. Everett’s place on the dance floor. When the next dance came, Mr. Everett danced with a young lady of quality who was much more skilled at the steps than Percival, and they looked a perfectly lovely couple as they turned about the floor. Percival happened to know that the young lady was an heiress, and thought that they might make an admirable match—although, as it occurred to him at this point, he knew precisely nothing about Mr. Everett’s finances or rank, having not thought it pertinent to inquire about the matter when he had written to his cousin Agatha. Percival wondered whether it would be acceptable to put the question discreetly to Mr. Bolton, although truly he had no fair reason for needing to know the finances of Mr. Everett. It was hardly as though
Percival
was going to marry him, and if any of the young ladies in the district fancied that they might do so, they could certainly do their own research.

Percival danced until the musicians had at last put up their instruments for the night. The dance floor was nearly empty by then, and most of the guests had gone home. Some of the guests had partaken rather too heavily of the rich burgundy wine that was served later in the evening, and the servants were gently escorting such guests to their carriages or up to their rooms.

Everything seemed to have gone quiet all at once as the music stopped. There was no sound left in the ballroom but the whisper of servants and the scuff of furniture being moved as things were tidied away. The elegant, fastidious ballroom had been left in quite a rumple by her guests, but Percival found himself very pleased by the sight of that rumple, glad to see Linston Grange in proper use once again.

Sinking into a chair, Percival watched the guests dwindle away, remaining alert in case his authority was needed, but finding that the Grange staff—more than half of which he had hired personally—knew their business and carried it out with the utmost discretion.

“What shall you, Mr. Valentine?”

Surprised by the question, Percival looked up. Mr. Everett had approached him, and stood leaning against a chair quite near to Percival’s side.

“Shall I aught?” Percival replied, not certain what Mr. Everett was asking.

“Surely you cannot intend to sleep in that chair,” Mr. Everett said with a wry smile.

“Oh! No. No, I think not.”

“Then perhaps you will allow me to walk you home.”

“Oh!” Percival said. “No, no, certainly, not unless you will subsequently let
me
walk
you
home, and I think that combined journey would be rather too tiring for us both. I shall manage on my own.”

Mr. Everett’s smile widened with amusement at the thought of the two of them being eternally caught at walking between their two places of residence on account of being so polite as to insist upon walking the other home. “Perhaps, then, I may offer that you might bunk with me? To save you the long journey to Linston Manor so late at night, after a spirited evening.”

The suggestion was tempting, but Percival did not at all trust himself to accept, since he did not know how he might react while sleeping next to the highly distracting Mr. Everett. “I could not impose upon you, Mr. Everett.”

Mr. Everett looked away, and did not press the issue.

The silence between them felt weighty and painful. Something had been damaged in their friendship, and Percival still did not understand why.

“Mr. Everett,” he said softly.

His friend glanced over and waited for him to continue.

“I suppose that Miss Bolton has told you—unless, I suppose, perhaps she did not, in order to be discreet—that I, well, in regards to the matter on which we last spoke, that is, the matter of which we spoke… when we…”

“Mr. Valentine,” Mr. Everett interrupted, “really—”

Percival would not be stopped. “But I must—you
should
know—you see, Mr. Everett, that Miss Bolton declined my offer of courtship.”

This was received with a startled silence.

“My sympathies,” Mr. Everett said at last.

“Oh. Well.” Percival cleared his throat. He had not sought nor wanted condolences, although he realised belatedly how that might be the expected result in this situation. “I suppose I find I am really not so wrenched about it. Although Miss Bolton is really quite lovely, I’m not so certain that I desire marriage, nor that she would be very good match for me, nor certainly I for her, and overall I find myself entirely grateful that we are resolved to be nothing more than the very best of friends.”

“I see,” Mr. Everett said. Percival could not interpret his expression.

“Indeed, I almost think…” Percival bit his tongue, trying to determine what he was about to say and whether or not it was entirely foolish.

“Yes?”

The marble floor in front of him was polished to an exquisite shine, and Percival suddenly took great interest in it. “I almost think,” he said, “that my affections are truly drawn toward a different individual, although I am not at all certain whether such affections are appropriate.”

“Not Mr. Bolton, I hope.”

The words were playfully said, and so unexpected that Percival brayed once with laughter. “Ha! Oh, no! No, certainly not. Not Mr. Bolton. Though he is likewise really quite charming and were I to be inclined toward either of the Boltons—”

This train of thought suddenly seemed dreadfully incriminating and Percival swiftly diverted it. “That is to say, no. Um. No.”

“And if this inappropriate individual were to return your affections?” Mr. Everett asked, taking a seat near Percival.

Mr. Everett seemed earnest about his question. His expression was open and gentle, and he smiled at Percival.

“Oh,” said Percival. He cleared his throat again as he attempted to make sense of that in any other manner but the impossible belief that Mr. Everett shared his inclination to be distracted by members of his own gender. “I suppose I don’t know.”

“Stay the night, Mr. Valentine,” Mr. Everett suggested. “You shall share my bed. And,” he added, with a teasing glint in his eye, “you have my word that your honour shall survive entirely intact. We may, indeed, sleep with a sword betwixt us if it would comfort you.”

Percival blushed and grinned at the teasing, accepting Mr. Everett’s hand to pull him to his feet. “I trust your behaviour is above reproach, Mr. Everett.”

Once he was standing, Mr. Everett kept hold of his hand, and Percival thought, once again, that Mr. Everett might intend to kiss him.

A servant nearby made a small clatter with a dish and they were reminded of where they were. Mr. Everett released Percival’s hand.

“You will stay, then, Mr. Valentine?”

“I will,” Percival said. “If you are certain it is no imposition.”

Mr. Everett demurred politely that it was no imposition whatsoever, and to be sure he would be glad to know that Percival was safe abed and not at risk of turning his ankle on the country lane on his way home. This set Percival to discoursing on the nature of country lanes, particularly Linston’s country lanes, which Mr. Everett attended patiently while he steered Percival upstairs to bed.

B
y the time
Percival reached London, he was feeling quite thoroughly rattled, and had much remembered why he so despised travelling by carriage.

The streets in London were certainly an improvement than the potholed and muddy country roads, although Percival thought it scarcely possible that anything could be in much worse repair than the rural roads of England.

His thoughts, when he could manage to keep any thought in his head other than frustration at the rattling of the carriage, returned constantly to Mr. Everett. When they had shared Mr. Everett’s bed, perfectly chastely, Percival had expected himself to be sleepless due to distraction, but he found instead that he slept at once, and quite pleasantly. Mr. Everett made no improper move, which made Percival doubt as to whether he had ever thought or intended such a thing.

He wished very much to discuss this with Mr. Everett, and thought he might actually make an attempt to broach the subject at some time in the near future.

It would have to wait until he returned from London. He wanted the plans for the expansion of Linston to be put immediately into action, which would require architects and skilled builders, particularly those with experience expanding country villages without any damage to the industry and livelihood of its inhabitants.

Feeling entirely dizzy and ill by the time the carriage arrived in front of his cousin Agatha’s residence in London, Percival descended from the carriage and gulped air, which only made him feel a bit more ill. Agatha’s town house was in a perfectly respectable part of the Town, but the scent of London and the Thames remained pervasive.

Within the house, Agatha and her husband would be lurking. Percival considered packing back into the carriage and setting out for Linston forthwith.

Steeling his nerves, he climbed the steps and rang the bell.

A butler opened the door and let him in, and showed him into the front parlour to wait. He settled into a chair by the front window, nervously wringing at his gloves as he awaited his cousin.

He had not long to wait, though it was Agatha’s husband, Colonel James Willworth, who appeared first. The Colonel burst noisily through the door and paused upon the threshold to peer at Percival through his spying-glass. Being of ample girth and high self-importance, Colonel Willworth tended to puff out his chest as he strode. Unfortunately for the Colonel, he had rather less chest than belly, which made him appear as though he was going everywhere belly-first. “Percival! Dear lad, here you are.”

Making an effort not to prickle at the use of his first name, which Percival had always thought to be very familiar and unpleasantly patronising when it came from his cousin’s husband, Percival rose to his feet and pasted a polite smile on his face. “Good day, Colonel Willworth. I—“

“Well, did you send word you were coming, dear lad?” Colonel Willworth cut him off.

Percival bit his tongue and coloured, finding the colonel’s tendency to interrupt to be
very
trying on his nerves. “Indeed, I—”

“The letter must have been lost in the mail,” Colonel Willworth hypothesised, being uninterested in any account of events other than his own. “Really, I do think that it is simply intolerable that the mail service should be run in this addle-pated manner! Something should be done. Why, do you know, that last year I sent to my brother, Robert—I think you will remember Robert? He is married these days, to a most profligate shrew.”

Percival tightened his jaw and coloured further as he restrained the urge to make a defence of Mrs. Robert Willworth’s character. It was Percival’s opinion—having only met her the once—that the poor lady was uncommonly patient and long-suffering with the members of the Willworth family, but he knew that expressing as much would make no impact upon Colonel Willworth's perspective, and would most likely bring down further lecturing and wrath upon himself—and possibly, in belated fashion, upon poor Mrs. Robert Willworth herself.

“What was I saying? Oh, yes. The mail. Would you know that he has written to me that my letter from last year has only this month been delivered to him! It’s unacceptable! Indeed, I fully intend to—”

Percival was at this point spared from a detailed account of Colonel Willworth's planned campaign against the shockingly irresponsible mailboys of the world by the arrival of his cousin Agatha, now Mrs. James Willworth.

“Percival!” she exclaimed. Like her husband, she was middle-aged and somewhat stout, although she entered any room by the stern thrust of her large, bony shoulders, which made her as forcefully magnetic as she was overwhelming.

“Cousin Agatha,” Percival began, already exhausted by the force of their combined presence.

“You
wicked
boy, how shocking of you to simply turn up like this. Why didn’t you write?”

Percival opened his mouth to respond, but was saved from having to do so by Colonel Willworth, who was much loath to let anyone in the room other than himself answer questions, regardless of what the question might be.

“It seems that his letter was lost in the mail, my dove! Why, I’m certain that it’s those snitching mail boys again—greedy, lazy sorts every one! It’s them that’s causing the ruin of this country!”

“Oh! Oh!
Shocking!
” Mrs. Willworth agreed. “Percival, my poor boy, it’s a wonder you survived the journey at all. Did you have any trouble? Why, with the amount of footpads and adventurers on the roads these days! In fact, I quite think that the mail boys are most likely in league with the common footpads, don’t you suppose? It would be quite like them. Claim that they were set upon by footpads in order to cover up their own grasping laziness! Lud! Well, I do certainly think…”

This went on for several minutes more between the two of them, while Percival tried not to feel entirely dizzy from his long journey. He wished very much that one of them would eventually remember to invite him to sit and perhaps even to offer tea.

“Here,” Agatha said at last, “how long do you intend to stay, Percival? I shall ring for luncheon. You must be quite tired from your journey. Lo! I am quite tired at even the thought of it! Ha!”

There was the briefest pause in the Willworth’s discourse as Agatha reached to ring the bell for the servants, and Percival seized upon it. “Several days, I do think,” he said, speaking rapidly in order to take advantage of the brief opening in conversation. “Lord Barham has approved funds for the expansion of Linston, and I hope—”

“You always speak so
dreadfully
fast, Percival,” Agatha reprimanded him. “It is a shameful habit, and I do not know why your father never corrected you of it. In fact, I think he was rather shockingly lax with you in quite a variety of ways, but—lo!—it is not my place to comment on such things. Really, I always had my doubts about that man! Ever since he married your mother, my sweet cousin Eloise—oh and
she
was a headstrong one, wasn’t she? Off with him to his dreadful muddy little estate—” Agatha paused here, having at this point crossed even her own extremely lax views as to what portions of her own dialogue might give insult. Her wide face broke into a bright smile, which she probably intended as charming but Percival rather found intimidating. “And how
is
your little provincial estate, Percival?”

“Quite well,” Percival replied, making an effort to speak at a reasonable pace despite his certainty that he wasn’t going to make it through three sentences without being interrupted. “Linston Grange has the pleasure of three new tenants, you will recall that I wrote to you concerning them, and—”

The butler appeared at this point in response to the ringing of the bell, and Agatha immediately transferred her full attention to him and away from Percival, which she would have considered a shameless and unforgivable breach of manners if it had been perpetrated by anyone other than herself.

Percival bit his tongue and waited as she and Colonel Willworth meandered through a decision process as to what they wanted for lunch. This necessitated three entire changes of menu, during which Percival was repeatedly consulted and yet never given any opportunity to speak.

“Here, now, Percival,” Agatha said. “Will you sit! I hope you don’t intend to keep us standing around all afternoon!”

Percival sat.

“Dear boy,” Colonel Willworth said, “when do you suppose you’re going to be married? You sent to us with regards to the charming Miss Bolton—“

“Charming,” Agatha interrupted, “but of rather poor sense, don’t you think? It’s well that she comes from money, but that one needs a stern hand, I do think. It’s quite a pity you haven’t got one, Percival.”

“Too true, too true!” Colonel Willworth chorused. “When is the wedding, Percival?”

They both seemed to actually expect an answer to this. Percival cleared his throat and fidgeted. “In fact, I… Miss Bolton…”

“Spit it out, Percival!” Agatha snapped.

“Miss Bolton refused my suit.”

This was received with a shocked silence.

“
Well
,” Agatha said, whipping open her fan and beginning to rapidly air herself with it. “I always said that young woman was of
questionable
sense. Really, how does she ever expect to get a husband if she thinks—and at her age! She should be grateful to have
any
offers, much less one from such a
respectable
family—well, moderately respectable, I suppose…”

“Think nothing of it, Percival!” Colonel Willworth urged him. “You are well to be rid of such an inconstant jade! Really, I do wonder that you should have such poor taste as to have your head turned by a pretty face with a bit of fortune. You need
sense
, my boy, and quickly! You ought to be married.”

“Really, Percival,” Agatha agreed, “I can’t imagine why you haven’t married yet. You ought to have a wife to manage your estates, and you’re in such shocking disregard of your
duty
. You ought to be providing heirs for your lineage, really, what do you suppose would happen to your little country manor if you died without heir? I’ll tell you! It would revert to the crown, or, worse, it would be seized by those
grasping
Barhams! The way they seized upon the lands of the noble Lindsays! Why, when Eloise first told me how it all occurred, I was shocked!”

Percival thought that his cousin Agatha had a skewed perspective on the events surrounding the transfer of Linston Grange to the Barham lineage, but he knew better than to enlighten her.

“You know, Percival,” said Colonel Willworth, “it seems quite fortunate that you have arrived to-day! For we are in fact having a little soiree tomorrow evening, and there will be—won’t there, my sweet?—several eligible young ladies in attendance.”

“There will!” Agatha confirmed. “Which, I think, is very fortunate for you, Percival. I can’t imagine why you’ve delayed so long in the Season to come to London, as so many of the most eligible young ladies have already been snatched up, but there are still some to be had, and perhaps your trip to London will not be an absolute waste if you do manage to see yourself to a bride. Do say that you will attend.”

Percival did not correct her on the point that she could not know whether or not his trip to London should be a waste, considering that they had at no point allowed him to express the purpose of his trip. He gritted his teeth. “It would be my pleasure to attend, cousin Agatha,” he expressed.

“Really, Percival! You sound almost resentful. It is my utmost hope that a proper wife will take you in hand and improve your disposition somewhat. Certainly, as I was saying to my dear friend Mrs. Sybil Unston…”

A
s early as
he was able to escape from the Willworths at breakfast the next morning, Percival set out to meet with Lord Barham’s solicitor, Mr. Ibrahim.

The man held an impeccably respectable set of offices in Marylebone, and Percival was shown in promptly. Mr. Ibrahim sat behind his desk amidst a small city of neatly-arranged stacks of paperwork.

“Mr. Valentine!” The dark-complected man behind the desk rose at once to greet him with a friendly smile. “Here you are. I have been expecting you.”

Relieved to be expected by
someone
in this city, after the well of indignant surprise he’d encountered at his cousin’s residence, Percival greeted Mr. Ibrahim politely, and sat down in the indicated chair across from Mr. Ibrahim’s desk.

Percival had always judged the solicitor to be an Ottoman Turk, or perhaps an Egyptian, and was extremely curious about what might have led such a man to become a barrister in England—and, further, what difficulties he must have overcome to do so—but thought it would be indiscreet to inquire.

“Now, then,” said Mr. Ibrahim. “This is about the renovations to Linston, yes? How pleased you must be! I am sure this must appeal to your good industriousness. I am delighted for you. As you will see, I have drawn up a list of some recommendations of suitable candidates to do the design and construction. Here are their addresses, you may interview them at your leisure. I will, of course, be pleased to arrange the matter on your behalf if you prefer, but I know how you do love these sorts of matters and, of course, no one knows Linston better than you.”

Flushing happily at the praise and Mr. Ibrahim’s good-natured helpfulness, Percival looked over the list, which had included some notations regarding the known specialties of the architects and masons in question, and some suggestions as to where Percival might start. It was all very neatly and efficiently done, and would considerably shorten the time Percival needed to complete his tasks in London.

“This is very smartly done, Mr. Ibrahim! What a pleasure it is to know that I can always count on you.” Percival smiled happily at him, folding the list and tucking it away in his pocket. “You have my sincere thanks.”

“It is an utmost delight to see to the needs of yourself and my Lord Barham,” replied Mr. Ibrahim. He seemed to eternally be brimming with earnest friendliness, and it made Percival’s heart swell with trust and pride in their good solicitor. “Is there anything else you require at present, Mr. Valentine?”