Learning to Waltz (34 page)

In any case, there was a new member of the household to consider. Evan expected her to welcome her mother into her home. She expected no less from herself, though it would be a financial hardship. Well, he could hardly expect that she would walk right out again to marry him, leaving Mama to fend for herself.

Though she ached to see him again, she was sorry when he arrived the next day. She was purposely cool to him, and when he left, it was Julian who saw him out the side gate. She did not want to be alone with him. She was not prepared for the necessary conversation and could not allow further intimacies under the circumstances.

When Julian returned to the parlor, he was full of the new mare Mr. Haffield had brought. “She ate a lump of sugar from my hand, Mama!” Deborah pretended an interest and wished “Mr. Haffield” had not returned to Whately.

The third day he was occupied with Lord Latimer’s wedding and did not come at all. She was glad of it and spent the day on the verge of tears. She found herself resenting the viscount, though she was not so uncharitable as to hope the evening rain had ruined the festivities.

She hardly thought to see Evan the following day, either. The rain continued its onslaught all morning until the yard and roads were a quagmire. But he appeared at the kitchen door sometime after noon, mud on his boots and rain dripping from his greatcoat.

He apologized for all that. “I thought my mess might be more welcome if I confined it to the kitchen.”

It was her place to confirm that welcome, but it came instead from Julian, from Pelleas, from her mother, and even from Molly. She forced herself to turn back toward the chicken she was cleaning while the hubbub went on behind her back.

“Will you take some coffee, Mr. Haverfield?” inquired her mother. Deborah pressed her lips together, holding in a screech of frustration. She thought he hesitated a moment before accepting the invitation.

She tried to shoo them all into the parlor, but they seemed stubbornly obtuse. Instead they milled about, discussing Gulliver’s adventures that Julian had been reading to them, haltingly, before Evan’s arrival.

Her mother prepared the coffeepot while Molly took down the cups, spoons, and sugar and ladled a bit of cream from its stoneware crock. Julian climbed onto a stool to reach down the tin of biscuits. And Evan appeared at her side.

Her hands were wet with chicken juices, but he laid a gentle hand on her forearm. A curious warmth ran up her arm and all through her chest and belly. It was very distracting.

He spoke softly, taking advantage of the chatter to snatch a few private words. “What is it, Deborah?” When she still did not look at him, he repeated her name.

She had to look then. But she had insufficient mastery of her face, and whatever he saw there caused his expression to change from concern to wariness or even—if the thought were not ludicrous—dread.

He cleared his throat. “We need to talk. Will you ride with me in the morning?”

Her attention returned to the chicken. “I can’t possibly. I have far too much to do here to go pleasuring about the countryside.”

Her voice came out sharper than she intended, catching the unwelcome attention of her mother. “Nonsense, Deborah. We can manage quite well without you for an hour or two.”

Deborah clenched her teeth.

“Can I come too?” asked Julian.

Evan released her arm and turned away, but Grandmama beat him to a plausible excuse. “Oh dear, Julian, I was counting on your help finding all your mama’s sewing supplies and reading your new book to me while I work on my gown.”

Evan smiled first at Mrs. Carlington and then at Julian. “Let’s plan on the day after, then. Will that suit you, Master Moore?”

Julian giggled. “Yes, that will be excellent, my good sir.”

They shook hands on it.

Deborah arrived at the Manor early. Her mother had all but pushed her out the door.

After the conversation they had last night when Julian had gone to bed, Deborah could be in no doubt where her mother stood on any issue involving Evan Haverfield—on his side.

“Is he not the most agreeable man, Deborah?” They were cutting the pieces for a sorely needed dress. During the morning, they had picked apart one of Mrs. Carlington’s old gowns and were using this as a pattern. “So obliging and patient. So good-natured.”

“Yes, he’s very nice. He’s been more than kind to us.”
Nice. Kind.
Stupid words.
Gentle. Considerate. Generous.
Oh, just say
perfect
and be done with it!

“Why do you not like him?”

“Of course I like him, ma’am.”

“Do you?” Squinting, she paused to negotiate a sharp corner with Deborah’s scissors. “It doesn’t show.”

“I’m not one to wear my heart on my sleeve, Mama.”

“And I’m not one to advocate marriage for its own sake. You know that.” They were silent for a few minutes, cutting and pinning. “But if you had any thought of marrying again— Well, you’d be a damned fool to turn him down. You could look for the rest of your life and not find—”

“I know that, Mama.” It was a struggle to speak.

Her mother peered at her through clouded eyes. “There, there. That’s all I’ll say. Except that the man deserves honest dealing, whatever you decide.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she muttered. She could hardly disagree. With all he’d done for them, honesty was the least she could give in return.

But it was with gritty eyes and a heavy heart that she greeted Julian’s friend, Jeremy, in the stableyard this morning. He and another groom were readying a traveling carriage for a journey; the guests would all be leaving today, Deborah supposed, since the weather had been so inclement yesterday. The roads were still messy—her boots were proof of that—but they seemed passable.

She knew from Miss Latimer—no, she was Mrs. Charles Reston now—that the viscount and his bride planned a honeymoon in Paris and Vienna. “
Her
choice, not his, you may be sure!” she had said. Deborah wondered if they had gotten away or were still stuck at the Manor with all their guests.

“Good morning, Jeremy.”

“Mornin’, missus. Where’s your young man, then?”

With Evan on her mind, for a moment Deborah thought he meant
that
sort of young man. But he must be referring to Julian. She shook her head, more at herself than at Jeremy. “I hardly supposed you'd have time today to keep him out of trouble.”

He looked ruefully at the carriage he was working on, with its crest and gilt trim, and at another, more ordinary vehicle that was pulled out into the yard as they spoke. “Well, he’s never a mite o’ trouble, but it’s sure I couldn’t give him the attention I'd like.”

Their riding lessons had ended, perforce, when the pony Julian had been riding was returned to the squire’s stables after Miss Latimer’s marriage. She had kindly offered the continued use of little Plum there, but Reston Park was too far—and besides, there would be no Jeremy. The groom had seemed almost as disappointed as the student and encouraged him to spend “all the time your mama can spare you” haunting the Manor’s stables. Well, Deborah deemed Julian a little too young yet to send by himself, and though Jeremy himself was agreeable, she could not imagine that Viscount Latimer and his new bride would relish miscellaneous urchins hanging about the place.

“Has Mr. Haverfield come down, Jeremy?”

“No, ma’am, I've not seen him yet. I know Grady has orders for your horses, though. You’ll find him inside.” He motioned with a jerk of his head.

Deborah left the bright morning outside and entered the welcoming, fragrant dimness of the stable. She roamed at random, stroking a soft nose where it was offered and murmuring inane endearments. Every stall was occupied, some twice over, with the hacks and carriage horses that had brought the wedding guests to Whately. But Lookout was already saddled and drowsing patiently in the corridor. Miss Latimer’s mare that Deborah had ridden during Elizabeth’s visit was gone, but she found Imp sharing space with another horse she did not know.

By the rear door of the stable where it opened into the paddock, Grady stood grooming a big white mare. Deborah smiled at him, a little shyly. She knew he and Evan had a long history together and that he groomed his master as well as his master’s horses. Likely he knew how Evan felt about things… about her. He himself had always seemed to regard her with skepticism, as though he thought her not good enough for his master. Well, she wasn't. She could not argue with him there.

He greeted her cordially today, however. “G’morning, ma’am. Beautiful day for a ride.”

“Hello, Grady. Is this the new mare my son told me about?”

“It is, ma’am. Master picked her up in Dawlish.”

She stroked that smooth neck, averting her face.
Dawlish? As well as Lydford?
“What’s her name?”

“Doesn’t have one. I believe it’ll be for you to decide.”

“Me?” She gazed at him in surprise.

He smiled back. “She ain’t much to look at, ma’am, but she moves real well, and she’s real sweet-tempered. She’s meant as a wedding present, if I ain’t mistaken.”

Deborah blushed furiously at this. “He hasn’t even asked me,” she muttered.

“He will, Missus Moore. An’ I hope you don’t mind me saying, I trust you’ll say yes and put the man out o’ his misery.”

“Has it been so bad?”

“Worse, ma’am. Much worse.”

Deborah felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes.

She had come to the Manor this morning prepared to give Evan that honest dealing her mother had spoken of. But she had convinced herself that he had arrived in Whately with no intention whatsoever of renewing his offer, so that all she needed to do was persuade him she neither wanted nor expected it. Instead, she would need to persuade him of what
she
already knew—that however he felt about her, he would be better off without her. It would be a far more difficult task.

She followed Evan out of the stable yard and they rode across a meadow dotted with oaks and anemones. Deborah had been over most of the Manor grounds with Elizabeth, and she recognized this route. It would lead them through a shady stretch of woodland and then downhill to a stream, not far from where it tumbled into the river.

Their conversation was strained. Perhaps he, too, was reluctant to come to grips with the subject that lay between them. Deborah thanked him for the book he had brought her, and Evan asked after Mrs. Carlington, and Julian, and how they were getting on together. Obvious, innocuous things. She asked how the viscount’s wedding had gone.

Then he solicited her opinion on the mare. She commented on the intelligent look in her eyes and her happy disposition. And since they had done no more than amble halfway across the meadow, she could legitimately request a chance to try out her other paces before rendering judgment.

The horses needed little encouragement to trot, which was not conducive to intimate discussion. The canter that followed was so smooth, Deborah might have imagined herself to be floating on a well-behaved magic carpet had the circumstances been happier. And still conversation was averted.

She was very glad she’d ridden recently with Elizabeth, but she had to demur when Evan suggested a gallop. “It scares me,” she confessed. Feeling wretched, she pulled the mare back to a walk.

“I can vouch for her gallop, in any event,” said Evan. “We had a mad, glorious race with the rain along the strand.”

“Who won?”

“Oh, the rain. By many lengths.”

“That was in Dawlish?”

“It was,” he replied. This was followed by silence. When she risked a glance at his face, he was frowning.

Honest dealing.
She was perspiring, and her stomach hurt.

She launched into the alternative oration she had outlined in her head the night before long after the household was asleep, pacing the small, unoccupied space in her little parlor where she had once waltzed in the dark with this perfect man. She’d hoped not to need this version at all.

She talked about her mother and the need to care for her.

“I’ve been assuming she would live with us. I like her.”

She talked about his family.

“They will have their doubts, but they’ll come around.”

She talked as they rode through the woods about his position as heir to his father’s estates and how untrained she was to manage such a household.

“
Untrained
implies a learnable skill. You could learn all that. If you wanted to."

She talked about her ineligibility as a Society hostess—her shyness, her ignorance of politics, her social ineptitude.

“I'm not looking for a Society hostess.”

In desperation, as the stream came into view, she attempted to paint for him the dread picture in her mind of her continuing failures, his gradual disillusionment and discontent, and deep unhappiness for them both.

“There is risk in everything.” His voice sounded harsh. “I can’t speak for you, but these last few months have been absolute hell. I never—”

She could not let him continue in
that
vein. “I know, Evan. But look at this future I'm seeing. Better to spend a few months in hell than the rest of our lives in misery. You’ll get over this soon enough and find some totally worthy woman with none of the deficiencies I would inflict upon you.
She’s
the one you want, Evan.
She
can make you happy.”