Someone to Dance With (4/?)
Sep. 6th, 2011 02:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lapacifidoraTitle: Someone to Dance With (4/?)
Author: lapacifidora
Spoilers: Nothing. This is so completely AU, it doesn’t even register for spoilers.
Rating/ Warnings: PG-13
Word Count: 3,361
Disclaimers: Not mine. Although I think Dan Harmon knows this friend of mine and based Troy on her… The title is based on a line from Michael Penn’s No Myth.
Author’s note: This is all Caro’s fault. Blame her history obsession. As you may have guessed, this is drawing on P&P. I’ll be borrowing from both the Colin Firth and Kiera Knightly versions, as well as the book. No internet access for two weeks means a long update now.
***
Mr. Hawthorne entered Bennett’s Boarding House, removing his hat and sending the rain drops clinging to it spattering against the paneling of the front hall. A smirk crossed his lips as he considered how annoyed the widowed mother of two would be at the water and dirt he had brought in with him.
The stairs creaked as Annie descended, a hair pin stuck between her lips as she gathered several stubborn strands of hair that hung over her brow and twisted them back, securing them at her crown. She shook her head when she saw the tall man standing before the cloak pegs lining one side of the front hall.
“The good Lord must certainly keep an eye on you, Mr. Hawthorne.” She crossed her arms across her chest as she stood at the bottom of the stairs while he walked toward her.
“I am, though not practicing, still a man of the cloth and a servant of my Master, Miss Edison.” Mr. Hawthorne joined the petite brunette at the base of the stairs, and they both proceeded to the back parlor, where Mrs. Bennett could be heard reprimanding her two young sons. “Why should He not keep an eye on me, as you say?”
“It is simply that you never miss a single opportunity to take tea with us, Mr. Hawthorne.” Annie glanced sideways at the reverend and the corners of her mouth quirked up into a smile. “Surely that is most providential.” She nodded her thanks as he held open the door to the parlor for her.
“My dear Miss Edison, with both God and tea on my side, how can my life be anything but blessed?” Mr. Hawthorne settled himself into his customary chair and dug around in his waistcoat pockets, finally producing two handfuls of fresh chestnuts, which he held out to the Bennett boys. “Luke, Pitt, come relieve this old man of these ridiculous tree droppings.” He gave them a put upon look as they exclaimed in delight, rushing forward to retrieve the nuts. When they’d turned away, he gave them a fond smile and accepted the cup of tea Annie handed to him.
“Mr. Hawthorne.” Mrs. Bennett frowned, setting down a plate with a slightly steaming slice of steak pie upon it. “I must insist you cease calling young William by that ridiculous nickname.”
“But, my dear lady, that is why you named him as you did, is it not?” Mr. Hawthorne gestured to the boys, both currently employed sorting those chestnuts worth roasting from those they would string on cord to make noisy toys. “One for the Lord’s apostle and one for the Prime Minister?”
Mrs. Bennett harrumphed and returned her attention to her steak pie, glancing up at Annie, who stood by the bay window, looking out the rain-streaked panes into the desolate garden.
“Miss Edison! Come away from that window. You shall catch a chill.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bennett.” Annie crossed to the settee, leaning back into a corner and wrapping both hands around her tea cup for warmth. “I wonder that Britta has not yet returned.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Bennett licked the crumbs of puff pastry from her fork and eyed a plate of brown bread on the tea tray. “Everything is proceeding exactly according to my plans.”
“What?” “Good Lord!” Annie and Mr. Hawthorne spoke over each other, eyeing their hostess with gazes upset and annoyed, respectively.
“What do you mean, everything is proceeding according to your plans?”
“Yes, Madam, do tell: Are we to credit you with the rise and set of the sun and moon, in addition to this drear weather?”
“Mr. Hawthorne, really.” Mrs. Bennett sniffed disdainfully and sipped her tea before replying to Annie’s question.
“Miss Edison, you will recall that I denied Miss Perry permission to take the barouche and my matched greys, insisting instead that she ride to Anthroton Hall to take lunch with Miss Slater and Mrs. Duncan.” The widow lifted her chin and assumed a pose of self-satisfaction. “I supposed it would rain on Miss Perry during her journey, and that she might be invited to stay overnight, allowing her the opportunity to dine with Mr. Barnes. The more he is in her company, the more likely we shall have a wedding arranged before Christmas.”
“Madam, you assume too much!” Annie sat forward, setting her tea cup down on its saucer with a clatter. “Britta likes Mr. Barnes, certainly, but she is as like to set her cap at him as she is at that appalling Mr. Winger, if only for the fact that the latter’s assets are so much greater.”
“Miss Edison, I think you underestimate your friend.” Mrs. Bennett gave the brunette a reproving look.
“Stuff and bother. The girl’s quite right.” Mr. Hawthorne held out his empty cup to Annie, raising both brows in a silent request for a second cup. “Miss Perry means well, in her charitable efforts, but she is a poor bookkeeper and harbors a rather unattractive mercenary strain.”
“Well!” Mrs. Bennett looked shocked that both her de facto ward and her neighbor would attribute such ungenerous motives to the absent blonde.
“However, I suspected your ‘plans,’ such as they were,” Mr. Hawthorne’s tone implied his hostess had not been as cunning as she suspected, “are well met. I imagine Miss Perry will take ill and must indeed impose on young Mr. Barnes’ hospitality for one night, at least.”
“Take ill?” Annie’s face visibly paled and her eyes grew wide. “Do you suppose she is in any real danger?”
“Do not alarm yourself, Miss Edison.” Miss Bennett sent the reverend a warning glance. “I am certain Miss Perry will merely have a cough or an unsightly red nose. No one ever died of a little cold.”
“I must go to her and make sure she is not terribly ill.” Annie clasped her hands together and stood from the settee, taking a step in the direction of the hall.
“You will do no such thing, or I shall send you to your cousin’s house in the village, to watch their children.” Mrs. Bennett’s tone brooked no room for argument. “Miss Perry must have time to make an impression on Mr. Barnes.”
“And the more her nose drips and the more she sneezes on him, the stronger that impression will be.” Mr. Hawthorne hid his smirk behind the rim of his tea cup and focused on the tabby cat wending its way around and between his feet.
“Oh, Mr. Hawthorne, you do exaggerate.” Mrs. Bennett looked briefly uncomfortable at the thought that perhaps her machinations might work against her goal. She turned to Annie. “At the very least, Miss Edison, wait until we are certain Miss Perry is not herself before you run off in the rain and risk your own health.”
“I suppose you are, ma’am.” Annie sat down abruptly, looking back over her shoulder as a fresh shower poured down from the slate-colored sky. She turned back to her hostess and squared her shoulders. “But if Britta is ill, I shall go to Anthroton tomorrow to see how I might be of use to her.” She raised one eyebrow as she reached forward and took a slice of brown bread, pulling it apart absently. “Mr. Barnes’ cousins hardly seem the nursing type.”
“Sound reasoning, my dear.” Mr. Hawthorne nodded wisely in her direction. They were both silent as Mrs. Bennett gathered her sons and took them upstairs to their nursery for their supper and to put them to bed. When the Bennetts had gone, the reverend cleared his throat and waited for the brunette’s attention. “And if there is a note from our righteous little blonde in the morning post, sticky and clammy from her temporary sickbed, you shall have use of my horse to go keep her company and mop her brow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne.” Annie smiled for the first time in nearly a quarter of an hour, knowing his offer was as much an admission of concern for Britta as he was likely to make. “I should greatly appreciate it.”
***
The morning post brought the expected note from Britta: Brief and not entirely coherent, the blonde stated she had taken ill and was gratefully taking advantage of the hospitality of Mr. Barnes and his cousins.
A second note, penned by the gentleman himself, was equally brief but more clear: Miss Perry had arrived at Anthroton Hall the previous day, quite soaked through. (He wondered at her decision to ride rather than take a wagon or similar covered conveyance, but supposed she was perhaps a capable enough horsewoman that perhaps she had expected to reach his home before the torrent was loosed.) Following luncheon with Miss Slater and Mrs. Duncan, Miss Perry had mentioned an aching head and asked if she might impose for a quiet room where she could rest before returning home.
But by tea time, Miss Perry was caught in the throes of a fever and could not be roused, much less moved. He finished by stating that she would continue as his guest until such time as she improved, if Mrs. Bennett wished to send a few of her things along for her comfort, and that he would send for a physician if she had not improved by the afternoon.
Miss Edison scanned her friend’s note, wrinkling her nose as the confused language and furrowing her brow in worry. She read Mr. Barnes’ note more thoroughly, mentally listing which items Britta would need if she was to be his guest for several days. She informed Mrs. Bennett she would set out directly after breakfast and sent one of the maids to fetch such items as Britta would require.
Mr. Hawthorne’s arrival and announcement that a stiff breeze was already blowing the last of the storm clouds to the north and east interrupted the widow’s protestations. He visited the spread set on the sideboard and sat in his regular chair, placing a napkin on his lap and contemplating his ham steak intently.
“What ho, ladies!” He picked up his fork and knife and cut off a bite of ham, spearing a potato and adding a little horseradish with his knife. “What bees are buzzing in your bonnet so early on this glorious morning, Mrs. Bennett?”
“Mr. Hawthorne, Miss Edison says she will go directly to poor Miss Perry, who has taken to a borrowed bed with a simple chill, and I say she ought to wait a few days.”
“Hmm.” The reverend chewed, his eyes focused on the mantle of the fireplace opposite. “I see your point, Madam.” He held up his knife in a silencing gesture when Annie’s palm slapped down on the table top and she squeaked in outrage. “However, I had the stable boy saddle Gareth before I came here, and that horse does so hate being saddled and unsaddled for no reason.” He tipped his head to Annie and winked, smiling when a look of grateful happiness suffused her countenance. He turned his attention to Mrs. Bennett. “In the meantime, perhaps, you can enlighten me why your sister would be arguing with her husband at the water pump on the green at-” He glanced at a clock on the mantle. “Nine o’clock in the morning?”
Distracted by the dueling appeal of gossip and the thought of her happily married sister arguing with her spouse, Mrs. Bennett forgot all about Annie, who took the opportunity to slip from the dining parlor and climbed the stairs quickly.
***
Twenty minutes later, Annie stood in a field, shifting her weight from foot to foot so she would not sink into the mud and glaring at Mr. Hawthorne’s recalcitrant roan steed.
“Gareth.” The horse, nibbling daintily at a patch of grass surrounded by mud puddles, whickered and nodded in her direction. Annie tugged on his reins, her feet sliding slightly in the mud that covered both roads and fields from the previous day’s deluge. “For pity’s sake, you ridiculous horse: Come. On!” She stepped away from the horse, her boots squelching in the mud. Lifting her skirts with her free hand, she looked down at her feet – grimacing at the dirt coating the leather up to her ankles and the dark, damp stain climbing north from her hem – and stamped them before looking the horse in the eye. “See? I can manage to put up with these conditions. So can you.” The horse blinked at her once and returned to the patch of grass.
Annie tossed the reins over Gareth’s neck and turned her back on him, walking several steps away and stripping off a glove to rub at the nape of her neck, where the short hairs curled in the warm, moist air. She sighed and looked around for inspiration. Finding none, she turned back to face the horse, finding he had moved off a little way to a patch of clover. She lifted her chin and crossed back to the horse, pulling her glove back on with determination and putting her hands on her hips.
“Gareth.” She waited a moment and grit her teeth when he ignored her. “Gareth.” He looked up at her, his jaw working as he chewed. “Good. Now, listen to me. We-” She gestured between the two of them, “are going to see Britta.” His ears flicked forward at the sound of the blonde’s name. “That’s right: Britta. You like Britta. She slips you extra apples and is the only one with the patience to comb out your tail.” The horse looked at her, and then turned his head back in the direction of the village. “No, Britta’s not at home. Britta went a-visiting, and now she’s holed up at a friend’s home because she doesn’t feel well.” His ears turned and laid back flat against his head. “That’s right: Britta is ill. And you and I are going to go see her.” Annie closed her eyes, hoping the horse’s reactions weren’t simply her imagination. She opened them again to find Gareth had walked close enough to her that she could grasp his bridle on either side and look him straight in the eye. “Well, I’m going to see her first.” She held on when the horse shook his head and tried to pull away. “But your task is more important.” She looked around to his side and nodded at the saddlebags and the roll tied to the back of his saddle. “You’re carrying everything Britta needs to make her comfortable until she can come home.”
The horse and the brunette stared at each other for several minutes, until Annie took a chance and laid her hand on Gareth’s face, just above his warm nose. She shivered as he huffed a warm breath against her arm, the change in temperature raising goose flesh on the patch of skin between glove and sleeve.
“I know it is muddy and slippery, and I promise I won’t try to ride you anymore-” Annie paused as she remembered the brief but terrifying moment when Gareth nearly lost his footing on the rutted road. “But this would be so much easier if you would just follow me.” She swallowed. “Please?”
The horse considered her for a moment, then nudged her in the stomach. Annie took the reins from where they lay and offered the horse a relieve smile.
“Thank you.” She turned to continue toward Anthroton Hall, but slid a little when the horse didn’t follow. She looked back at him. “Erm. Thank you, Gareth.” He whickered again and began plodding forward, following the brunette.
“Excellent.” Annie muttered under her breath. “I am covered in mud. Negotiating. With a horse.”
***
“Ahem.” Troy’s footman stood just inside the doorway of the morning room. The quiet clearing of his throat was still enough to rouse Miss Slater, from her perusal of a letter from a countess she had encountered in Italy, and Jeff, from the newspaper he was using as a shield between himself and Miss Slater. They both looked up at the footman, who stood expressionless. “A Miss Ann Edison to see Miss Perry.”
“Whatever can she want?” Miss Slater sneered and looked to her companion. Jeff lowered the paper and blinked at her, trying to match a face to the name of their guest. He felt sure he had met a Miss Edison the other evening but could not remember if she was the tall, rather stout lady with auburn hair or the little brown-haired governess type. He shrugged, partly in response to Miss Slater’s question and partly in general confusion. “Well, show her in, for heaven’s sake. Don’t just stand there.” The footman bowed and exited the room, while Miss Slater put aside her letter and dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief. “Why Troy thought he could suffice with letting the house agent arrange for help is beyond me.
The sound of footsteps drew both their attention to the doorway, where the footman showed Annie in with a sharp little nod before he retreated.
Standing in the grand morning room, which dwarfed not only Mrs. Bennett’s front parlor but also the great room of Whitman Lodge, Annie felt a moment’s unease. However, a look at the faces of both Miss Slater and Mr. Winger, showing forced politeness and disinterest, respectively, restored her nerve.
“Good morning.” Annie cleared her throat and continued in a louder tone, as neither had made a move to invite her to come forward and take a seat. “I apologize for intruding on your business. I wish to see Miss Perry, who I understand is not in good health. I shan’t impose on your time longer than to discover where I might find her.”
“Of course.” Miss Slater reached for a small bell and rang it once. She looked Annie over, from head to toe, and her disapproval was difficult not to notice. “Miss Perry is fortunate to have such a dedicated…friend.” Her eyes flicked to the maid who entered behind Annie. “Please show Miss Edison to Miss Perry’s room, and provide her with whatever she may need.” She looked back at Annie and twisted her mouth into something resembling a smile. “Do let us know how she gets on.”
Annie curtsied quickly and turned to follow the maid to Britta’s room.
Miss Slater sipped at her tea, grimacing when she found it cold and reached over for the pot, which sat on a tray between her and Jeff. She looked up and noticed that Jeff’s attention was still rooted to the spot where Annie had stood moments before, an unreadable expression on his face. Her eyes narrowed as she sipped her tea and cleared her throat.
“Did you see her hem? Six-inches deep in mud, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Hmm?” Jeff shook his head and looked over at Miss Slater, blinking when he realized he’d made the mistake of engaging her attention. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I should not be surprised to learn she walked the entire way here.” Miss Slater looked down at her letter, glancing up at Jeff and frowning when she saw his attention had returned to the spot where Annie had been. “Her complexion was a rather unnatural shade, I believe. That kind of exertion is hardly the mark of a lady. Don’t you agree?”
“Hmm.” Jeff turned his attention back to his paper, shaking it out as he raised it between them again. “I am afraid I could not say.”
Frustrated, Miss Slater returned her tea cup to its saucer forcefully enough to send the liquid sloshing out onto the table cover. She picked up her letter and stood, sweeping from the room indignantly.
Jeff glanced over toward the door again, the impression of sleek, dark hair clinging to flushed cheeks; of wide, bright eyes; of a breathless voice; of a slightly damp dress clinging to a pair of legs – no doubt covered in gooseflesh from the change in temperature between outdoors and in – burned into his brain.
He frowned as he compared this Miss Edison with the recollection of the young lady he’d met at the assembly. Not exactly a mousy governess type. His frown deepened. Not at all.
Author: lapacifidora
Spoilers: Nothing. This is so completely AU, it doesn’t even register for spoilers.
Rating/ Warnings: PG-13
Word Count: 3,361
Disclaimers: Not mine. Although I think Dan Harmon knows this friend of mine and based Troy on her… The title is based on a line from Michael Penn’s No Myth.
Author’s note: This is all Caro’s fault. Blame her history obsession. As you may have guessed, this is drawing on P&P. I’ll be borrowing from both the Colin Firth and Kiera Knightly versions, as well as the book. No internet access for two weeks means a long update now.
***
Mr. Hawthorne entered Bennett’s Boarding House, removing his hat and sending the rain drops clinging to it spattering against the paneling of the front hall. A smirk crossed his lips as he considered how annoyed the widowed mother of two would be at the water and dirt he had brought in with him.
The stairs creaked as Annie descended, a hair pin stuck between her lips as she gathered several stubborn strands of hair that hung over her brow and twisted them back, securing them at her crown. She shook her head when she saw the tall man standing before the cloak pegs lining one side of the front hall.
“The good Lord must certainly keep an eye on you, Mr. Hawthorne.” She crossed her arms across her chest as she stood at the bottom of the stairs while he walked toward her.
“I am, though not practicing, still a man of the cloth and a servant of my Master, Miss Edison.” Mr. Hawthorne joined the petite brunette at the base of the stairs, and they both proceeded to the back parlor, where Mrs. Bennett could be heard reprimanding her two young sons. “Why should He not keep an eye on me, as you say?”
“It is simply that you never miss a single opportunity to take tea with us, Mr. Hawthorne.” Annie glanced sideways at the reverend and the corners of her mouth quirked up into a smile. “Surely that is most providential.” She nodded her thanks as he held open the door to the parlor for her.
“My dear Miss Edison, with both God and tea on my side, how can my life be anything but blessed?” Mr. Hawthorne settled himself into his customary chair and dug around in his waistcoat pockets, finally producing two handfuls of fresh chestnuts, which he held out to the Bennett boys. “Luke, Pitt, come relieve this old man of these ridiculous tree droppings.” He gave them a put upon look as they exclaimed in delight, rushing forward to retrieve the nuts. When they’d turned away, he gave them a fond smile and accepted the cup of tea Annie handed to him.
“Mr. Hawthorne.” Mrs. Bennett frowned, setting down a plate with a slightly steaming slice of steak pie upon it. “I must insist you cease calling young William by that ridiculous nickname.”
“But, my dear lady, that is why you named him as you did, is it not?” Mr. Hawthorne gestured to the boys, both currently employed sorting those chestnuts worth roasting from those they would string on cord to make noisy toys. “One for the Lord’s apostle and one for the Prime Minister?”
Mrs. Bennett harrumphed and returned her attention to her steak pie, glancing up at Annie, who stood by the bay window, looking out the rain-streaked panes into the desolate garden.
“Miss Edison! Come away from that window. You shall catch a chill.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bennett.” Annie crossed to the settee, leaning back into a corner and wrapping both hands around her tea cup for warmth. “I wonder that Britta has not yet returned.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Bennett licked the crumbs of puff pastry from her fork and eyed a plate of brown bread on the tea tray. “Everything is proceeding exactly according to my plans.”
“What?” “Good Lord!” Annie and Mr. Hawthorne spoke over each other, eyeing their hostess with gazes upset and annoyed, respectively.
“What do you mean, everything is proceeding according to your plans?”
“Yes, Madam, do tell: Are we to credit you with the rise and set of the sun and moon, in addition to this drear weather?”
“Mr. Hawthorne, really.” Mrs. Bennett sniffed disdainfully and sipped her tea before replying to Annie’s question.
“Miss Edison, you will recall that I denied Miss Perry permission to take the barouche and my matched greys, insisting instead that she ride to Anthroton Hall to take lunch with Miss Slater and Mrs. Duncan.” The widow lifted her chin and assumed a pose of self-satisfaction. “I supposed it would rain on Miss Perry during her journey, and that she might be invited to stay overnight, allowing her the opportunity to dine with Mr. Barnes. The more he is in her company, the more likely we shall have a wedding arranged before Christmas.”
“Madam, you assume too much!” Annie sat forward, setting her tea cup down on its saucer with a clatter. “Britta likes Mr. Barnes, certainly, but she is as like to set her cap at him as she is at that appalling Mr. Winger, if only for the fact that the latter’s assets are so much greater.”
“Miss Edison, I think you underestimate your friend.” Mrs. Bennett gave the brunette a reproving look.
“Stuff and bother. The girl’s quite right.” Mr. Hawthorne held out his empty cup to Annie, raising both brows in a silent request for a second cup. “Miss Perry means well, in her charitable efforts, but she is a poor bookkeeper and harbors a rather unattractive mercenary strain.”
“Well!” Mrs. Bennett looked shocked that both her de facto ward and her neighbor would attribute such ungenerous motives to the absent blonde.
“However, I suspected your ‘plans,’ such as they were,” Mr. Hawthorne’s tone implied his hostess had not been as cunning as she suspected, “are well met. I imagine Miss Perry will take ill and must indeed impose on young Mr. Barnes’ hospitality for one night, at least.”
“Take ill?” Annie’s face visibly paled and her eyes grew wide. “Do you suppose she is in any real danger?”
“Do not alarm yourself, Miss Edison.” Miss Bennett sent the reverend a warning glance. “I am certain Miss Perry will merely have a cough or an unsightly red nose. No one ever died of a little cold.”
“I must go to her and make sure she is not terribly ill.” Annie clasped her hands together and stood from the settee, taking a step in the direction of the hall.
“You will do no such thing, or I shall send you to your cousin’s house in the village, to watch their children.” Mrs. Bennett’s tone brooked no room for argument. “Miss Perry must have time to make an impression on Mr. Barnes.”
“And the more her nose drips and the more she sneezes on him, the stronger that impression will be.” Mr. Hawthorne hid his smirk behind the rim of his tea cup and focused on the tabby cat wending its way around and between his feet.
“Oh, Mr. Hawthorne, you do exaggerate.” Mrs. Bennett looked briefly uncomfortable at the thought that perhaps her machinations might work against her goal. She turned to Annie. “At the very least, Miss Edison, wait until we are certain Miss Perry is not herself before you run off in the rain and risk your own health.”
“I suppose you are, ma’am.” Annie sat down abruptly, looking back over her shoulder as a fresh shower poured down from the slate-colored sky. She turned back to her hostess and squared her shoulders. “But if Britta is ill, I shall go to Anthroton tomorrow to see how I might be of use to her.” She raised one eyebrow as she reached forward and took a slice of brown bread, pulling it apart absently. “Mr. Barnes’ cousins hardly seem the nursing type.”
“Sound reasoning, my dear.” Mr. Hawthorne nodded wisely in her direction. They were both silent as Mrs. Bennett gathered her sons and took them upstairs to their nursery for their supper and to put them to bed. When the Bennetts had gone, the reverend cleared his throat and waited for the brunette’s attention. “And if there is a note from our righteous little blonde in the morning post, sticky and clammy from her temporary sickbed, you shall have use of my horse to go keep her company and mop her brow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne.” Annie smiled for the first time in nearly a quarter of an hour, knowing his offer was as much an admission of concern for Britta as he was likely to make. “I should greatly appreciate it.”
***
The morning post brought the expected note from Britta: Brief and not entirely coherent, the blonde stated she had taken ill and was gratefully taking advantage of the hospitality of Mr. Barnes and his cousins.
A second note, penned by the gentleman himself, was equally brief but more clear: Miss Perry had arrived at Anthroton Hall the previous day, quite soaked through. (He wondered at her decision to ride rather than take a wagon or similar covered conveyance, but supposed she was perhaps a capable enough horsewoman that perhaps she had expected to reach his home before the torrent was loosed.) Following luncheon with Miss Slater and Mrs. Duncan, Miss Perry had mentioned an aching head and asked if she might impose for a quiet room where she could rest before returning home.
But by tea time, Miss Perry was caught in the throes of a fever and could not be roused, much less moved. He finished by stating that she would continue as his guest until such time as she improved, if Mrs. Bennett wished to send a few of her things along for her comfort, and that he would send for a physician if she had not improved by the afternoon.
Miss Edison scanned her friend’s note, wrinkling her nose as the confused language and furrowing her brow in worry. She read Mr. Barnes’ note more thoroughly, mentally listing which items Britta would need if she was to be his guest for several days. She informed Mrs. Bennett she would set out directly after breakfast and sent one of the maids to fetch such items as Britta would require.
Mr. Hawthorne’s arrival and announcement that a stiff breeze was already blowing the last of the storm clouds to the north and east interrupted the widow’s protestations. He visited the spread set on the sideboard and sat in his regular chair, placing a napkin on his lap and contemplating his ham steak intently.
“What ho, ladies!” He picked up his fork and knife and cut off a bite of ham, spearing a potato and adding a little horseradish with his knife. “What bees are buzzing in your bonnet so early on this glorious morning, Mrs. Bennett?”
“Mr. Hawthorne, Miss Edison says she will go directly to poor Miss Perry, who has taken to a borrowed bed with a simple chill, and I say she ought to wait a few days.”
“Hmm.” The reverend chewed, his eyes focused on the mantle of the fireplace opposite. “I see your point, Madam.” He held up his knife in a silencing gesture when Annie’s palm slapped down on the table top and she squeaked in outrage. “However, I had the stable boy saddle Gareth before I came here, and that horse does so hate being saddled and unsaddled for no reason.” He tipped his head to Annie and winked, smiling when a look of grateful happiness suffused her countenance. He turned his attention to Mrs. Bennett. “In the meantime, perhaps, you can enlighten me why your sister would be arguing with her husband at the water pump on the green at-” He glanced at a clock on the mantle. “Nine o’clock in the morning?”
Distracted by the dueling appeal of gossip and the thought of her happily married sister arguing with her spouse, Mrs. Bennett forgot all about Annie, who took the opportunity to slip from the dining parlor and climbed the stairs quickly.
***
Twenty minutes later, Annie stood in a field, shifting her weight from foot to foot so she would not sink into the mud and glaring at Mr. Hawthorne’s recalcitrant roan steed.
“Gareth.” The horse, nibbling daintily at a patch of grass surrounded by mud puddles, whickered and nodded in her direction. Annie tugged on his reins, her feet sliding slightly in the mud that covered both roads and fields from the previous day’s deluge. “For pity’s sake, you ridiculous horse: Come. On!” She stepped away from the horse, her boots squelching in the mud. Lifting her skirts with her free hand, she looked down at her feet – grimacing at the dirt coating the leather up to her ankles and the dark, damp stain climbing north from her hem – and stamped them before looking the horse in the eye. “See? I can manage to put up with these conditions. So can you.” The horse blinked at her once and returned to the patch of grass.
Annie tossed the reins over Gareth’s neck and turned her back on him, walking several steps away and stripping off a glove to rub at the nape of her neck, where the short hairs curled in the warm, moist air. She sighed and looked around for inspiration. Finding none, she turned back to face the horse, finding he had moved off a little way to a patch of clover. She lifted her chin and crossed back to the horse, pulling her glove back on with determination and putting her hands on her hips.
“Gareth.” She waited a moment and grit her teeth when he ignored her. “Gareth.” He looked up at her, his jaw working as he chewed. “Good. Now, listen to me. We-” She gestured between the two of them, “are going to see Britta.” His ears flicked forward at the sound of the blonde’s name. “That’s right: Britta. You like Britta. She slips you extra apples and is the only one with the patience to comb out your tail.” The horse looked at her, and then turned his head back in the direction of the village. “No, Britta’s not at home. Britta went a-visiting, and now she’s holed up at a friend’s home because she doesn’t feel well.” His ears turned and laid back flat against his head. “That’s right: Britta is ill. And you and I are going to go see her.” Annie closed her eyes, hoping the horse’s reactions weren’t simply her imagination. She opened them again to find Gareth had walked close enough to her that she could grasp his bridle on either side and look him straight in the eye. “Well, I’m going to see her first.” She held on when the horse shook his head and tried to pull away. “But your task is more important.” She looked around to his side and nodded at the saddlebags and the roll tied to the back of his saddle. “You’re carrying everything Britta needs to make her comfortable until she can come home.”
The horse and the brunette stared at each other for several minutes, until Annie took a chance and laid her hand on Gareth’s face, just above his warm nose. She shivered as he huffed a warm breath against her arm, the change in temperature raising goose flesh on the patch of skin between glove and sleeve.
“I know it is muddy and slippery, and I promise I won’t try to ride you anymore-” Annie paused as she remembered the brief but terrifying moment when Gareth nearly lost his footing on the rutted road. “But this would be so much easier if you would just follow me.” She swallowed. “Please?”
The horse considered her for a moment, then nudged her in the stomach. Annie took the reins from where they lay and offered the horse a relieve smile.
“Thank you.” She turned to continue toward Anthroton Hall, but slid a little when the horse didn’t follow. She looked back at him. “Erm. Thank you, Gareth.” He whickered again and began plodding forward, following the brunette.
“Excellent.” Annie muttered under her breath. “I am covered in mud. Negotiating. With a horse.”
***
“Ahem.” Troy’s footman stood just inside the doorway of the morning room. The quiet clearing of his throat was still enough to rouse Miss Slater, from her perusal of a letter from a countess she had encountered in Italy, and Jeff, from the newspaper he was using as a shield between himself and Miss Slater. They both looked up at the footman, who stood expressionless. “A Miss Ann Edison to see Miss Perry.”
“Whatever can she want?” Miss Slater sneered and looked to her companion. Jeff lowered the paper and blinked at her, trying to match a face to the name of their guest. He felt sure he had met a Miss Edison the other evening but could not remember if she was the tall, rather stout lady with auburn hair or the little brown-haired governess type. He shrugged, partly in response to Miss Slater’s question and partly in general confusion. “Well, show her in, for heaven’s sake. Don’t just stand there.” The footman bowed and exited the room, while Miss Slater put aside her letter and dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief. “Why Troy thought he could suffice with letting the house agent arrange for help is beyond me.
The sound of footsteps drew both their attention to the doorway, where the footman showed Annie in with a sharp little nod before he retreated.
Standing in the grand morning room, which dwarfed not only Mrs. Bennett’s front parlor but also the great room of Whitman Lodge, Annie felt a moment’s unease. However, a look at the faces of both Miss Slater and Mr. Winger, showing forced politeness and disinterest, respectively, restored her nerve.
“Good morning.” Annie cleared her throat and continued in a louder tone, as neither had made a move to invite her to come forward and take a seat. “I apologize for intruding on your business. I wish to see Miss Perry, who I understand is not in good health. I shan’t impose on your time longer than to discover where I might find her.”
“Of course.” Miss Slater reached for a small bell and rang it once. She looked Annie over, from head to toe, and her disapproval was difficult not to notice. “Miss Perry is fortunate to have such a dedicated…friend.” Her eyes flicked to the maid who entered behind Annie. “Please show Miss Edison to Miss Perry’s room, and provide her with whatever she may need.” She looked back at Annie and twisted her mouth into something resembling a smile. “Do let us know how she gets on.”
Annie curtsied quickly and turned to follow the maid to Britta’s room.
Miss Slater sipped at her tea, grimacing when she found it cold and reached over for the pot, which sat on a tray between her and Jeff. She looked up and noticed that Jeff’s attention was still rooted to the spot where Annie had stood moments before, an unreadable expression on his face. Her eyes narrowed as she sipped her tea and cleared her throat.
“Did you see her hem? Six-inches deep in mud, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Hmm?” Jeff shook his head and looked over at Miss Slater, blinking when he realized he’d made the mistake of engaging her attention. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I should not be surprised to learn she walked the entire way here.” Miss Slater looked down at her letter, glancing up at Jeff and frowning when she saw his attention had returned to the spot where Annie had been. “Her complexion was a rather unnatural shade, I believe. That kind of exertion is hardly the mark of a lady. Don’t you agree?”
“Hmm.” Jeff turned his attention back to his paper, shaking it out as he raised it between them again. “I am afraid I could not say.”
Frustrated, Miss Slater returned her tea cup to its saucer forcefully enough to send the liquid sloshing out onto the table cover. She picked up her letter and stood, sweeping from the room indignantly.
Jeff glanced over toward the door again, the impression of sleek, dark hair clinging to flushed cheeks; of wide, bright eyes; of a breathless voice; of a slightly damp dress clinging to a pair of legs – no doubt covered in gooseflesh from the change in temperature between outdoors and in – burned into his brain.
He frowned as he compared this Miss Edison with the recollection of the young lady he’d met at the assembly. Not exactly a mousy governess type. His frown deepened. Not at all.
