Page 12 of Provoked

“Mr. Lauriston, how nice to see you again.” She was a plain, sallow-skinned woman with mouse-brown hair, unassuming in her manner and easy to overlook. When she spoke, though, her distinctive American accent was warm and confident.

David took her proffered hand and bowed over it awkwardly, fretting inwardly over his pose and the correctness of the distance between her gloved hand and his face. He was always embarrassed by social niceties. He’d been taught at his father’s knee to look past all that; taught that the substance of a man’s character mattered more than the polish of his manners. His father—an elder of the church and a good Presbyterian—would think it absurd to judge a man by the way he held his cutlery, and for some reason, it made David feel disloyal to him whenever he tried to master such inconsequentialities.

“Allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Chalmers and their daughter, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Jeffrey said, curling her arm around David’s and drawing him over to the other guests. “Though of course, you must know Mr. Chalmers already.”

David realised he did recognise the paunchy, balding man who had risen from his chair as Mrs. Jeffrey approached with David in tow. Patrick Chalmers was a senior advocate, a man David had never spoken to or, he was sure, been noticed by. Highly regarded by the judges, Chalmers had no shortage of work and was an influential man in the faculty. David was surprised Jeffrey knew the man well enough to ask him to dine. They ordinarily moved in very different circles.

“Ah yes,” Chalmers said, shaking the hand David offered. “Mr. Lauriston, of course.” It was polite of him to pretend he knew who David was, and David was properly grateful.

“It’s good to see you, sir,” he replied earnestly.

“My wife, Mrs. Chalmers,” the older man said, gesturing at the lady seated behind him.

David executed another inelegant bow, and Mrs. Chalmers gave a chilly sort of nod. She was a spare, grey-haired lady of around fifty years with a querulous expression that looked to be permanent. David felt rather like a leg of lamb as she looked him over assessingly.

“And my daughter, Elizabeth.” Chalmers’s voice warmed, his jowly face indulgent as he looked on his child, an ordinary-looking girl with dark eyes and middling-brown hair dressed in a fussy pink gown. Unlike her mother, she stood to be introduced and bobbed a little curtsey in response to his bow, giving him a shy smile.

As soon as David took a seat, Mrs. Chalmers began to question him, rude, pointed questions about his family and background, designed to ascertain his prospects, no doubt.

“Are you one of the Lauristons of St. Andrews? I know several of that family.”

“No, ma’am. I’m from a small village around twenty miles from here called Midlauder.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” she said, frowning. “What do your people do there?”

David explained that his father was a tenant farmer, that the tenancy would go to David’s brother eventually. As he spoke, he could tell by Mrs. Chalmers’s hard stare and thin lips that she was not impressed by what she heard.

Elizabeth Chalmers was much more pleasant than her mother. Her not-quite-pretty face reminded him of his older cousin, Connie, and when they sat down to dine, she did not stay silent as so many young ladies would have done but displayed a lively interest in the wide-ranging conversation that played out over the course of the meal. By contrast, Mrs. Chalmers opined several times, when asked a direct question, that she was sure she couldn’t offer a sensible opinion and that she was happy to defer to her husband—though she struck David as a lady who knew her own mind very well.

Whenever Elizabeth spoke, Mrs. Chalmers’s mouth tightened with displeasure. She was the sort of woman who could make her unhappiness felt without speaking a word. The crease of her brow was eloquent, the pinch of her lips graphic. The younger woman was not cowed, though. She continued to converse with the group as a whole, ignoring her mother’s antics, though her eyes flicked often towards her unhappy parent.

As for Mr. Chalmers, he seemed oblivious to his wife and beamed whenever his daughter spoke, his pride in her very evident. His approval seemed to keep Mrs. Chalmers silent, until Jeffrey raised the topic of a recent election. From there, the conversation inevitably veered onto radicals and the events earlier in the year.

“You defended those weavers, did you not, Mr. Jeffrey?” Elizabeth asked. “The ones who were executed for their part in the uprising?”

Jeffrey opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by Mrs. Chalmers.

“When we go to London, Elizabeth—if weeverdo—you are going to have to learn to curb your tongue at social occasions,” she said sharply. “That is not an appropriate subject for polite conversation, and certainly not from a young lady!”

The conversation ground to an embarrassed halt. Elizabeth’s cheeks blazed. Mr. Chalmers said nothing, though he frowned slightly at his wife. She pressed her lips together, but her expression was unapologetic. Jeffrey shifted in his chair, unsure how to react.

It was Mrs. Jeffrey who finally took control. “Come now,” she said to the older lady, coaxing. “We’re not in London now, thank heavens! And we’ve all been enjoying Miss Elizabeth’s conversation immensely, isn’t that right, Mr. Lauriston?”

Drawn unwillingly into acting the part of the girl’s knight errant, David stammered out his agreement. “Ah—yes. The company of an intelligent woman is infinitely more enjoyable than that of a lady who has nothing to talk about other than—than—fashions and entertainments. And I do, of course, have a special interest in the case Miss Chalmers speaks of myself.”

“Mr. Lauriston juniored to me on the weavers’ case, Miss Chalmers,” Jeffrey added smoothly, then, looking at Mr. Chalmers, added, “Excellent junior. He has a fine legal brain, and he works like a Trojan.”

Mr. Chalmers glanced at David.

“You are too forbearing, Mr. Lauriston,” Mrs. Chalmers complained, unwilling to give up the point. “Most gentlemen would not be so understanding.”

Elizabeth stared down at her plate, saying nothing.

For the rest of the meal, she offered no other views. Even when Mrs. Jeffrey tried to draw her out with innocuous questions, her responses were quiet and brief.

When dinner was over, the ladies rose, quitting the dining room to take tea in the drawing room while the gentlemen had their port. The table seemed much larger without them, an empty chair beside each of the three men. Chalmers stretched out, looking relaxed and easy for the first time all evening.

Jeffrey poured the port the maidservant brought them. It was strong stuff, dark purplish-brown and heady with flavour. David had never drunk port much before. He was a whisky man, and he found the flavour of the fortified wine very sweet to his palate. Chalmers seemed to like it, though.