Page 17 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)
“You seem to have things well in hand too,” said Mr. Lymington. He eyed Bel’s fingers resting lightly on the vicar’s arm. Bel sensed the sardonic edge to his voice. She discovered that she was pleased that he was not pleased to see her arm in arm with the vicar.
“Miss Morrison was kind enough to accompany me on an errand of mercy,” said Mr. Townsend, “however misguided it might have been.”
“Good heavens,” said Mr. Lymington dryly. “Misguided mercy is to be avoided at all costs.”
The vicar’s frank face stared at him as if to make sure he was not in jest. “One has limited resources, so it is well to conserve them for the more deserving poor rather than the undeserving denizens of poverty.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Lymington soothingly. “May I walk with you?” Without waiting for a response, he took Bel’s other arm.
She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m certain Jer and Tam would be happy to let you help with the thatching."
“I suspected I might see you on the ladder yourself,” said Mr. Lymington, paying her back in her own coin .
“Miss Morrison?” said the vicar. “How preposterous! I’m certain that you would never see a gentlewoman on a roof in Derbyshire or—where did you say you were from?—in Lincolnshire.”
“Oh, you would be surprised how enterprising some females can be—the Lincolnshire ones, that is.” Mr. Lymington kept his voice deadly serious.
“Once again,” said Mr. Townsend, talking over Bel’s head as they picked their way down the lane, “we see the contagion of the metropolis spreading to the more rural counties of our country. Whereabouts in Lincolnshire were you born, Mr. Lymington?”
“Quite a way from Lincoln,” said Mr. Lymington vaguely.
“What is the closest town?”
“Difficult to say.”
Bel tilted her head to look up at Mr. Lymington’s firm jaw.
Why was he so reticent to reveal anything about his home country?
His dark eyes adopted a look of innocent curiosity, and he took his own turn delivering inquiries over the top of Bel’s bonnet.
“Perhaps you could settle a question that’s been on my mind since the Brownlees’ delightful dinner party.
Your poor departed father—what did you say the name of his ship was? ”
“I didn’t,” replied Mr. Townsend. “I don’t believe I’ve ever known it. My mother does not like to talk about the sad event.”
“Ah, of course not,” said Mr. Lymington sympathetically. “I simply thought I might look it up in the newspapers when I return to town.”
“Whatever for?” The vicar’s sonorous voice was filled with confusion.
“To satisfy my general curiosity. ”
“Hmm. It was quite long ago. I don’t think it would be easy to find any mention of it.”
Mr. Lymington, who seemed to consider that turnabout was fair play, would not be so easily deterred. “Yes, well, what are you—thirty years old? I suppose one might find an archive of newspapers from the time in London—”
“Gentlemen,” said Bel, setting down the soles of her half boots and refusing to move any further. “Where are you taking me?” Their conversation over the brim of her bonnet and pulled them past all the Morrison tenant cottages and back toward the main road that led into Upper Cross.
“I thought perhaps we could get a nuncheon at the Jester’s Arms,” said Mr. Lymington, looking down at her apologetically.
Bel looked back at him in surprise. She would not have expected Mr. Lymington to enjoy visiting an inn in his ill-fitting coachman’s clothes, but it seemed that he had fully embraced the part.
“I’m certain Miss Morrison would not want to be seen in a public inn with a strange gentleman,” interjected Mr. Townsend.
“Yes, but with me there as chaperone,” replied Mr. Lymington, “I’m hopeful that no one will look askance at you.”
Mr. Townsend stiffened and sent a glare at the cheeky Londoner, but Mr. Lymington had already detached Bel from the vicar’s arm and was leading her in the direction of Upper Cross.
The vicar followed with a harrumph, but Bel disregarded his veiled criticism.
She was having more fun than she had had in ages.
It was easy to forget the farm chores that needed doing, the ledgers that needed balancing, and all her worries about Charlie with Mr. Lymington there to amuse her out of the doldrums.
“Lymington!” said Jack Ferris, clapping Nigel on the back.
Nigel grinned. He had encountered the younger Ferris brother several times in the last week at the Jesters’ Arms, and his continued acquaintance had been a delight.
He reminded him of several of the older gentlemen at the Society for Eccentrics in London, a society that thrived on conversation about science, exploration, history, philosophy, and anything else that bubbled to the surface.
It had been too long since he had visited that establishment—another of the simple pleasures in life that he had given up while trying to make his name in the ton.
“And where might be your aunt today, Miss Morrison?” asked Mr. Ferris, with a hopeful glitter in his eye.
“She is keeping to the house today,” said Miss Morrison, casting Nigel a grateful look as he manoeuvred her towards a bench against the wall in the public house.
She let go of his arm as he seated her, and he immediately missed the warmth of her fingertips pressing against his arm.
“Although had she known we might fall afoul of your company, she might have chosen to join us.”
“‘Fallen afoul,’ is it?” said Mr. Ferris with a hoot. “I daresay no gentleman would be sad to have his anchor line entangled with one of the Morrison ladies, eh?” He nudged Nigel appreciatively while the vicar, misliking the drift of the conversation, cleared his throat censoriously.
“No indeed,” said Nigel, eyeing his female companion with enthusiasm.
He found it faintly ironic that the one day he had decided to dress in tatters, Miss Morrison was wearing the most fetching gown he had yet to glimpse her in.
The bonnet was still unmodish, plain, and entirely de trop , but the rest of her costume was just as it should be.
His dark eyes glinted mischievously. “I found Mr. Townsend thoroughly entangled with Miss Morrison not a quarter of an hour ago.”
“I believe you should clarify that you are speaking metaphorically ,” said Mr. Townsend in crisp tones. Nigel wondered if the man was more concerned for Miss Morrison’s reputation or his own.
The lady in question lifted her left eyebrow and gave Nigel a slight shake of the head. He was used to ladies tittering at his semi-salacious remarks, but he could sense the disappointment wafting from this Derbyshire lady in his direction.
“Miss Morrison was good enough to accompany me on an errand of mercy to Mrs. Hogg,” continued the vicar, determined there should be no doubt about the matter.
“Ah, the good Mrs. Hogg,” said Jack Ferris slyly, hinting at his opinion of that indigent widow. “You’re a braver soul than I, Townsend. But stay,” he said, laying a hand on Nigel’s arm. “Here comes the even better Mrs. Coleman. We must ask her for a table and a nuncheon.”
The party secured a spot in the inn’s private parlour.
Nigel again offered Miss Morrison his hand and seated her in a chair in the parlour.
“Shall I find a place for your bonnet?” he asked, wanting nothing more than to loosen the ribbon ties on the close-fitting chip bonnet that covered Miss Morrison’s wild brown hair.
That bonnet was a tragedy, and it needed to meet its fatal end.
“No, I always dine with my bonnet on at this inn,” said Miss Morrison. She leaned toward him confidentially. “One wouldn’t want the jester to take it.”
“I’ve never had the jester take my beaver,” commented Nigel, “and I’ve dined here three or four times already.”
“Ah, he might be waiting for you to feel secure in your surroundings,” said Jack Ferris, his eyes sparkling, “so that he can manufacture his mischief when you least suspect it.”
“What utter poppycock!” boomed the vicar and began to expatiate at length on the folly of idle superstition, ceasing only when Mrs. Coleman brought out the fidget pie and calf’s tail soup.
“Mr. Brownlee must be pleased that you are earning your living so well,” said Nigel sardonically as he filled Miss Morrison’s cup with ale from the pitcher.
“How do you mean?” replied the vicar, pausing before he could taste the repast. His spoonful of soup hovered betwixt bowl and lip.
“Why, here we are receiving a second sermon, and it is not even Sunday,” said Nigel. “Is Mr. Brownlee aware that he’s bought two sermons a week for the price of one?”
The wizened Mr. Ferris laughed heartily at this gibe, but the vicar stood up indignantly and excused himself from the table.
Miss Morrison sent a reproachful look in Nigel’s direction, and once again he felt more rebuked than if a dozen dowagers had rapped his knuckles with their fans.
He had claimed yesterday in the hayloft that he was a reformed man.
Apparently, he must see about amending his speech as well as his conduct if that were to be true.