Page 16 of The Incident at Ingleton (Beau Monde Secrets #3)

W alter rubbed his palm against the side of his leg, as if he could scratch off the memory of Lady Hester’s hand in his. His heart thumped erratically. What was that about? He was not sure which confused him more: Lady Hester’s changed demeanor, or his reaction to it.

He had once thought Lady Hester cold, proud, and supercilious. But today, she’d smiled at him as if she meant it. As if she were a perfectly normal girl who was genuinely grateful for his help, rather than a queen graciously receiving assistance she thought was her due.

Stranger still, the distant reserve that had characterized her in the past had somehow changed to a charming bashfulness. In another girl, he might have thought that was coyness, but there’d been an artless air about her blushes and hesitations that made them seem genuine.

Good Lord, Walter thought. This was ridiculous! It was time to face facts: he had, perhaps, become a little smitten with the visitor at the vicarage. That was only natural, he supposed. Lady Hester was a lovely, cultured young woman. Any man might admire such a lady.

What embarrassed him beyond words, though, was that he’d started imagining signs that she might return his interest. It was not very likely that the daughter of a marquis would entertain warm sentiments towards a solicitor born from a nouveau riche family. Whatever indications of interest he thought he saw were undoubtedly maggots born of wishful thinking. Probably just as well that he was leaving Ingleton for a time!

Two tasks drew Walter out of Ingleton. The first was passing the handwritten note to Ernest, who would see that his handwriting expert got a chance to look at it. Walter could have relied on the mail to deliver it, except that his second errand took him to Northcote Manor, not far south of Bristol. Walter’s father had been asking to see him for months, and Walter could no longer put off a visit, much as he might want to do so.

June went out in a series of bright days, the green of the fields and the blue of the sky undimmed by clouds or rain. In some fields, haymaking continued; in others, golden wheat fields promised a rich harvest. Maybe food would be plentiful this winter.

At least the tenants on Haworth land all seemed to be thriving. Walter, tired of riding in a carriage all day, sent the post chaise on ahead of him so he could walk the last two or three miles on the way home. He stopped at Apple Hill farm to chat with Mr. Weston, whose orchards were the pride of the county.

“Your father’ll be glad to see you, Mr. Haworth,” the farmer said. The wink that accompanied this prediction embarrassed Walter. He hated the way everyone near the Manor seemed to know that he and his father did not get along.

“I’ve been busy,” Walter said. It sounded like a shallow excuse, though it was nothing but the truth. “Some trouble with the Haworth Home,” he added, hoping to make it clear that he hadn’t been frittering his time away at summer house parties, fishing expeditions, or whatever other nonsense occupied most young men of leisure during the summer months.

“Aye, stands to reason that an orphanage would keep you busy,” Mr. Weston agreed. “You’ve been about the Lord’s work, and your father ought to respect that!”

Walter grinned ruefully. “I doubt he’ll see it that way.” He’d known the Westons for years, and he saw no need to present a false front to them. Given the way country gossip traveled, they’d know the truth of the matter anyway, no matter what he might say.

His prediction proved entirely too accurate. When he arrived at the manor, he found his father out in the stable yard, watching the stable master doing groundwork with a handsome gray. Walter had never shared his father’s interest in horses, but he’d sat through enough lectures on horse breeding and training to recognize that the colt had good conformation as well as an attractive coat pattern.

“He looks promising,” Walter said, knowing that would please his father. “Is this one of Phantom’s get?”

“Mm-hmm,” Edward Haworth responded. “One of Portia’s last foals. He’ll make one half of a good carriage pair if I can find a match.”

“Indeed.” Matched grays were prized for carriages, especially by sporting young gentlemen who wanted to drive flashy equipages. Walter wracked his brains to think of something else he could say about the horse, but he could come up with nothing better than “What d’you call him, then?”

“Spectre, though everyone just says Specks.” His father turned away from the horse to face Walter, and the corners of his mouth automatically tipped down. “You didn’t come here to talk horses with me, did you?”

Walter sighed. The familiar scowl on his father’s face made him seem like a delinquent school-boy rather than a grown man of seven-and-twenty. Even worse was the knowledge that his father viewed Walter as no more of an adult than he had ten years ago.

“No, sir,” he agreed. “I came down from Lancashire because you asked me to.”

“I’ve been asking you to come home for months,” his father grumbled. “Your mother misses you, y’know.”

“I know.” Walter knew better than to expect his father to admit to missing him, too. Even if it were true, which he could not be certain of. He drew a deep breath before he said something he knew his father wouldn’t like. “I don’t think I can stay long this time, Father. I’m still helping Ernest with a problem at the home.”

“Ernest is perfectly capable of looking after an orphanage without your help,” his father mendaciously declared. “It’s what he’s paid to do. You, on the other hand, ought to be learning how to manage the estate. Your grandfather bought this place for you. He wanted to give you a better position in society than he ever had. The least you could do is be grateful!” Though it was an old complaint, Haworth’s tone hadn’t lost any of his customary acrimony. If anything, he’d grown more bitter over the last few years.

“I know, Father.” Walter wanted to argue, as he had done in the past, but by now he knew how futile that would be.

Neither his father nor his grandfather had ever understood that gentility did not hold the same value for Walter that it did for them. Perhaps, he suspected, this was because he’d been raised in an already-wealthy family, rather than having to work his way up. His grandfather, Frederic Haworth, had plotted, wheedled, and worked his way into being one of the wealthiest sugar merchants in the kingdom. By the time he’d amassed what he considered an adequate fortune, he’d been ready to retire and enjoy life.

Walter, on the other hand, had been born with all his grandfather’s intelligence and energy, earning acclamations as a scholar both in public school and at Cambridge. But after he’d finished his training as a solicitor, he’d been allowed no adequate outlet for his abilities and interests.

The senior Haworth men assumed that Walter would devote his time and talent to playing the part of country gentleman—a position purchased for him at great cost. If Walter had been at all interested in livestock, apple orchards, or other agriculture, he might have been perfectly happy living at Northcote Manor and participating in local society. Unfortunately, his interests lay elsewhere, in medicine and the natural sciences. As a result, he was as much a disappointment in adulthood as he’d been a satisfaction in his youth. And his father never let him forget it.

“Have you greeted your mother yet?” Edward asked.

“No, sir. I stopped here first.” Only then did Walter wonder why he’d gone straight to the farm rather than calling on his mother first. The decision probably said volumes about his childish desire to please his father.

“Let’s go up to the house now, then,” his father suggested. “I imagine you’d be glad of a cup of tea.”

“I would indeed.” However, he was even more interested in Mrs. Bantry’s baking. She made the most divine fairy cakes, the like of which he’d never found anywhere else. Since Mrs. Bantry refused to share her recipe, he only got to enjoy his favorite treat when he came home.

When he reached the house, Walter ran up to his bedchamber, taking the stairs two at a time. His luggage had already been placed in his room, and someone had already fetched an ewer of hot water for him. Walter washed his hands and tidied up before he went down to the drawing room.

It was just as well that he did so, because he found his mother entertaining callers this afternoon. There were four ladies in the drawing room rather than the two he’d expected.

“Walter!” His mother’s whole face lit up like a Vauxhall pyrotechnic display. She rose to her feet and hurried to embrace him.

“Hello Mother. Genie.” He smiled and nodded at the two unfamiliar ladies. Given the facial similarities and the age gap between the two, he guessed them to be mother and daughter, though he’d never seen either of them before.

His mother soon remembered her good manners. She turned to the visitors with a smile and said “Mrs. Mitchell, Miss Mitchell, may I present to you my son, Walter? He’s been away assisting with some of the charities my father-in-law founded.” Whatever his father might think of Walter, his mother’s voice radiated pride. “Walter, Mrs. Mitchell is the wife of the new rector, and this is her eldest daughter.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Walter said, though he would, in fact, rather have had tea with just the family. Especially since Mrs. Mitchell’s brilliant, toothy smile filled him with foreboding. Miss Mitchell looked so young he could not be certain she was already out, but the speculative looks her mother directed at him suggested that, despite her apparent youth, Miss Mitchell might already be on the hunt for a husband.

Tea passed as painfully as he expected. Miss Mitchell played the part of a bashful young debutante to perfection. She spoke in a soft voice, as if afraid to be overheard. She averted her eyes when her mother praised her singing voice. And when she took her leave, she lowered her head so she could shyly look up at Walter from under her eyelashes.

Perhaps Walter wronged her. Maybe none of that was an act, and Miss Mitchell really was bashful. He could not have said why he felt so cynical about her behavior. But he knew he hadn’t imagined the Mitchells’ interest in him, because the first thing his mother said after her callers left was, “And what did you think of Miss Mitchell, Walter?”

Walter restrained his desire to sigh or roll his eyes. His mother did not deserve such disrespect. “She seemed like a well-bred young lady.” He hoped such temperate praise would discourage any further matchmaking on his mother’s part. If not, reminding her of Miss Mitchell’s youth might do the trick. “I suppose the child is not out of the schoolroom yet?”

“Don’t be silly,” his father groused. “She’s a grown woman. Most popular girl in the county, I’d wager. At the last assembly in Stornley, she had all the young men lining up to dance with her.”

“Good for her.” This time, Walter couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice.

His mother’s smile fell. “She really is a pleasant girl, Walter. But of course, if there is anyone you like better, you need not concern yourself with Miss Mitchell.”

He gritted his teeth. What on earth could he say to convince his mother to stop matchmaking? Unless... he sucked in his breath, shocked by the audacity of the idea that struck him. He darted a glance to his father, wondering if he could make this scheme work.

“As a matter of fact,” he said diffidently, “there was a young lady in Ingleton who caught my eye.”

Both his mother and his sister sprang to attention like a pair of pointers who’d found a covey of partridges. “Is that so?” his mother asked. “Tell us about her, Walter. Do we know her family?”

Walter bit his lip to keep from chuckling. “I don’t believe you’ve met her parents,” he said judiciously. “They do not move in the same circles we do.”

“I hope you haven’t gone and fallen in love with an entirely unsuitable girl,” his father warned. “A grand house like this needs a fine lady at the helm. Someone who knows how to handle the reins of a country estate.” Walter’s father spoke with as much pride as if the Haworths had lived at Northcote for generations, rather than a mere decade.

“Mixing your metaphors, father?” Walter teased. But Edward Haworth’s glare drove away Walter’s amusement. “As it happens, I’m afraid I am the one who is unsuitable. I doubt her parents will consider me good enough for her.”

If anything, his father grew even angrier. “I’d like to know who in the world would think you weren’t good enough for their daughter! You’re a fine figure of a gentleman, with a tidy estate waiting for you, and—”

Walter decided to cut this rant short before his father grew too worked up. “She is Lady Hester Bracknell, the daughter of the Marquis of Reading. I’m sure you can see why it is a hopeless fancy on my part. Her parents probably expect her to marry a nobleman.”

A silence fell over the room. His mother stared at him with wide eyes. His father frowned.

Eugenia, on the other hand, looked amused. “Goodness, Walt. When you decide to grab something out of life, you certainly aim for the highest prize, don’t you?”

Walter chuckled. She had him there! “I suppose so.” Then he turned a more serious face towards his mother. He didn’t want to mislead her about the situation. “But really, it is only a fancy. I don’t expect anything to come of it.”

His mother looked as if she did not know what to say. Rather to Walter’s surprise, it was his father who broke the silence this time. “If you ask me, even a duke’s daughter ought to consider herself lucky to marry our boy.”

“Exactly right!” Walter’s mother chimed in. “You would make a good husband even for the finest of fine ladies.”

Walter smiled. “I think you see me through rose-colored glasses,” he said affectionately. “But enough of this nonsense. Why don’t you tell me what’s been happening in Stornley these days?”

Now that he’d managed to turn the conversation away from Miss Mitchell, he had rather not discuss Lady Hester any further. He knew very well it was a hopeless fantasy, but he did not care to belabor that point. Sometimes a man needed to take a moment to admire a brilliant star, no matter how far out of reach it twinkled.