Page 7 of The Incident at Ingleton (Beau Monde Secrets #3)

T he month of May ended with a week of golden sunshine, burgeoning gardens, and untimely summer heat. All the windows in the vicarage were propped open to let in any hint of a breeze. Poor Rose gave up on housework entirely. She spent entire afternoons lying on the sofa with her feet propped up, lazily fanning herself to keep from being overheated. Even this was a compromise, though: her doctor wanted her to keep to her bed, since her due date was only a few weeks away.

Eager to help the relatives who had taken her in after her disgrace, Hester tried to take over Rose’s usual work about the house. Managing even so small a home as the vicarage proved to be much more challenging than she expected. Normally, Rose directed the servants and lent a hand when necessary. Now that was Hester’s job.

Hester quickly realized that she was not an adequate substitute for her sister-in-law. Having been raised in a wealthy household, she’d never learned her way around a kitchen, never made a bed, and had no idea how to launder anything. Rose gave her instructions, and the servants responded kindly to Hester’s efforts, but the experience was humbling, to say the least.

Fortunately, the early heat wave did not last. The first of June brought a change in the weather. Dark clouds rolled in, the temperature dropped, and the wind picked up.

“We’re going to have rain before the day is over,” Frank predicted. “I’d better bring my umbrella.”

“You’re still going out? When it looks like that?” Hester gestured at the wind-driven clouds skating across the sky. It looked to her like the rainstorm was moving in quickly.

Frank shrugged. “Needs must when the devil drives. Mrs. Whitney will be expecting me, and I promised to bring a book so her granddaughter can read to her.”

“Don’t they have books of their own?” Hester protested.

Her brother raised his eyebrows. “Probably not, actually. They don’t exactly have extra pounds sitting around.”

Feeling abashed, Hester hung her head. “Of course. I should have realized.” Not once in her life had she needed to calculate the cost of a book at Hatchard’s or the Temple of the Muses. She simply ordered what she wanted and had the cost added to her family’s account. Once again, she’d forgotten how different most other people’s lives were.

“Ingleton is too small to have its own circulating library,” Frank explained. “Although I believe Lady Inglewhite is trying to get one established. It would benefit some of the local gentry, too. They wouldn’t have to ride all the way into Rocheford to borrow a book.”

“That would be helpful, I’m sure.” Rocheford St. Peters lay only about ten miles away, but ten miles probably seemed a much longer difference if one did not keep a carriage.

“In any case,” Frank concluded, “I should be back in time for luncheon.”

Hester watched as her brother set out with an umbrella in one hand and a satchel full of books in the other. He walked with a spring in his step, swinging his umbrella back and forth. Strange as it seemed to her, Frank appeared to like his life as a country clergyman. The work suited him far better than she would have imagined.

Hester went back into the vicarage, wishing she could borrow some of Frank’s cheerful dedication to his labor. She could’ve used that spirit when it came to the pile of mending she’d promised to work on. She was capable enough with her needle, but mending rips and tears did not fill her with joy the way Frank’s work seemed to do.

Fortunately, Rose was perfectly capable of darning stockings while she rested on the sofa. The two women chatted as they worked, though for the most part, Rose talked and Hester listened.

“Everyone keeps asking when the baby will arrive. It gets rather tiresome.” Rose put down her work in order to rest a hand on her rounded belly. “One of my friends warned me that would happen, but I thought she exaggerated.”

“Was that your friend who lives near Pendle Hill?” Rose corresponded with nearly a dozen different friends, but so far as Hester knew, only one of them had recently delivered a baby.

“Yes, my friend Arabella. She was only two months farther along than I am, so her letters were helpful.” A smile broke across Rose’s face. “Much more detailed than the letter her husband sent announcing the baby’s arrival. He just jotted down the baby’s birthday and name and said that Belle was doing well. Can you imagine leaving out all the other information?” She shook her head, looking amused.

What other information did people need? Hester wondered. So far as she knew, one baby looked much like another. Though they probably all looked special in their parents’ eyes.

“Anyway,” Rose continued, “The Kirkland’s’ baby, Helena, arrived only a few days after the date of confinement her physician had estimated. That’s much better than when Ivy had little Robbie. He was nearly three weeks later than expected! I hope it doesn’t run in the family.” She pulled a face. “As far as I’m concerned, this little Bracknell is welcome to make an appearance any time now.”

“Maybe not today,” Hester suggested. “Since the rain might keep the doctor away.” They both giggled, then went back to their mending.

Not long after that, a knock at the door put a pause to their work. A visitor? Rose no longer received visitors, except for her relatives. When a housemaid opened the door and ushered Mr. Butler into the room, Rose and Hester exchanged puzzled glances.

Mr. Butler swept a gallant bow. “Ladies, I hope you will forgive the intrusion. I know that Lady Francis is not receiving guests, but I have something to give Lady Hester.”

“Something for me?” Hester’s eyes widened.

She and Mr. Butler were not on such terms as to justify his giving her any kind of gift. A bouquet of flowers after a ball was the most a gentleman was supposed to give a lady before betrothal. Simon had broken that rule when he gave Hester the garnet pendant, but then, he’d violated propriety right and left during his courtship. The very public good-bye kiss he’d bestowed on her was merely the last of his indiscretions.

“Business took me to Lancaster yesterday,” Mr. Butler explained, “and there I found this.” He handed her a brown paper package. Then he sat next to her, beaming as he watched her struggle with the tightly-knotted string.

The moment her fingers brushed against the paper wrapping, Hester knew the package contained a book. A small one, though, so probably not a novel. Maybe... could it be? Finally, the string snapped. She let it fall to the floor as she unwrapped the paper. Yes, she’d guessed correctly.

“It is Miss Grammar’s new collection of poems,” she told Rose. “ Lavender and Lilacs .”

She opened the book, surreptitiously savoring the familiar smell of paper, ink, and binding glue. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw a piece of notepaper pressed between the pages. Had Mr. Butler left some kind of note for her? Good Heavens, what if it was a billet-doux ? The very idea put a blush on her cheeks.

But she pushed all speculation about the note aside in favor of a more pressing question for Mr. Butler. “Did you really find this in Lancaster?” She’d been certain the book would have to be ordered specially.

But he smiled and nodded. “Quite the merest happenstance! I saw it and immediately thought of you.”

She wasn’t sure she believed him, although she wanted to. Anyone might see a book and think of someone who liked the author. But if Mr. Butler had gone to the bookstore looking for this book, or worse, had specially ordered it, she could only conclude that he meant to court her in earnest.

Did she want him to court her? Mr. Butler most certainly was handsome, polite, and cultured. A comparison between him and Mr. Haworth popped into her mind unbidden. On the one hand, a good-looking curate who enjoyed poetry. On the other, a tall, slightly gawky solicitor who only read books about medicine and natural history. There really was no comparison. Why, then, did Mr. Butler’s gift make Hester uneasy rather than pleased? She should have been glad of the attention.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling awkward. She did not know her own mind well enough to know whether she ought to imply “Thank you, I look forward to reading these poems and thinking of your kindness” or “Thank you, but I do not want a suitor right now.”

Fortunately, Rose stepped in and helped her out. “It was very kind of you to bring the book over, Mr. Butler, but you’ll want to get back to Mrs. Jamison’s before the rain begins.”

Mr. Butler glanced from Rose to Hester and his smile faded, though he remained as polite as ever. “Quite right. And I know you are in no condition for visitors now, Lady Francis. I will take my leave.”

He bowed a farewell to the ladies and Hester held her breath until she heard the front door shut behind him.

“There’s a note,” Hester told Rose. With trembling fingers, she pulled the slip of folded paper out of the book.

Rose leaned forward, her face alight with interest. “What does the note say?”

Hester broke the seal and unfolded the paper. She bit her lip as she read it, fearing it might be some declaration of love. She sighed with relief when she saw that the note contained no flowery declarations of love—only a list of page numbers and poem titles.

“The note says which poems he particularly liked,” she explained to Rose. “Nothing the least bit romantic about it.”

She wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that he’d apparently read the volume before giving it to her. He might have been trying to impress her. Or he might have been genuinely interested in Miss Grammar’s poetry. She had no way of knowing.

“Is he becoming annoying, Hester?” Rose’s concern shone out of her soft eyes.

Hester stared down at the book still clutched tightly in her hands. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know my own mind.” She drew a deep breath. “And his intentions are not particularly clear, anyway.”

“He is a good-looking and personable young man,” Rose pointed out, “but I know little about him beyond that. Frank hired him on the recommendation of a friend from Oxford. I don’t know much about Mr. Butler’s family. I believe his father is the steward of a large estate in Wiltshire.”

“Ah, I see. It is a pity he does not have better prospects.” Hester put down the book. His family background might make the decision for her. Her parents would probably not consider Mr. Butler to be a suitable match. Not unless the scandal of being caught with Colonel Lowell was so great that they were willing to marry her off to anyone in order to restore her good name.

“I really think I would do better to avoid entanglements right now.” Her words were intended as much for herself as for Rose. Her family could not afford any further scandals, which meant she could not afford to make a mesalliance . “That seems wise.” Rose covered a yawn. “I suppose I’d better take my afternoon nap. Just between you and me, though, I’m tired of lying down all day.”

“I don’t blame you. I am rather tired of sitting here myself.” Hester looked out the window at the overcast day. It had not yet begun to rain. “If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll take a turn about the garden before the rain starts.” Better to get her exercise while she could!

“Very wise.” Rose yawned again, adjusted her pillow, and laid back. “You might want to take an umbrella.”

Hester grabbed the only remaining umbrella and scurried out the door, half-afraid that the storm would hit before she even reached the garden. But fortune favored her. She reached the gravel path that led around the little plot. Then she slowed down, taking time to savor the rain-scented air. What caused those peculiar smells that heralded rain or snow? Were there men of science who could explain it, or did it remain one of nature’s many mysteries?

The vicarage grounds being small, it did not take her long to loop back around to the front garden. There, walking briskly through the gate, was Walter Haworth.

“Lady Hester.” He greeted her with a nod. “Do you know if my cousin is at home?”

A grin broke across Hester’s face. “Rose is always at home these days. She is not supposed to leave the house, you know.” She hesitated for a moment, considering the real question at stake. “She is not supposed to receive visitors, either, but she probably wouldn’t mind seeing you. It’s just that she happens to be napping at the moment.”

“Ah, I ought to have thought of that.” He shifted a parcel from one arm to the other.

Hester narrowed her eyes and looked intently at that parcel. Was it her imagination, or did it look like a book? An almost hysterical urge to laugh possessed her as she considered the possibility that Mr. Haworth had also “just happened to see” Maria Grammar’s new collection of poems and bought a copy for her.

“If you’ve a message for Rose I can—” she stopped halfway through the sentence and lifted her face to the sky. She had just felt the first rain drop. “Or maybe you should come in out of the rain?” Selwyn Castle was less than a mile away, but Mr. Haworth carried no umbrella.

“Oh, there’s no need—” A raindrop splashing against his spectacles cut him off mid-sentence. He, too, stared up at the sky. “On second thought, perhaps I ought to step inside until the rain passes.”

As if the heavens wanted to show their agreement, the rain began falling in earnest and the fresh scent of petrichor rose from the earth. “Maybe we should hurry.” Hester bit back the urge to giggle as they both galloped down the short path from the garden gate to the door of the vicarage.

The moment the door shut behind her, the rain turned into a heavy downpour, the kind that rattled windows and startled sleeping babies. Then she really did start laughing. “I am afraid you picked the wrong afternoon for your visit, Mr. Haworth.”

“It couldn’t have picked a worse time if I tried,” he agreed. “Rose is asleep, and I may be stuck here for an hour. What on earth am I to do while I wait?”

He caught her eye and grinned back at her. His whole face looked sunnier than she’d ever seen it before. Perhaps he was not, after all, the dry, boring lawyer she’d thought him. As for what he was to do—well, she could think of only one answer.

“I think,” she suggested, “we had better have a spot of tea.”