An Unusual Courtship (13 page)

“Good. Come riding with us. If the weather is good and Mr. Everett will go along, I think something may be arranged.”

Puzzled but charmed by Mr. Bolton’s playful scheming, Percival felt lighter for the rest of the ride, and hoped that perhaps Mr. Bolton’s insistence might even be true: Mr. Everett might still love him.

P
ercival arrived
the next day to find the house in a flurry of preparations for the planned excursion.

Miss Bolton answered the door, which was highly unusual, but she was all smiles and out of breath. Dressed handsomely in a fawn-coloured riding habit, she ushered Percival inside.

“Mr. Valentine! I’m glad that you’ve come. Horatio said that you agreed to come riding with us? We’ve planned an excursion—what do you think, shall we make our visit to the old monastery today? I have Mrs. Eddlesworth packing a picnic lunch for us, and poor Mr. Elkins is half run off his feet by all our requests. Be a dear and don’t mention to him that
I
answered the door—he would be utterly humiliated, and at any rate I was just passing through the front hall. Here, come with me—”

Seizing upon Percival’s hand, Miss Bolton had just started to lead him away when Mr. Everett leaned over the second-floor balustrade. “Hermione, where the devil is Mr. Elkins? Or my valet?” He seemed to be good-naturedly exasperated, and not actually out of temper, although his friendly exasperation went suddenly cold at the sight of Percival. “Oh, Mr. Valentine. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Everett,” Percival called politely up to him.

“Mr. Elkins was obliged to go himself to the village for preserves,” Miss Bolton said, “owing to how Mrs. Eddlesworth
would
have them in the picnic and I have insisted that nothing is to delay our departure.”

“Where, then, is my valet?” Mr. Everett groaned. “I fear our departure
will
be delayed, on account that
I have no boots!
”

That caused Miss Bolton to go into a peal of laughter. “Oh no! We shall have to have you go barefoot!”

“Hermione, had I a pillow to hand I would throw it at you,” Mr. Everett threatened, which did nothing to discourage Miss Bolton’s giggling.

Percival bit his lip and cleared his throat to combat laughter, charmed by the way the two of them teased each other. It was sometimes very clear that the three of them had been friends since childhood and still behaved accordingly.

“I’ll find him,” Miss Bolton promised, and darted off, no longer trying to pull Percival along with her.

Left alone in the hall with Mr. Everett above stairs, Percival looked uncertainly up at him.

Mr. Everett tensed and seemed to colour. “Mr. Valentine,” he said stiffly, and retreated at once into one of the rooms above stairs—most likely his own.

Coughing a few times to restore himself so that he wouldn’t begin laughing, Percival pressed his lips tightly together and waited to be discovered or remembered by some member of the household.

It was Mr. Elkins who next encountered him. Returning with the preserves, Mr. Elkins almost knocked the front door into him and made a noise of horror at finding a guest waiting unattended in the front hall. “Mr. Valentine!”

Doing his best to soothe Mr. Elkins’ protestations and apologies, Percival assured him that he was such a frequent and familiar guest as to be practically family—and the manager of the estate besides, and therefore should not expect the courtesy of a guest but might perfectly well let himself in. Mr. Elkins did not accept this and continued his heartfelt self-flagellation while Percival endeavoured to remind him that Mrs. Eddlesworth was waiting on those preserves.

At length, the preserves were packed, the boots were found, and everyone was saddled and ready. Mr. Humphrey was not with them, and both Miss Bolton and Mr. Bolton were too distracted with preparations to answer any of Percival’s questions on the topic.

The day was very fine, with only a few faint gauzy stretches of clouds adorning the clear blue sky. Both of the Bolton siblings were in high humour, teasing constantly between themselves and their friends, until even Mr. Everett had been lured into smiles and even—once—a laugh.

Glad to see a glimpse of Mr. Everett back to his previous warm humour, and grateful to the Boltons for contriving it, Percival felt his heart swell with pleasure. Even if Mr. Everett would never be reconciled with him, Percival was glad to have made the acquaintance of the three of them, and glad that they had come to Linston to enliven his summer. The prospect of having Miss Bolton stay on as the future Mrs. Humphrey pleased him very much, and that would ensure that Mr. Bolton would return every summer with his laughter and irreverence to visit his sister in the country.

He watched Mr. Everett as they rode. Well-dressed as ever, Mr. Everett sat a fine seat on his horse, showing excellent horsemanship and a handsome profile. Mr. Everett retorted hesitantly to a few of Mr. Bolton’s jests, and he glanced only occasionally toward Percival, never holding the gaze.

The trip to the old monastery was over an hour’s ride, and they were well more than halfway there when Miss Bolton cried out.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, and stopped her horse.

Much alarmed, the company stopped and returned to her side at once.

“Hermione,” Mr. Bolton said, deeply concerned at his sister’s cry, “whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, forgive me,” she said, clutching an arm around her belly. “I have suddenly—oh, I do feel
rather
ill.”

“My dear Miss Bolton!” Mr. Everett exclaimed with concern. “We must turn around at once.”

“No!” Miss Bolton insisted. “No, I won’t hear of it. Mr. Everett, it has been some three
months
that you have wanted to see the old ruins of the monastery, and the summer may be out before you have another chance. The weather is fine, and half of the picnic is in your saddle-bags. Horatio may take me back, I will be quite well. You must go on.”

Percival opened his mouth to object to this, and then realised that it was extremely likely that
this
was Mr. Bolton’s contrivance and that Miss Bolton’s sudden illness had been planned by the siblings. He shut his mouth again.

“What pleasure can we have if we know that you are ill, Miss Bolton?” Mr. Everett continued to protest, knowing nothing of such contrivances.

“Mr. Everett,” Miss Bolton said. She did look a bit pale, but held her head up righteously. “You know perfectly well that I have little interest in ruins. I might easily have my picnic on any other day at any of the nearer sites that Mr. Valentine has shown us. I insist that you keep on. Pray do not argue with me further, I feel quite ill. Horatio?”

With that, she turned her horse, and Mr. Everett could not protest further without risk of making her worse or delaying her return to comfort.

They sat in silence as the Boltons began back toward Linston Grange. Mr. Everett appeared quite lost, and Percival was not sure what he might say.

At last Percival cleared his throat, fretting with the horse’s reins. “Shall we, then, continue on?”

Mr. Everett’s lips were half-parted, brow very slightly furrowed and eyes clouded. There was no he could politely extract himself from Percival’s company. “I suppose we must. I am sure I will be scolded most fervently if I do not bring a recounting of the ruins.”

“It is this way,” Percival said, and resumed his course.

Mr. Everett’s horse fell into step next to him and they rode in silence for some time.

Percival was the first to break the silence, drawing attention to some features of the landscape and geography of the region. This relaxed them both, and Mr. Everett asked questions and encouraged the dialogue, which soon brought Percival to smiling.

It was not much further before they arrived at the old ruins, hidden in the cool shade of the forest. Tall trees grew all around the ruins, and within them.

“Did I tell you that this is the old monastery that used to own the Grange?” Percival asked, dismounting from his horse and looping her reins securely around a low branch. “Or, well—not the Grange, not the
house
, I don’t mean. But the lands of the Grange, which is why, you see, it is
called
the Grange.”

“Yes, I believe you did.” Mr. Everett alighted next to him, and they walked together into the ruins.

“It used to be very grand, and very powerful,” Percival said. “The monastery, that is. It owned quite a few of the lands in the region, but this was all hundreds of years ago.”

“What caused it to be abandoned?”

“You know, I have no idea! I suppose I must set upon discovering that. I only know that it is abandoned—well, I suppose that’s really quite clear, isn’t it?” Percival laughed, setting his hand on the bark of a tree in the middle of what had once been a room. The tree stretched up for more than fifty feet into the air. “Long enough for the forest to reclaim it.”

“It is lovely,” Mr. Everett said, mounting up a ruined staircase to explore.

“Do be careful, Mr. Everett!” Percival cried, worried for the security of the ancient construction, which had already lost most of its roofs and upper floors, and more than half of its walls.

“I shall, I promise,” Mr. Everett said, casting a warm smile in Percival’s direction.

It put Percival in mind of the last time that Mr. Everett had climbed up a ruined staircase and smiled at him, and Percival stopped where he was, frozen with want, hurt, and confusion.

Goaded to some action by a sudden rush of indignation, Percival made his way to the bottom of the steps and then paused again in a fit of indecision. “
Mr. Everett
,” he called.

Mr. Everett appeared around the bend in the wall and looked at Percival in puzzlement. “Mr. Valentine?”

“Mr. Everett, I think you have behaved
abominably,
” Percival said, feeling all his pent-up frustration bubbling up inside of his wounded heart.

Mr. Everett’s lips parted in surprise and he descended a single step. “Mr. Valentine.”

“Not a word! Not a
word
did you say to me when you left,” Percival continued. “I was left half in a panic. And then you returned, and still you will not offer any explanation. You treat me coldly but you insist that I have given no offence. You say we are friends, but you will not speak to me. To be quite earnest, Mr. Everett, I begin to suspect whether you are the sort of rake who, once your
conquest
has been had, you lose all interest in the game!”

Mr. Everett’s jaw fell fully open in shock. “Mr. Valentine!”

“My name,” Percival said, having worked himself fully into a temper, “is
Percival
, and I would thank you to use it!”

Mr. Everett shut his mouth again. Percival thought that he saw Mr. Everett’s lips twitch slightly with a smile.

“Percival,” Mr. Everett repeated, descending a few steps further. “I quite like that name. Mine is William.”

Now it was Percival’s turn to be confused. “It isn’t!” he objected, his temper now not quite sure of its proper outlet. “Your name is Frederick. I have heard Mr. Bolton call you so.”

“My name,” Mr. Everett said, descending two more steps, “is William Frederick—”

He paused, still three steps above Percival.

“Barham,” Mr. Everett finished, very quietly, with his eyes on Percival’s face. “Fourth Marquess of Linston.”

Percival stared at him, deeply uncertain.

“Everett was my mother’s maiden name,” he continued. “I’ve gone by it in London for most of my life, having little wish to associate myself with the old man. Only a few of my closest friends—and my solicitor—ever knew.”

“My Lord Barham,” Percival said, feeling confused and betrayed. “You’ve made a fool of me.”

Mr. Everett—
William
—Lord Barham descended the last steps to stand in front of Percival. “That wasn’t my intention. I wanted—especially after I met you, I wanted to befriend you as an equal, not as your landlord.”

“You are
not
my landlord,” Percival pointed out. “You may be the Marquess of Linston Grange and the village, but I have the Manor
entirely
in my own right.”

Lord Barham’s lips twitched again. “I know that, Percival. I didn’t mean—I simply meant that I wanted to be your friend. I’ve been plain Mr. Everett for most of my life. I don’t want to be Lord Barham.”

“And yet you are,” Percival said.

“And yet I am. If it doesn’t make you wroth, I intend to stay on at the Grange. London doesn’t suit me. It never has, but I never expected to love the country as I do. I want to stay. I want to be a part of your life. I want to work together with you to manage the estates that you love so much.”

“You
don’t
,” Percival said pettishly. “Or, if you will, I won’t have you. You have acted
cruelly
toward me, and you will not tell me why!”

Lord Barham winced. “Percival…”

“Have it out!” Percival demanded, clenching his fists with hurt fury. “Why did you bed me and then leave me?
Why
?”

“Percival,” Lord Barham repeated.

“I have changed my mind!” Percival burst out, entirely trembling with the force of his tangled emotions. “You may
not
call me Percival. Not if you’re… not if you’re…”

Percival deflated all at once. “Not if you don’t love me.”

Lord Barham sat down upon the steps, resting his arms upon his knees. When Percival glanced up at him, Lord Barham looked away.

“
Why
?” Percival repeated.

“Percival, I pray you—a moment to collect my thoughts. Please.”

Subsiding, Percival frowned down at the stone steps between them.

Lord Barham held his hat in his hands, fretting nervously at the brim. “I’m terrified.”

That was the last thing Percival expected from him, and his head came up swiftly. “Terrified!”

“
Percy
.”

Percival subsided again to let him finish. Crossing his arms petulantly, Percival considered whether or not he liked being called
Percy
, which no one had done since he was a child, and supposed that it might be allowed,
if
Lord Barham loved him, which he certainly hadn’t said that he did, but he had nonetheless familiarly continued calling him Percival.

“I keep thinking,” Lord Barham said, very quietly, “that you will behave as Josephine did. Even though I know that is foolish.”

“
Josephine
,” Percival repeated, wanting to know who Josephine was and what she had to do with anything. “Who in the world is—oh! Miss Josephine Martin.”