An Unusual Courtship (7 page)

“Well, I suppose,” Percival began, and cleared his throat. “I wished to ask… well, I don’t suppose that Lord Barham is in town at present?”

“No, I fear not,” Mr. Ibrahim informed him, folding his hands and frowning. “He remains upon the continent.”

“Yes, of course,” Percival said. “I expected as much. Only…”

“Only?” Mr. Ibrahim inquired. His eyebrows lifted.

Percival had never before
questioned
Lord Barham’s perpetual absence from London. He fidgeted. “Only, I did wonder, owing to how Mr. and Miss Bolton do seem to be
very
good friends with Lord Barham, in addition to Mr. Everett, and I did rather think… that is to say, I wondered whether, I suppose, ah…”

“Yes, Mr. Valentine?”

“Well, I did somewhat wonder how they made the acquaintance of Lord Barham
in absentia
,” Percival said, feeling a bit put out that Lord Barham had troubled himself to make the acquaintance of these charming strangers, but had never troubled himself in the past five years to make the acquaintance of the manager of his estates.

“Ah, I see. I’m afraid I am not certain how it was that Lord Barham made the acquaintance of his young friends, nor when. He does not confide in me such matters.”

It felt almost like a
lie
, which seemed so peculiar from the respectable Mr. Ibrahim. Percival frowned, remembering how all three of the guests at Linston Grange had expressed that the acquaintance was inherited, and certainly Mr. Ibrahim would have known that.

“I understand,” Percival said. “Perhaps, next time you encounter Lord Barham, you might … indicate to him that I would much desire to make his acquaintance. Whenever is convenient for him. Or perhaps he might care to visit the Linston estates for himself, if only briefly. Surely he would feel welcome there among the companionship of his friends.”

Mr. Ibrahim looked down at his papers. It was clear that he was concealing something, and he seemed pained by it. “I will endeavour to do so, Mr. Valentine,” he said at last.

There was nothing more to say. Percival got to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Ibrahim. I always appreciate your diligent assistance.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Valentine,” the solicitor said, and showed him to the door.

T
he party
at the Willworth’s was a sedately splendid affair, with everything arranged to Agatha and James’ exacting and conservative tastes. Percival made certain that his wardrobe was as impeccable as it could be made, since he knew that any flaw in his appearance would be seized upon by either his cousin or her guests as a Mark upon his Character.

After meeting with several architects and masons and selecting a friendly team of them whose qualifications and character were to his satisfaction, Percival had called upon his couturier—or, more accurately,
Lord Barham’s
couturier, who had been recommended to Percival by Mr. Ibrahim in the past. Percival had always been satisfied with the couturier’s services—as he had been satisfied with all recommendations ever made by the incomparable Mr. Ibrahim—but he had not had an occasion to properly visit the man in three years, and he was fully aware that his wardrobe reflected that.

The couturier had promised that he would have the updates to his wardrobe within three days, which would be before he left the city. It would be of great help to his appearance of respectability when he returned to his new friends in Warwickshire, but of no help whatsoever for his appearance at Agatha Willworth’s party.

He frowned at his now off-white gloves, which were beginning to fray along the seam. There was simply nothing to be done. New gloves could not be commanded within a day, not without considerable expense, and there was no one whose gloves he could respectably borrow: Colonel Willworth’s gloves would be comically baggy upon Percival’s hands and the query would be an embarrassment. Percival’s only other significant acquaintance was with Mr. Ibrahim, whose fingers were both shorter and bulkier than Percival’s, and there were few predicaments more socially humiliating—in Percival’s mind—than being reduced to borrowing gloves off of one’s solicitor. The old pair would have to do, being at least properly tailored and fitting attractively to his slender, long-fingered hands.

The party was already well under way when Percival descended the steps. This was intentional on his part, for he in no way wanted to be roped into the role of host for the party, and he would rather be thought vain than to endure any level of host duties with cousin Agatha’s guests.

He was glad to see that both of his hosts were thoroughly engaged in conversation with a clutch of guests apiece, which would hopefully keep them engaged and leave Percival to his own devices.

The average age of the party guests was closer to his cousin’s age than his own, but there were nonetheless several young ladies of marriageable age and a small handful of young men. At first Percival feared that he didn’t know a single one of the guests and might after all be obliged to seek his cousin’s assistance in making introductions, but then he recognised a cavalry officer whose acquaintance he was certain he had made at a gathering at Agatha’s house some years before. Percival applied himself to this gentleman, whose name he only slightly misremembered, and had the good fortune to be introduced around the party from there to enough new acquaintances that he was able to avoid his cousin entirely.

Dinner proceeded pleasantly enough, and afterward the party split between dancing and the quieter drawing rooms. Percival found himself in one of these, in a lively discussion with a group of young people who were less inclined toward dancing. He was entirely uncertain of himself while in such a group, feeling sure that his country manners should give some mis-step in the fine company of a London party.

“Mr. Valentine,” said a young lady whose acquaintance Percival had made only minutes before. “Your cousin has spoken of you, to be sure.”

Percival experienced a moment of dread regarding the sort of things his cousin Agatha might have said about him.

“Do I recall correctly that you are Mr. Valentine of Linston?” the young lady asked. Percival recalled that her name was Miss Josephine Martin.

“You do,” Percival confirmed, uncertain about where this query was heading but indeed very much hoping that it should enable him to brag about his beloved Linston.

“I regret that I have so recently heard that name under such unpleasant circumstances!” Miss Martin remarked.

“Unpleasant circumstances!” he repeated. “My dear Miss Martin, it is my most sincere hope that Linston is not a part in anything you find unpleasant!”

“Oh, but it is!” she insisted, fanning herself and lowering her eyes to indicate her demure reluctance at being forced to present Percival with such distasteful news. “For is it not indeed
Linston
which has the unfortunate condition of being the current residence of Mr. and Miss Bolton of Greenwich and that
dreadful
Mr. Everett?”

This produced a feeling of absolute shock in Percival’s breast. He did not understand how anyone at all might find the Boltons to be unpleasant and Mr. Everett to be dreadful.

“My good Miss Martin!” Percival exclaimed. “I must insist that you explain yourself! Indeed I have encountered nothing improper in the characters of the Boltons or Mr. Everett, who are, indeed, guests at Linston Grange.”

“I hesitate to speak of it,” Miss Martin said, and continued to fan herself. One of the other young people in their immediate vicinity expressed to her that she must be strong, and that the matter must have out.

This marshalled Miss Martin’s spirits, and she resolved herself. “It is true that I have no quarrel with Mr. Bolton or Miss Bolton, other than their continued warm acquaintance with such a profligate rake as Mr. Everett, and their
defence
of him.”

A profligate rake! Percival was quite betwattled. “Why, Miss Martin! What is it that Mr. Everett is supposed to have done?”

“I—!” Miss Martin began. She turned her face away, concealed it with her fan, and attempted to compose herself. “No! I cannot speak of the matter! It is too dreadful!”

“Miss Martin,” said one of the young women seated near to Miss Martin on the sofa. “May I divulge the matter? For, certainly, our good Mr. Valentine
should
know of the nature of his tenants.”

“Yes,” Miss Martin said. She seemed to be quite overwhelmed. “Do so.”

The group immediately around them all stepped closer.

“Miss Martin is much concerned with these matters because of how Mr. Everett had been engaged to marry her, and he did subsequently compel her to break off the engagement in the most unchivalrous manner possible! Indeed, it was that scandal which caused him to depart London at once, for no hostess of good breeding would have anything to do with him, and he was turned out entirely of London society! I quite think that the Boltons will find themselves likewise ostracised on account of their having defended him!”

Percival’s mouth fell open in shock. Mr. Everett, broken off an engagement? Mr. Everett unchivalrous, and banned from all civilised society? “I must beg of you to divulge the circumstances of Mr. Everett’s behaviour.”

“Oh, Mr. Valentine,” said a young man nearby, in regretful tones. “
Everyone
knows.”

“It was at a party,” Miss Martin said. She was quite evidently upset by the matter, and seemed as though she might be on the verge of tears. “All I did—all I did!—was to ask him to dance with me! One would think that would be a small enough matter to ask of one’s fiancé! And he…! He…!”

“He refused,” said the young lady by Miss Martin’s side.

There was a silence in the wake of this, as everyone mulled over Mr. Everett’s incomprehensible and unforgivable behaviour.

“It was,” continued the young lady. “It was quite loud. He said—”

“Oh!” said Miss Martin. “Oh, I shudder to remember it!”

“He said, in the rudest and most wrathful manner, ‘Madam, I will not!’”

A gasp went through the assembled persons, still shocked by this unchivalrous behaviour even some weeks later.

“It was very loud,” said one of the nearby gentlemen. “Nearly the whole dance heard it.”

“To shout so at one’s fiancée!” Miss Martin’s friend exclaimed. “Why, I quite feared he might
strike
her!”

“And then what could I do!” exclaimed Miss Martin. “There was nothing for it but to break off the engagement at once.”

“Of course you must!” chorused her friend. “How could you remain engaged to such a boor! Really, what sort of man should remonstrate with his fiancée, so loudly, and in public!”

“He was always so when he was in his cups,” Miss Martin despaired. “I fear it was indicative of a dark and violent nature, but I was so determined to see the good in him!”

Percival regarded all of this in utter shock, incapable of formulating any sort of response. Declining to dance was all well and good, if one merely protested a headache, but to sharply and rudely refuse in such a manner while at a public party was an indication of the lowest and most dreadful sort of character. Worse so if it had been done under the influence of liquor! Percival had one or two of those in the area of Linston, who became violent and wroth when in their cups.

“You were certainly
too
indulgent toward him, Miss Martin.” Her friend petted her soothingly. “But it has turned out all for the best. You are rid of him, and now all of London knows his nature. He will not quickly entrap another young lady into his wiles.”

“I must beg of you,” Miss Martin said, clasping Percival’s hand, “that you will protect the young women of Linston from him! Indeed, he can seem so
very
charming, but I assure you that it is only a concealment of the true corruption of his nature!”

Percival struggled to put together a reply to this. There were enough persons present in support of the story that it certainly could not be doubted, and he intended to put the query to his cousin Agatha at the first opportunity so that he might be sure of it. If Mr. Everett had indeed behaved abusively toward a young lady—and his fiancée, no less!—at a party, Agatha would know the details of it. “I am most grateful to you for making me this warning, Miss Martin,” he said. “And I will certainly contrive to do as you have said.”

P
ercival spent
the rest of his time in London and the journey back home in a miserable haze.

His cousin Agatha had confirmed the story about the shocking behaviour of Mr. Everett. To have shouted at one’s fiancée in public, especially in such a rude and callous way, was entirely unacceptable for any person of civilised behaviour, and what sort of monster could have been wroth with the sweet and gentle Miss Martin?

All of London society had cut him out. Percival wondered how he could do any different. To continue an acquaintance with Mr. Everett would be seen as tacit approval—or at least dismissal—of his brutish behaviour. And even if Percival neglected to care for the opinions of others, he himself should have moral objections to remaining friends with anyone who could treat a fellow person in such a brusque, hurtful way.

It seemed that Mr. Everett became a devil with drink. Percival didn’t want to see it.

The pleasure had entirely gone out of his excursion to London. Everything had been arranged with the architect and masons, and supplies would be delivered promptly. Percival would still need to make arrangements with the quarry nearest to Linston, but that was a relatively small matter.

A few days ago, he had seen samples and proposals for designs and been delighted. Now even his pride and pleasure in Linston felt stale.

The fine new suits of clothes in his trunk had little purpose. Percival would wear them to meet with his architect and masons when they came to Linston, so that he—and Linston—should seem very fine and respectable, but there was no further pleasure in them.

He picked at the finger of his new gloves, so beautifully fitted to his hand. When he had placed the order, he had thought that Mr. Everett would find him very handsome in his new gloves and glossy Hessian boots.

Percival clenched his jaw, having no desire to spare any thought on Mr. Everett.

Linston was cloudy when he arrived. The village road seemed rougher than usual, and all the doors were shut. His beloved little village looked worn and tawdry to his eye now in comparison to the high glamour of London. A sad, muddy village, managed by a man who was not its owner. Foolish, green-horned Mr. Valentine of Linston Manor, who had believed his village to be the gem of the county and thought that Mr. Everett’s nature was truly as warm as his smile.

Linston Manor did not escape the censure of his critical eye. The creamy gold stone seemed greyer than ever, and the cracks and crumbles at her edges were shoddy. What an embarrassment! And to think that he had shown off his manor proudly.

How the Boltons and Mr. Everett must have laughed at him.

Heartsore and weary, Percival descended from his carriage and made his way up the manor steps.

His housekeeper met him at the door, all smiles. “Mr. Valentine! Welcome home. I’ve sent Miss Smith to put the kettle on. I’ll have tea and supper for you right away.”

“Mr. Valentine,” said his butler, bowing smartly. “Mr. and Miss Bolton left word that they wished for you to call on them as soon as you returned.”

Percival fidgeted with his hat, turning it anxiously in his hands. “Did they express some manner of emergency?” Percival asked.

The butler gently took his hat from him, and then his overcoat. “No, Mr. Valentine. I believe it was a social call.”

Fretting at his lip, Percival considered his options. Surely he could not continue his acquaintance with such a brute as Mr. Everett was assured to be! And yet how dreadful to refuse them, although certainly Percival could not bear to be rude about it in any manner. Countrified though he might be, Percival was determined that
he
should not be a brute! “Then please send a polite refusal. I do not feel at all well, and I do not believe I will feel up to calling upon them tomorrow—certainly not tonight.”

“Very well, sir.” The butler nodded his understanding, and went to see to his duties.

From his bedroom, where he was very soon ensconced with hot tea and a rich supper, Percival could see the glittering lights of the Grange from afar. At least eight of their windows were lit, and perhaps more. It seemed bright and extravagant, a place of charm and laughter.

“Would he truly have struck her?” Percival murmured to himself, not wishing to believe such a thing of the charming Mr. Everett.

Heart aching, Percival pulled the curtains shut.

T
here was
nothing from the tenants of the Grange the next day, which was Monday, nor on Tuesday, most likely with respect to his claimed ill health. Percival kept himself at home and saw to his correspondence, which had piled up while he had been away in London.

On Wednesday, there was a missive from Miss Bolton, inviting him to Linston Grange the next day for tea.

Torn with guilt and anxiety at the certain insult of refusal, Percival sent a polite reply declining the invitation and claiming that he was too awfully busy with matters of the management of Linston and simply could not be drawn away from them.

On Thursday, he encountered the trio in Linston Village.

Occupied with the business of arranging the renovations and expansions of the village, Percival had gone to the village with the intent of speaking with Mrs. Peters, mother of six and most in need of some expansion to her home. Bringing along some of the samples and proposed blueprints for the new houses to be built, Percival intended to put to her the question of whether she and her children would prefer an expansion upon her current farmhouse, or if they would rather be uprooted entirely into a fine new domicile.

He had not gotten halfway through the village when he encountered the Boltons out walking with Mr. Everett. The three of them were in the company of Mr. Humphrey, the village pastor, who had Miss Bolton upon his arm. This seemed quite familiar of him, in Percival’s opinion, even though he did think that Mr. Humphrey was a very charming and trustworthy gentleman who was of course entirely above reproach.

“Mr. Valentine!” Miss Bolton called, and waved.

Trapped by etiquette, there was nothing for it but that Percival should cross to them and greet them, unless he intended to give
very
public insult and cut them visibly in the centre of the village. Public insult was not a capability of Percival’s nature.

“Good day, Miss Bolton,” Percival swept off his hat in greeting. “Mr. Bolton. Mr. Humphrey. Ah, um. Mr. Everett.” He fidgeted uncertainly with the hat, which he kept in his hands in the manner of a shield.

“Good day, Mr. Valentine,” said Mr. Everett. “I hope your health has improved? I know that the journey from London can be a tiring one.”

“Yes,” Percival said, looking down at his hat rather than at Mr. Everett. “I am quite well, thank you.”

“I hope you’ll come soon to visit us at the Grange?” Miss Bolton expressed. “It has been so terribly lonesome without you!”

“I,” Percival said, and cleared his throat nervously as he strove to find a means of polite refusal. “Perhaps, certainly,” he said, and just then lost his hold on his hat due to fidgeting.

It bounced in the dirt before Percival rescued it, feeling further humiliated by the rim of dirt now clinging to his fine new hat. How foolish he had been when he bought it! He had thought of how Mr. Everett might find him charming in the latest style.

“I hope you will forgive me,” Percival said, dusting fretfully at his hat and not looking at any of them. “I am expected by Mrs. Peters on some business.”

“Yes, of course,” Miss Bolton said.

“Mr. Valentine,” said Mr. Everett.

Percival tensed, hands pausing upon his hat.

“Will you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to Mrs. Peters?” Mr. Everett asked.

Trapped, Percival’s breath quickened. “No,” he said. “Thank you, I will manage. I could not possibly impose upon you in such a manner.”

There was a startled silence in response to Percival’s refusal.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Percival said, putting his still dusty hat upon his head. “Good day to you all.”

He made his retreat as swiftly as he could manage, and did not look back.

T
wo days
and another declined invitation later, and Miss Bolton turned up on his doorstep in person. She was without chaperon while calling on a gentleman in his own home, which Percival found highly unusual, even in Linston.

The butler indicated that she was waiting in the drawing room, and Percival hurried there, neatly dressed but flustered. “Miss Bolton!”

“Mr. Valentine,” she said, rising to greet him. “I hope you are well and that I have not inconvenienced you too much by dropping in on you like this.”

“No, no,” Percival insisted. “That’s quite all right. It’s all… certainly… it is always a pleasure to see you, Miss Bolton.” He cleared his throat at the end of this little speech, and picked uncertainly at his gloves.

“I am sorry to be so forward, but I must ask you, Mr. Valentine. You have been avoiding us. I would know why.”

“Avoiding you!” Percival responded. “No, I… I…”

“I beg of you to be honest with me, Mr. Valentine!” she exclaimed. “You have been avoiding us. Pray tell me why! Has one of our party given you some offence?”

“No,” Percival said. “No, certainly! It is nothing that any of you have done to me directly.”

“Indirectly, then! How have we offended?”

“It is Mr. Everett!” Percival said. “Truly, Miss Bolton, I do not know how you can associate yourself with a man of such—of such… base character!”

Miss Bolton’s face went in rapid succession through shock, indignation, and determined fury. “Have you personally witnessed anything which should make you doubt Mr. Everett’s character?”

Percival coloured and felt instantly foolish. “Not personally, no, but—”

“Then am I to understand that you have cut us on account of some pernicious gossip?”

That made Percival’s judgement and determination on the topic sound less honourable. He fidgeted and blustered. “I hardly judged it to be
gossip
, on account of how it was a first-hand reporting of Mr. Everett’s shocking—”

“From Miss Martin, I warrant,” Miss Bolton said, with wry disapproval.

Percival deflated, now very uncertain of his stance on the matter. “Yes. From Miss Martin.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll listen to Mr. Everett himself, and he would indeed be quite hesitant to speak ill of Miss Martin, even now, but I hope you will consider hearing
my
side of the story, having been present at the event which has so defamed Mr. Everett’s good character?”

“Yes,” Percival said, sighing in surrender. The version of events he had encountered in London had been so broadly unanimous that he had come to assume it was the only one. “Will you sit, Miss Bolton?” he asked, indicating a chair and hoping that she
would
sit so that he could sit.

She did.

“Miss Martin was a friend of mine,” she began, folding her hands in her lap as she related her story. “I was aware that she was headstrong and could be petty, but she was outwardly sweet and charming at all times, so I did not suspect a deeper flaw in her character. I further did not expect that Mr. Everett would be charmed by her. I suppose that since they were both headstrong people, there was some sympathy of character, and Mr. Everett found her to be appealingly sweet and gentle, so he made her an offer.

“Once they were engaged, Miss Martin spent quite a bit of time in our company—as you have done—and the four of us frequently attended the same events. It was at that point that Miss Martin’s behaviour began to… alter.”

Percival felt uncomfortable at this apparent defamation of Miss Martin’s character, but he acknowledged that since Miss Martin had indeed defamed Mr. Everett’s character, it was only appropriate that he should hear a fair rebuttal.

“I found her to be very selfish and demanding, and betimes even cruel. I do not know if Mr. Everett would agree with this estimate. Even now, I have never heard him say a word against her.”

Miss Bolton looked down at her own hands, hesitating in her story. “She behaved… as though Mr. Everett was hers to command, once the engagement was set. I have certainly seen men treat women so, once an engagement is formed, which I find to be very boorish and ungentle. It was no more pleasant from Miss Martin. Around most company, she behaved as charmingly as ever. Around us, since we were their chaperons more often than not, she was only barely restrained, and often I would see her whisper something in Mr. Everett’s ear only to see him colour as if with deeply injured pride. She treated him as though he were her lap-dog, and of course he could not honourably end their engagement. For weeks I found him at his wit’s end, entirely miserable that the sweet, charming young lady he had sought to marry had transformed into a cruel shrew.

“Miss Martin frequently arranged that she would impose her will upon him by asking or commanding in a charming manner in public, but so as to contrive that he could not refuse her without seeming brutish. He began to avoid social functions, she began to complain publicly of his character, and at last the matter came to a head in the manner which I imagine you have heard: she commanded him to dance with her, he declined, she demanded more strongly, and Mr. Everett, at last, lost his temper and ejaculated loudly that he would
not
.

“The scandal of his behaviour—to so publicly cut his fiancée and over such an insignificant manner—lost him his good standing in London society, but I believe that Mr. Everett might think it worth the cost to be free of Miss Martin. We sought promptly to leave London and the scandal behind. Lord Barham was our ally in this and offered that we should reside here.”

Percival sat in silence once her recounting was complete. His only doubt on the matter could be regarding Miss Bolton’s word against Miss Martin’s. He did not know much of Miss Martin’s character, and certainly had no skill at identifying falsity in anyone’s nature.

“Miss Martin said—” Percival cleared his throat uncertainly, wishing to address the one question in his mind that Miss Bolton had not answered. “That Mr. Everett was in the habit of becoming… violent. And wrathful. When he was in his cups.”