problem. But having failed to interest us in his canal, Lord
Gordmor has not, as I supposed he would do, exercised his
imagination. Instead, he has kept to his original solution. The
difference this time is, he's sent in heavy artillery to blast us
into submission."
Alistair
would have understood immediately what she was saying if his mind had
not been otherwise occupied.
The
braided coil not only continued to sag but was uncoiling as well.
Though he hadn't heard the pins drop, he was sure more were scattered
over the map-covered table than a moment ago. Any minute now, her
coiffure would tumble completely to pieces. He could barely keep his
hands still.
Thus
distracted, he said, "Heavy artillery? You cannot think we will
bring in our machinery and troops of canal cutters and bully our way
through. You are aware, I hope, that we cannot build a canal without
an Act of Parliament, and Parliament will not approve a canal
proposal the landowners unanimously oppose."
"You
are the heavy artillery," she said. "In this part of
Derbyshire, the Earl of Hargate is at least as important as the Duke
of Devonshire. Your family has been here quite as long, and your
father is held in exceptionally high esteem. Two of your brothers are
paragons, and you are a famous hero. Lord Gordmor chose his partner
very wisely, indeed—as well as a convenient time to contract
influenza."
Alistair
froze, almost literally. After a moment's incredulous outrage, he
settled into a cold fury. "Correct me if I have misapprehended,
Miss Oldridge," he said with bone-chilling politeness. "You
believe Lord Gordmor or I—or perhaps the pair of us—decided
to use my family's position and my own notoriety to mow down the
opposition? You think that is why I came? To what? Overawe the
yokels? Perhaps even touch their hearts with the evidence of my great
sacrifice on behalf of King and country?" At the reference to
his troublesome leg, a bitter note crept into his voice.
"Lord
Gordmor has not a fraction of your impact upon local opinion,"
she said. "He is not a Derbyshire man. His title is recent,
bestowed only in the last half century. And he is not famous."
Her chin went up. "I do not see why you take offense. I merely
state the simple facts of the case, which should be obvious to
everybody—though I suppose no one else will say it to your
face."
"You
know nothing about Lord Gordmor," Alistair said tightly. "If
you did, you would be aware he would never be so dishonorable as to
use me or my position to foist a wicked scheme upon anybody."
His
leg was twitching angrily. It hated standing too long in one
position. He stepped away from the table.
"I
said nothing about foisting wicked schemes," she said. "Really,
you seem to have a turn for the theatrical, Mr. Carsington." Her
brow wrinkled. "Or perhaps they're rhetorical flourishes.
'Overawe the yokels' is apt, but 'rapacious villains' and 'wicked
scheme' are off the mark. I do not think your canal is wicked. If a
suitor is rejected, it does not follow that he is wicked, merely that
he does not suit. Does your leg pain you?"
"Not
in the least," he said while a spasm shot through his hip.
She,
too, backed away from the table. "I know I'm supposed to take no
notice," she said. "But it is never proper to ignore
someone's discomfort. You move more stiffly than before. I collect
your leg pains you. Perhaps you wish to walk about. Or sit. Or
elevate it. I shouldn't keep you here arguing with me, at any rate.
I'm sure you have a great many important things to do."
Alistair
had many, many important things to do. But she had thrown everything
into a tumult, like her hair, and he was not ready to be dismissed.
"Miss Oldridge, you know perfectly well that you are the most
important thing I have to do," he said, and instantly regretted
it. Where were his vaunted powers of address? Good grief, where were
his manners?
He
paced to the window and back, and to the window again. His leg
treated him to several spasms. It was
Gordmor has not, as I supposed he would do, exercised his
imagination. Instead, he has kept to his original solution. The
difference this time is, he's sent in heavy artillery to blast us
into submission."
Alistair
would have understood immediately what she was saying if his mind had
not been otherwise occupied.
The
braided coil not only continued to sag but was uncoiling as well.
Though he hadn't heard the pins drop, he was sure more were scattered
over the map-covered table than a moment ago. Any minute now, her
coiffure would tumble completely to pieces. He could barely keep his
hands still.
Thus
distracted, he said, "Heavy artillery? You cannot think we will
bring in our machinery and troops of canal cutters and bully our way
through. You are aware, I hope, that we cannot build a canal without
an Act of Parliament, and Parliament will not approve a canal
proposal the landowners unanimously oppose."
"You
are the heavy artillery," she said. "In this part of
Derbyshire, the Earl of Hargate is at least as important as the Duke
of Devonshire. Your family has been here quite as long, and your
father is held in exceptionally high esteem. Two of your brothers are
paragons, and you are a famous hero. Lord Gordmor chose his partner
very wisely, indeed—as well as a convenient time to contract
influenza."
Alistair
froze, almost literally. After a moment's incredulous outrage, he
settled into a cold fury. "Correct me if I have misapprehended,
Miss Oldridge," he said with bone-chilling politeness. "You
believe Lord Gordmor or I—or perhaps the pair of us—decided
to use my family's position and my own notoriety to mow down the
opposition? You think that is why I came? To what? Overawe the
yokels? Perhaps even touch their hearts with the evidence of my great
sacrifice on behalf of King and country?" At the reference to
his troublesome leg, a bitter note crept into his voice.
"Lord
Gordmor has not a fraction of your impact upon local opinion,"
she said. "He is not a Derbyshire man. His title is recent,
bestowed only in the last half century. And he is not famous."
Her chin went up. "I do not see why you take offense. I merely
state the simple facts of the case, which should be obvious to
everybody—though I suppose no one else will say it to your
face."
"You
know nothing about Lord Gordmor," Alistair said tightly. "If
you did, you would be aware he would never be so dishonorable as to
use me or my position to foist a wicked scheme upon anybody."
His
leg was twitching angrily. It hated standing too long in one
position. He stepped away from the table.
"I
said nothing about foisting wicked schemes," she said. "Really,
you seem to have a turn for the theatrical, Mr. Carsington." Her
brow wrinkled. "Or perhaps they're rhetorical flourishes.
'Overawe the yokels' is apt, but 'rapacious villains' and 'wicked
scheme' are off the mark. I do not think your canal is wicked. If a
suitor is rejected, it does not follow that he is wicked, merely that
he does not suit. Does your leg pain you?"
"Not
in the least," he said while a spasm shot through his hip.
She,
too, backed away from the table. "I know I'm supposed to take no
notice," she said. "But it is never proper to ignore
someone's discomfort. You move more stiffly than before. I collect
your leg pains you. Perhaps you wish to walk about. Or sit. Or
elevate it. I shouldn't keep you here arguing with me, at any rate.
I'm sure you have a great many important things to do."
Alistair
had many, many important things to do. But she had thrown everything
into a tumult, like her hair, and he was not ready to be dismissed.
"Miss Oldridge, you know perfectly well that you are the most
important thing I have to do," he said, and instantly regretted
it. Where were his vaunted powers of address? Good grief, where were
his manners?
He
paced to the window and back, and to the window again. His leg
treated him to several spasms. It was
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