but I persuaded him at last.”
Sir Nicholas raised his hands. “Hold me blameless,” he said with a chuckle. “David was mad for overthrown statues in broken temples, hiding in the most remote of mountain villages. Can I help it if I had a preference for clean sheets and decent food?”
“Did you find much of either in Greece?” Rietta asked.
“Enough to content me.” He came closer. “Have you ever traveled outside of Ireland, Miss Ferris?”
“Never yet, sir, but I have hopes.”
Mr. Greeves and Sir Nicholas exchanged places. Blanche was looking bored as the two enthusiasts discussed sights they’d seen. She seemed glad of the rescue of even Mr. Joyce, turning her petulant pout into a rather dark radiance as she pointedly turned her back on the others.
Rietta could only go on tatting as Sir Nicholas sat beside her. She began to work more quickly as she tried to ignore that they sat virtually thigh against thigh.
“What are you working on?” He took the strand in his hand and began stroking it with his fingers, trying to smooth it out.
“I hope to lay up enough trimming to edge some bed linen.”
“A meritorious hope. Will you achieve it?”
“I believe I shall. I have already done one set for my father; this shall be for Blanche.”
“You are very kind to them.”
She could have sworn her entire attention was fixed on the white thread as she twisted and turned it in her fingertips, her needle a flash of silver. Yet how was it that she could see that his expression was sardonic?
“It is little enough. How do you find Ireland, Sir Nicholas?”
“You sail across St. George’s Channel or the Irish Sea.”
At this piece of nonsense, she turned her full attention on him with a light-lipped expression of disdain. “I meant, after your travels?”
“Who says I’ve been traveling?”
“Mr. Mochrie—”
“That was years ago....”
“And the state of your boots when we first met.”
“They became muddy while I was helping your coachman.”
“No. The road was dry enough for this time of year. Your breeches were gone in mud to the knee—and the stripe down the side told its own tale. Were you at Waterloo?”
“Yes, ma’am. You are rather observant....”
“For a woman?” she asked, finishing his thought. “A woman must be more observant than a man because no one ever tells her anything. We must learn by observation and deduction if we are to learn anything at all.”
“By God, a proponent of women’s rights.”
“By God, sir, a proponent of the notion that we have our own heads and the right to use them.”
Rietta glanced toward Blanche who sat sighing, the picture of long-suffering femininity, while her three admirers discovered a like passion for the Greek theater.
“I am no radical, Sir Nicholas,” Rietta said, lowering her voice. “We must each be satisfied with our lot in life.”
“Must we? Why?”
“To rage against our situation is to deny the destiny that has been created for us.”
“So you think we should all be born, live, and die on the same plot?”
“No, I—”
“I agree with you. Some day you must come to see Greenwood. Then you’d know why.”
Relieved to have been rescued from the involved philosophy she’d been carelessly embracing, Rietta smiled. “I should like that very much.”
“Come Wednesday. I’ll tell my mother to expect you.”
Chapter Four
Rietta could only stare at him, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. If she had, then he was quite the boldest of Blanche’s suitors. Had she struck him so powerfully that he felt compelled to proceed in this hurried fashion?
“Oh, but we cannot,” she said, after several false starts. “Blanche has her harp lessons and we must decorate the church.”
“Your sister plays the harp? Well, she is an angel. What instrument do you favor?”
She wondered how he’d look if she confessed that her favorite instruments were the pen, inkpot, and ledger. Shocked and horrified,
Sir Nicholas raised his hands. “Hold me blameless,” he said with a chuckle. “David was mad for overthrown statues in broken temples, hiding in the most remote of mountain villages. Can I help it if I had a preference for clean sheets and decent food?”
“Did you find much of either in Greece?” Rietta asked.
“Enough to content me.” He came closer. “Have you ever traveled outside of Ireland, Miss Ferris?”
“Never yet, sir, but I have hopes.”
Mr. Greeves and Sir Nicholas exchanged places. Blanche was looking bored as the two enthusiasts discussed sights they’d seen. She seemed glad of the rescue of even Mr. Joyce, turning her petulant pout into a rather dark radiance as she pointedly turned her back on the others.
Rietta could only go on tatting as Sir Nicholas sat beside her. She began to work more quickly as she tried to ignore that they sat virtually thigh against thigh.
“What are you working on?” He took the strand in his hand and began stroking it with his fingers, trying to smooth it out.
“I hope to lay up enough trimming to edge some bed linen.”
“A meritorious hope. Will you achieve it?”
“I believe I shall. I have already done one set for my father; this shall be for Blanche.”
“You are very kind to them.”
She could have sworn her entire attention was fixed on the white thread as she twisted and turned it in her fingertips, her needle a flash of silver. Yet how was it that she could see that his expression was sardonic?
“It is little enough. How do you find Ireland, Sir Nicholas?”
“You sail across St. George’s Channel or the Irish Sea.”
At this piece of nonsense, she turned her full attention on him with a light-lipped expression of disdain. “I meant, after your travels?”
“Who says I’ve been traveling?”
“Mr. Mochrie—”
“That was years ago....”
“And the state of your boots when we first met.”
“They became muddy while I was helping your coachman.”
“No. The road was dry enough for this time of year. Your breeches were gone in mud to the knee—and the stripe down the side told its own tale. Were you at Waterloo?”
“Yes, ma’am. You are rather observant....”
“For a woman?” she asked, finishing his thought. “A woman must be more observant than a man because no one ever tells her anything. We must learn by observation and deduction if we are to learn anything at all.”
“By God, a proponent of women’s rights.”
“By God, sir, a proponent of the notion that we have our own heads and the right to use them.”
Rietta glanced toward Blanche who sat sighing, the picture of long-suffering femininity, while her three admirers discovered a like passion for the Greek theater.
“I am no radical, Sir Nicholas,” Rietta said, lowering her voice. “We must each be satisfied with our lot in life.”
“Must we? Why?”
“To rage against our situation is to deny the destiny that has been created for us.”
“So you think we should all be born, live, and die on the same plot?”
“No, I—”
“I agree with you. Some day you must come to see Greenwood. Then you’d know why.”
Relieved to have been rescued from the involved philosophy she’d been carelessly embracing, Rietta smiled. “I should like that very much.”
“Come Wednesday. I’ll tell my mother to expect you.”
Chapter Four
Rietta could only stare at him, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. If she had, then he was quite the boldest of Blanche’s suitors. Had she struck him so powerfully that he felt compelled to proceed in this hurried fashion?
“Oh, but we cannot,” she said, after several false starts. “Blanche has her harp lessons and we must decorate the church.”
“Your sister plays the harp? Well, she is an angel. What instrument do you favor?”
She wondered how he’d look if she confessed that her favorite instruments were the pen, inkpot, and ledger. Shocked and horrified,
Similar Books
