an excellent shopper,” he offered gallantly. “All the ladies tell me so. My opinion is much sought in the selection of a bonnet or a shawl. Gloves are not my forte, but I know pigskin from kid.”
“We shall see.” Lettie laughed. She was only human, with the normal feminine weakness of wanting to appear in public with a gallant escort. What a dash she would cut in Ashford! Arriving in Havergal’s bang-up curricle, then going on the strut with him. It was more than she could resist. “When do you think you and Miss FitzSimmons will be back?” she asked.
“That depends on when Miss FitzSimmons would like to leave?” he said, turning to Violet and making it a question.
“Is nine o’clock too late?” she asked. “I have a few things to attend to before I go. The chickens are mine,” she explained.
He had no notion what care chickens required, but said, “Nine will be fine. It will give me a little time to look over the library and gallery, if Miss Beddoes permits?”
Her smile of relief was perfectly obvious. She found it not so difficult to entertain a viscount as she had feared. With a perfectly inedible breakfast on his plate, Havergal soon rose and asked directions to the library.
“Just down the hall, third door on the left. I’ll show you,” Lettie said.
The library was the best-furnished room in the house. The Beddoes gentlemen had always been scholars, and the requisite tomes in Latin, Greek, and French had a place on their shelves. The room, too, was lovely. A long wall of windows looked out on the home garden, where flowers were planted next to the house to conceal the rows of cabbages, carrots, onions, and beets beyond. A tall wall of irises stood against the ferny lace of asparagus plants, with sweet peas, lupines, and other modest blooms approaching close to the windows.
“This is charming!” Havergal exclaimed when they entered. He went to the window and looked out a moment, admiring the sun-drenched garden and spreading park beyond the garden.
“It is my favorite room in the house.”
After admiring the window view, he turned back to examine the room itself. A pair of long tables ran down the center, with lamps at either end and chairs all around. This seemed a good time to begin flattering her erudition. “Like a dining room for feasting on great works of literature,” he said.
There were more comfortable, stuffed chairs in the corners, and a pair drawn up beside the grate.
He strolled toward them. “I wager this is where you and Miss FitzSimmons curl up with a good book on a rainy afternoon.” A table between the two chairs held an assortment of magazines, a bonbon dish, and other telltale signs of frequent occupancy. He lifted a book, opened facedown on the table, and glanced at it.
“It is Frances Burney’s latest, The Wanderer," she said.
“This, I take it, is Miss FitzSimmons’s book. What are you reading?”
“I am reading that.”
“Ah.” It was going to be difficult praising her bluestockings if she admitted bluntly to reading Burney. “I rather thought from your conversation yesterday that you were interested in philosophy.”
“Oh no. I usually get my philosophy secondhand—that is, I used to, from Papa.” She looked rather wistfully at the shelves. “There is a great deal of worthwhile stuff here that I expect I ought to be reading, but somehow when evening comes, I seem too tired to tackle such weighty things.”
“If one is truly interested, I expect one would have to set oneself a course and start on it bright and early in the mornings. A sort of university at home.” He was willing, indeed eager, to pursue this, with himself as her mentor.
“Yes, I expect so,” she said, and revealed her total lack of interest by turning away. “I shall leave you to the books. The gallery is just across the hall. I will be happy to accompany you when you are ready. Our pictures, I fear, were not executed by artists you will immediately recognize, but are
“We shall see.” Lettie laughed. She was only human, with the normal feminine weakness of wanting to appear in public with a gallant escort. What a dash she would cut in Ashford! Arriving in Havergal’s bang-up curricle, then going on the strut with him. It was more than she could resist. “When do you think you and Miss FitzSimmons will be back?” she asked.
“That depends on when Miss FitzSimmons would like to leave?” he said, turning to Violet and making it a question.
“Is nine o’clock too late?” she asked. “I have a few things to attend to before I go. The chickens are mine,” she explained.
He had no notion what care chickens required, but said, “Nine will be fine. It will give me a little time to look over the library and gallery, if Miss Beddoes permits?”
Her smile of relief was perfectly obvious. She found it not so difficult to entertain a viscount as she had feared. With a perfectly inedible breakfast on his plate, Havergal soon rose and asked directions to the library.
“Just down the hall, third door on the left. I’ll show you,” Lettie said.
The library was the best-furnished room in the house. The Beddoes gentlemen had always been scholars, and the requisite tomes in Latin, Greek, and French had a place on their shelves. The room, too, was lovely. A long wall of windows looked out on the home garden, where flowers were planted next to the house to conceal the rows of cabbages, carrots, onions, and beets beyond. A tall wall of irises stood against the ferny lace of asparagus plants, with sweet peas, lupines, and other modest blooms approaching close to the windows.
“This is charming!” Havergal exclaimed when they entered. He went to the window and looked out a moment, admiring the sun-drenched garden and spreading park beyond the garden.
“It is my favorite room in the house.”
After admiring the window view, he turned back to examine the room itself. A pair of long tables ran down the center, with lamps at either end and chairs all around. This seemed a good time to begin flattering her erudition. “Like a dining room for feasting on great works of literature,” he said.
There were more comfortable, stuffed chairs in the corners, and a pair drawn up beside the grate.
He strolled toward them. “I wager this is where you and Miss FitzSimmons curl up with a good book on a rainy afternoon.” A table between the two chairs held an assortment of magazines, a bonbon dish, and other telltale signs of frequent occupancy. He lifted a book, opened facedown on the table, and glanced at it.
“It is Frances Burney’s latest, The Wanderer," she said.
“This, I take it, is Miss FitzSimmons’s book. What are you reading?”
“I am reading that.”
“Ah.” It was going to be difficult praising her bluestockings if she admitted bluntly to reading Burney. “I rather thought from your conversation yesterday that you were interested in philosophy.”
“Oh no. I usually get my philosophy secondhand—that is, I used to, from Papa.” She looked rather wistfully at the shelves. “There is a great deal of worthwhile stuff here that I expect I ought to be reading, but somehow when evening comes, I seem too tired to tackle such weighty things.”
“If one is truly interested, I expect one would have to set oneself a course and start on it bright and early in the mornings. A sort of university at home.” He was willing, indeed eager, to pursue this, with himself as her mentor.
“Yes, I expect so,” she said, and revealed her total lack of interest by turning away. “I shall leave you to the books. The gallery is just across the hall. I will be happy to accompany you when you are ready. Our pictures, I fear, were not executed by artists you will immediately recognize, but are
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