Page 45 of The Summer Country

Standing so still, watching, waiting, always waiting.

It had become a passion of his to try to discover what she was thinking beneath that closed expression. Miss Beckles’s every opinion emerged from her lips, but with Jenny it was a question of reading small signals, a tightening of the mouth, a lift of the brow. It was like learning to read a new language, finding pages and pages of text suddenly rich with meaning that might once have been blank. Every look spoke volumes; her carefully considered words sang like a choir by candlelight.

He called on Miss Beckles more often than he ought, but not, he had to admit, for the sake of Miss Beckles. It was her maid he came to see, although their communication was limited to a word and a look.

Oh, Lord. Was this what his father had felt for Nan? This pull like the moon to the sea, calling him like the tides, drawing him to her despite the knowledge that it was wrong, that there could be nothing between them. How could there when she was in no position to refuse?

That hadn’t stopped his father.

But he wasn’t his father. He wouldn’t be.

Jenny’s eyes met his across the room. Just a momentary glance, but he felt the hairs on his neck prickle, his cravat suddenly too tight, like a callow youth at his first assembly, sweating through his gloves at the embarrassment of making his bow to a young lady.

Miss Beckles spotted him over Robert’s shoulder and her face lit. Charles’s heart sank at the eagerness in her face, the way she raised herself half onto her toes as she lifted a hand in greeting.

He bowed, but ignored the implied invitation, turning away instead so he wouldn’t see the disappointment on her face. It was his own fault. He had raised expectations. He needed, he knew, to make a decision. Either marry Miss Beckles or cease his calls. Everyone was watching, he knew, waiting to see if he would come up to scratch. If he didn’t, it would be embarrassing for Miss Beckles. No, worse than embarrassing, a confirmation of the rumors that Robert had taken pains to share, and that others only dared hint at.

But if he did marry her . . .

His entire being recoiled at the prospect. He wasn’t being fair to her, he knew. There was nothing so repugnant about her. He even rather liked her, at times. But to like someone, at times—how could one make vows before God on the strength of so little?

Men had died and worms had eaten them, but not for love. So the poet said. But that same poet had decreed that to the marriage of minds there should be no impediment, and Charles knew, knew down to the depths of his soul, that their minds were of a very different mettle, that there were corners of Miss Beckles’s mind that were anathema to him. She was an enigma to him, and one he had no desire to puzzle out. He could like her well enough, enjoy her blunt tongue, her forthright nature, so long as he didn’t have to dwell too deeply on the opinions she expressed: her implacable contempt for Jonathan, based on nothing more than the circumstances of his birth; her acceptance—no, not just acceptance, her championing of a system that Charles found morally bankrupt at best and criminal at worst.

He wouldn’t think of it now. This wasn’t the place.

Jonathan was standing by the table, and Charles went to him instead, seizing on the excuse.

Charles had insisted he come, although Jonathan had balked at it, saying he wouldn’t be welcome. Don’t be absurd, Charles had told him.

But Jonathan had been right and he had been wrong. No one had done anything so obvious as snub him, but he hadn’t been precisely welcomed either.

“Jonathan.” They had progressed to first-name terms. Or, rather, Charles called Jonathan by his first name. Jonathan called him “sir.” “How do you like the party?”

“They’ve a fine cook, to be sure.” His plate was laden with food, but most of it was untouched. Gluttony, Charles had noticed, was not among Jonathan’s weaknesses. The food was an excuse, a reason to stay by the table. He looked pointedly at Charles. “A man could get used to this.”

Even his bookkeeper was asking his intentions. “Do you think I should marry her?”

Jonathan started to say something, then thought better of it. He shrugged. “Your books would balance.”

That wasn’t really an answer. Or perhaps it was, and Charles was just being naive. “Come with me. Let’s make our bows.” With Jonathan as shield, he might do the pretty without feeling as though he was making promises he didn’t intend to keep. Miss Beckles would be too busy glowering at his bookkeeper to make eyes at Charles. “Who’s that with them?”

“That’s Mr. and Mrs. Boland.” When Charles looked blank, Jonathan added, “The shipowner. Irish. He operates out of Cork and owns property in Antigua, but he’s looking to start trading in Barbados sugar. Sir.”

Charles didn’t ask how Jonathan knew these things. He just did, the way he knew the best place to sell jewels on the quiet or arrange a loan. He was staggeringly competent in a way that made Charles, for all his learning, feel deeply inadequate.

“Shall we?” he said. “You can convince Mr. Boland of the superiority of Peverills sugar.”

“What there is of it,” murmured Jonathan.

“We’ll do better next year,” said Charles firmly.

Jonathan didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. It was, thought Charles, ironic that Miss Beckles and his bookkeeper disliked each other so much, when their opinions on how he ought to manage his land were so remarkably similar.

“Miss Beckles,” he said, steeling himself against the hope in her eyes. “Thank you, as always, for your hospitality.”

“Not at all,” said Miss Beckles, her voice pitched higher than usual—with nerves, Charles thought, and cursed himself for causing it. “You know we regard you as family. Peverills and Beckleses have always been near relations.”

“Yes, the sort that spar,” said Robert, lazily popping a grape into his mouth. “Who was it again? Cain and Abel. Brother, may I make you known to Mr. and Mrs. Boland? They’ve come from Antigua to see the harvest.”