An Evening at Almack's Page 5

  He lowered his voice so only Matilda and her father might hear. “I would very much like to come in, Miss Rayment, and you needn’t fear. I am not wholly unaware of your circumstances, and I am a man of discretion.”

  Understanding lit her face. “Your uncle’s letters?”

  He doffed his hat. “Won’t you lead the way, my lord?”

  The baron’s confusion cleared, and he stood straighter, more like his old self. “Yes, of course. Come. We must go inside.” He walked before them, forgetting to take his daughter’s arm. Oliver moved to offer his, and they followed the baron—and the servant who had hovered at the edge of the conversation—into the townhouse.

  Chapter Eight

  Mattie made certain her father was comfortably settled in his favorite chair in the study, going to the trouble of giving him an extra cushion and a warm shawl around his shoulders. She tried to ignore Oliver, who stood by the window, staring out to the street, as she bustled around the room to stoke the fire, ring for refreshments, find her father a book, and then stand for a moment in uncertainty.

  Mr. Hapsbury, their steward, was not a gossip. In fact, the man had been a loyal employee to her father since before Mattie’s birth. But he had obviously told Oliver something of her father’s ailment.

  I cannot be entirely surprised, given how much he’s told me of Oliver’s accomplishments.

  Mattie reached up to touch her hair and realized she still wore her riding cap. Grimacing, she began to undo the pins which held the lovely thing in place. Once it was removed, she laid it aside on a table.

  Oliver’s hands were clasped behind his back, and she couldn’t see his face. It was impossible to guess what he thought of the situation, though he had acted quickly to help move everyone along to minimize what onlookers saw.

  Father must’ve been watching at the window for her or the other ladies of the house to arrive home. His state had been one of worry and agitation. Thankfully, the agitation hadn’t lasted long. Again, she questioned the wisdom of their father coming with them for the Season, though they intended to stay only so long as it took to secure Beatrice a marriage offer.

  Her mother hadn’t wanted to leave him on their estate, and Mattie really couldn’t imagine doing so either.

  Mattie said nothing as she approached Oliver. At first, before her courage built up suitably, she only gazed out the window. A carriage passed, and across the street a woman walked hand in hand with two little boys. Life continued as it always had.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” Oliver said, startling her from her quiet study of the world outside the house, and outside her difficulties.

  Mattie turned enough to see his cast-down expression, the frown pulling at his brow and mouth.

  “I apologize if it made you uncomfortable,” she answered softly. Beatrice was rarely ever near their father of late, claiming it unsettled her too much when he had one of his “fits,” as she called them. Mattie knew most of society would feel similarly, and she didn’t blame them. Sometimes it made her uncomfortable too. Mostly, it made her heart ache.

  Oliver shook his head, still not facing her. “My uncle said your father had been forgetful of late. There is more to it than that, isn’t there?”

  She swallowed and lowered her eyes to the ground, trying to put her words in order before she spoke. “He is forgetful, but it is not so small a thing as mislaying spectacles or a book. He is mislaying his recent memories and living in moments from the past. Some days, he speaks as though I am still a child. Other times it is like what you saw: he becomes afraid when he cannot remember what is going on about him.”

  Oliver tipped his head in acknowledgement of what she said before asking, “What has the doctor said? I assume a doctor’s been consulted.”

  “At home, yes. And Mother sought out the help of physicians here in London. None of them are hopeful of curing my father. They say it is the result of growing old, of melancholia.” Mattie wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she could ward off the dread of the diagnosis. “They call it mania mentalis.”

  “As if naming it in Latin makes it better.” Oliver looked sideways at her, and his eyes swirled with compassion and concern. “I am sorry for it, Matilda,” he said, her Christian name slipping from his lips, sounding quite natural. Indeed, something in his tone of voice soothed her as a gentle touch might. “Your father is a good man, honorable and kind. If there is anything I might do to assist your family, please tell me.”

  The sincerity with which he spoke warmed her weary heart. “No one knows,” she whispered. “Outside the family and a few of the servants. If people knew, if they guessed, we would be ostracized.” It was yet another reason she had to secure Beatrice’s happiness with haste, in order to withdraw from London.

  No one would wish to marry into a family where such diseases of the mind were present.

  Oliver regarded her silently for a moment before he nodded. “I will not speak of it to anyone, Miss Rayment.”

  “Is he staying to dinner?” her father asked loudly, causing both her and Oliver to start. They had been speaking in near whispers.

  Mattie looked from her father’s inquisitive face, peering around the side of his chair, up to Oliver’s almost amused expression. He didn’t look disgusted or distressed. He looked, she thought, rather the same as he had on their ride. Thoughtful, kind, and handsome.

  “If you would like me to stay, sir, I will most happily. A bachelor takes his meals wherever he can.” He cut a glance to her long enough to offer a smile and a wink, then he strode over to her father. “Won’t you tell me of your home, my lord? It has been years since I’ve been for a visit, and I rather miss it.”

  Mattie watched, attempting to remain unemotional, as Oliver settled into a chair near her father and conversed as if the scene in the road had never occurred. As if everything were normal. Nothing had been normal for ages.

  Somehow she must dash this good man’s hopes of courting Beatrice. She wished her sister might return from the house party engaged to wed, before Oliver became too attached. Sparing his feelings while diverting them from Beatrice would be challenging indeed.

  Chapter Nine

  Oliver allowed Matilda’s father to guide their conversation, whether the baron spoke of things long past or occurring in the present. The man’s grasp on time was loose, yet his intelligence could not be questioned. While they spoke in the study, Oliver’s eyes often strayed to Matilda. She remained near, though she did not participate in the conversation.

  She wrote at the desk for a time, looking through what appeared to be a ledger, then took up a book and sat in a chair across the room from the gentlemen. She occasionally glanced in their direction and offered the faintest of smiles, then went back to her reading. The servant who had come out into the street, the baron’s valet, came in and out of the room frequently, acting the part of a companion.

  The family must’ve given the man additional duties when the baron’s memory began to fail. No wonder Matilda had stayed behind when her mother and sister went to the house party in the country. It was obvious she stayed for her father more so than she stayed for Oliver.

  This diminished his pride a touch. He’d fancied that she stayed merely to warn him away, but her duty to her father was more likely the reason for her continued presence in London.

  “Mattie is a lovely girl, isn’t she?” the baron said, startling Oliver from his thoughts. He realized he’d been staring at her again, while Matilda was tucked rather snuggly into the pages of her book and oblivious to the world around her.

  What could he do but agree? “She is. You are very fortunate in your daughters.” There. That was a good, general sort of compliment.

  The baron pulled the shawl tighter around his thin shoulders. “She worries too much. Takes too much on herself.” He spoke quietly, and Oliver noticed the baron’s blue eyes were lucid and bright. “It isn’t right for a young woman like her to worry so over her parents. She ought to have a husband and childre
n of her own.”

  While Oliver had certainly been surprised to find Beatrice remained unwed, he hadn’t given much thought to Matilda’s situation. Now that the baron mentioned it, he found it strange no gentleman had offered for her. Matilda Rayment might not be the golden-haired beauty her sister was, but she had an allure of her own Oliver could not deny. Her dry sense of humor and the way she expressed herself with clarity and sincerity were qualities he rather liked.

  And she did have striking eyes.

  “Why hasn’t she married?” Oliver asked, turning to face the baron again. Speaking of Matilda had naturally made his attention return to her corner of the room. “Surely there have been offers.”

  “There have. A few.” The baron settled back into his chair and looked out the window, and Oliver wondered if that would be the end of the conversation, as it appeared the baron might lose the thread of the present again. “I think she’s waiting for someone special to come along,” the baron said at last.

  Before Oliver could give much thought to that, the butler arrived, announcing dinner.

  Matilda rose from her chair with an easy sort of grace. Most of the young women at the beginning of their time in society held themselves like statues, afraid to move in the wrong manner, but Matilda had confidence in her bearing.

  “I hope you do not mind the informality of the occasion, Mr. Bolton,” she said, coming nearer where he and her father sat.

  “Nonsense.” The baron chortled as he rose. “What young man wants to spend half an hour dressing like a dandy to take soup and bread? I lay odds that Oliver is happy to forgo the rituals of a formal evening.”

  “Oh, Papa.” Matilda came forward and reached for her father’s arm, but the gentleman swiftly raised it to fuss with the shawl around his shoulders.

  “Ah, Oliver. Do a favor for your elder, and escort Mattie in to the table. Mattie, send Matthews to me, won’t you?”

  Oliver stepped in to offer Matilda his arm, noting the way her brows were drawn together in concern.

  “I cannot think of a command I would be happier to obey, my lord,” he said, affecting his most chivalrous grin.

  Matilda narrowed her eyes at him, taking his offered arm. “Papa, I will send your valet to you at once. But no tidying your cravat. It wouldn’t be fair to Mr. Bolton.”

  Startled, Oliver tucked his chin down in order to inspect his cravat, prepared to see the crisp white cloth wrinkled beyond repair. But the mathematique arrangement looked nearly as fine as it had when he left his apartments to accompany Matilda on their ride.

  The woman made a sound suspiciously like a giggle, which she turned into clearing her throat. “This way, Mr. Bolton.” She gestured to the hall, and he guided her to the dining room.

  He helped her to a chair near the head of the table, then seated himself across from her. “How did you know about my difficulties with my cravat?”

  Before answering his query, she directed a footman to send her father’s valet to him. Lifting her glass rather primly, Matilda arched an eyebrow at him. “I recall your uncle constantly telling you to look to your neckwear. I think it was a nervous habit of yours, was it not, to tug at it?”

  Oliver sat back in his chair. “You remember that?” And how many times had she been in his presence to witness such a thing? “That’s rather astonishing, Miss Rayment, isn’t it?”

  Her cheeks colored. “Where could Papa have disappeared to?” she asked, leaning to look through the doorway they’d entered. Trusting to the informality of the evening, Oliver put an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand.

  “Miss Matilda Rayment, you are avoiding my question. Why did you take notice of the nervous habits of a servant?”

  “You weren’t a servant,” she said, studying the tablecloth. “Your uncle holds a respected position in our employment. Besides, other than Beatrice, you were the closest person to me in age for miles and miles.”

  “That’s true. I am—what was it? Sixty-three days older than you?” She’d wasted no time in calculating that when they’d first met, after discovering they were the same age.

  The baron entered the room, and Oliver nearly felt relieved to have their private conversation cut short. He found he was far too interested in probing further into their shared past and her opinions of him.

  “You haven’t started without me, Mattie girl?”

  “Never, Papa.”

  The baron took his seat at the head of the table, and the footmen moved to place platters of food upon the table.

  Oliver gave his attention to Lord Granthorne. Dinner passed pleasantly, the three of them conversing on any subject the baron chose. Somehow, by the end of the evening, Oliver had agreed to accompany them both to Sunday services the next morning.

  As he mounted his horse to leave, Oliver allowed himself to be pleased with the evening. He’d made a good impression on the baron, and Matilda seemed to be thawing towards him. Perhaps by the time Beatrice returned home with her mother, his company would be welcomed.

  Of course, making his way through the streets of London, he realized he hadn’t passed such a pleasant evening with good company in months. He didn’t entertain much, as a bachelor, at Westerwind. His neighbors invited him to dine on occasion, but he had yet to feel like anything more than a dinner guest.

  He couldn’t think of one uncomfortable moment at the baron’s table, nor could he recall any dinner companion being as intriguing as Matilda Rayment.

  Chapter Ten

  Somehow, between the end of the Sunday sermon and reaching their carriage, Mattie’s father had extended an invitation to Oliver for that very afternoon and coerced the young man into accepting. Really, it was almost unseemly to see Oliver three days in a row, in such intimate settings as the theater, the house, and church services.

  If anyone had known, there would certainly be gossip as to what his intentions were regarding Mattie.

  Mattie smiled to herself as she sat before her mirror, her maid finished tidying her hair. At least she didn’t have to wonder about Oliver’s motives for spending time in her company. Of course, it would be best if she stopped enjoying their conversations and showed him how wrong Beatrice was for him.

  Catching her furrowed brow in the mirror, Mattie nearly groaned aloud.

  She’d hardly done a thing to dissuade Oliver from her sister. Hadn’t that been her plan? Wasn’t it the wisest course of action?

  Hopefully Beatrice would be engaged when she arrived back in London, and there would be nothing more to worry about. Except, of course, Oliver’s feelings. Would he be greatly injured if Beatrice announced her betrothal? Doubtless he would take pains to avoid the family, at least for a time.

  The Season would soon be over when summer’s heat intruded upon London’s busy streets. Oliver would then return to his home in Lincolnshire. It might be another year before she saw him again, if her family even attempted to return to London. Much depended upon her father’s health.

  The thought pulled her up abruptly, halting her mind the way a dam halted a winding stream. It had been good to see Oliver, once she’d become used to his grown-up self, to speak to him and be in his company. Being with him brought back memories of happier, simpler days at their estate.

  He’d been a tall and lanky boy the first time she saw him, and he’d only stretched out more as he grew. She’d been jealous of him the year they turned fourteen, telling him it wasn’t fair he was half a head taller than she when he was only threescore days older.

  “Are you eager to tower over all the men you dance with in London?” he’d asked, his voice cracking with his sense of humor. She’d huffed at him and walked away with all the dignity a girl of that age could possess.

  Mattie smiled in the mirror with the memory.

  Her height, which was unremarkably average, didn’t matter much anymore, as she was rarely asked to dance anyway. Unless a man was interested in Beatrice. It hadn’t bothered her, as her lack of partners indicated everyone well knew her d
esire to remain unwed.

  While Beatrice had flirted her way about London from the first moment she’d stepped foot on its cobbled road, Mattie had never been particularly interested in finding a husband. A husband would be inclined to tell her what to do, when she had a perfectly capable head on her shoulders. And she’d watched several young ladies of her acquaintance marry into less than favorable circumstances.

  Oliver, a kind soul and conscientious landowner, would likely never give a wife cause to regret taking his name.

  “I’ve never seen a man put a blush in your cheeks, miss.”

  Mattie started in her chair, meeting her maid’s eyes in the mirror. She’d forgotten she wasn’t alone, and her maid’s comment took a moment to fully sink into her consciousness.

  “I wasn’t blushing,” Mattie said, leaning forward to peer at her cheeks. “It is hot in the room.” She bit her lip over the falsehood. Her windows faced east; the sun threw its heat into the opposite side of the house, leaving her room quite cool. Even if her cheeks were not.

  “As you say, miss.” Her maid bobbed a somewhat cheeky curtsy before withdrawing, as Mattie had thought she’d done several minutes before. The door shut quietly behind the servant, and Mattie glared at herself in the mirror.

  “I wasn’t blushing,” she whispered firmly. “And certainly not over Ol—a man.”

  Sitting straighter, she spoke with determination. “My duty is to help Beatrice obtain a suitable match, care for Papa, and assist in running the family estate.” She nodded to herself and stood from the table, ordering her thoughts.

  After searching out her father, Mattie suggested they spend the afternoon in the gardens. The day was fine, for March, and fresh air would do everyone a great deal of good. When Oliver arrived to pay his call, Mattie had arranged her father comfortably on the terrace while she clipped flowers for an arrangement.