Page 62 of The Gentlewoman Author

Chapter Twenty-Five

Giddy with this true engagement, Mary tried to suppress her smiles by squinting seriously across a vast dining room table at Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, Daniel’s sister and brother-in-law. Daniel wanted to make the announcement before Louisa arrived, since Mary would be obliged to return the girl home. He was, of course, correct. There would be little time to think of dinner parties once Louisa arrived.

She felt Daniel’s gaze and turned to him. His smile reassured but did not calm the bees that darted around inside her chest. Roses and candelabras filled the room with warm light and a sweet scent, but there was something disquieting about the ghoulish shadows they threw around the room. On the table, between vases of roses, were extravagant towers of fruit, jellies, and relishes. The party waited in silence for the host and hostess to appear.

“Perhaps we should help Papa?” Mrs. Chapman, Daniel’s sister, asked from the other side of the table, loud and echoing.

“He will refuse,” Daniel said. “He only allows Mother’s help.”

How had Mary arrived at this juncture, about to announce an engagement, a true engagement? A second marriage. Who was she to take so splendid a man from a young, deserving female? Mary seized her locket and held it to calm her buzzing heart. She released it and rested hand onto Daniel’s leg, a forward move she’d never dreamed of during her courtship with Lord Allen. Daniel’s warm hand enveloped hers, and all at once, her humming insides sighed and stilled.

“Brother, how did you meet Mrs. Allen?” Mrs. Chapman asked.

“At a ball. She immediately charmed me.”

This was news to Mary. “Did I? I felt the same for you.”

He turned toward her and trapped her gaze. She could look at him forever, lose herself in his pale blue eyes that returned her look with so much warmth.

“Really?” His question was only for her.

“Of course, but you are so much like a younger brother⁠—”

“Don’t say it!” His eyes crinkled, and he threw his head back, laughing.

She liquefied as his laugher warmed her chest and dripped hot into her middle. She tilted her head him toward him, and he met her halfway, foreheads pressed together. Surely, his sister could not see over the large bouquet between them. “I cannot resist your smile. Your laughter has me in a passion.” How dare she say these words aloud? They were the sentiments of a heroine from one of her novels. But they were true. She was those women and felt more authentic than ever before.

“Then I shall try my best to smile and laugh all the day long.”

“The vicar says public affection is in poor taste.” Mrs. Chapman blinked at them over a mountain of roses. The vicar, her husband, startled at the assertion, as if drawn from thought, and nodded.

“So it is. You will excuse us.” Daniel nudged Mary’s rib, and she bent her head into his shoulder to hide her laughter.

Unsteady steps sounded from the doorway. Mr. Fletcher hobbled forward, one arm around his wife and his other hand on a walking stick. Even in the dim light, he was pale, and his forehead glistened. He sat at the head of the table, an absurd distance from where the others were. Daniel would have to shout their announcement. Mrs. Fletcher took her place on the other end of the table. Considering all the décor, the husband and wife had little chance of seeing one another during the meal.

“Before we begin,” Mr. Fletcher hollered in a strained, gravelly voice, “I believe Daniel has an announcement to make. We shall hear him first, as I do not know how long I’ll be fit to sit at the table.”

Daniel stood. “Mary has accepted my proposal, and we are to be married as soon as may be.”

Half-hearted expressions of congratulations echoed through the hall, and Mary nodded in acceptance. Some little thrill zipped up her spine. This man, standing beside her, loved her. They were to marry despite any censure from his parents or anyone else.

Spoons scraped the bottoms of soup bowls, which were replaced by knives carving veal. Through dinner, Daniel’s touch anchored Mary. He rested his leg against hers under the table, and when her hand was available, she reached for his knee. Mrs. Chapman coughed any time Mary and Daniel brushed shoulders.

“Have you been to your reflector lately?” the vicar directed his question at Mr. Fletcher, using a booming voice more appropriate for the pulpit but necessary considering the cosmic length of the table.

“Not in my state of health, I haven’t,” Mr. Fletcher shouted back.

Mrs. Fletcher said something, a mere garbled hum to Mary’s ears.

“What was that, my dear?” Mr. Fletcher asked. “What did she say?”

She said something again, but it dissipated in echo.

The effort to speak was too great, and the clank of silverware replaced conversation. When dessert arrived with champagne, Mary sank her teeth into a crisp, light ratafia cake and wished to escape into the rose garden with Daniel. It meant something that she would rather be alone with him than eating sweets.

Mr. Fletcher stood, indicating the conclusion of a suffocating meal. Cane in hand, he wobbled toward his wife, who rushed to his side.

“Is this too much for you, darling? Shall we return you to your room?”