Miss Armistead Makes Her Choice (10 page)

“Good night,” Miss Armistead said in her turn. “And thank you. We do so much look forward to dining at Lloyd-Jones House.”

Colin watched her follow her mother out of the carriage and up the steps to Lady Augusta’s Georgian townhouse so like his own and hundreds of others in the city. Yet, the girl who walked so regally through the front door was unlike any he had ever known. He knew his time was limited, but he determined to get the measure of Miss Armistead before it ran out.

Chapter Six

Elizabeth had been most surprised to see Mr. Lloyd-Jones at the Green’s soiree in light of his insistence that he had not been invited to that particular do. It would seem that he did not generally run in the same circles as Aunt Augusta as he had denied having been invited to all of the parties to which the ladies from India had planned to attend. And then there was the curious pact he had made with his friend, Sir Anthony, one which made Mr. Lloyd-Jones’ presence out and about in society highly unlikely. Therefore, it was with more than a little astonishment that she saw him the very morning after their last meeting when out with her mother, Miss Hale and Aunt Augusta on a shopping expedition.

As they had passed Hatchard’s, Elizabeth felt a sudden craving for an enthralling English novel of the variety so difficult to procure in India. Nothing would do but for her to be let down at the book shop with arrangements to meet the other ladies at a later time and it was with a song in her heart that she had entered and made her way straight through to the back of the establishment. As she had rounded the end of the last bookstall, she had been immediately favored with the profile of Mr. Lloyd-Jones as he examined a painting hung on the wall.

Quickly, she stepped back around the stall where she hoped her examination of him would appear less unmistakable. He looked particularly well in his dark blue, double-breasted frock coat and buff pantaloons, his dark curls spilling over the snowy folds of his intricately tied cravat. Idly, she noted that she had never before seen a man with such a long fringe of black eyelashes or eyes such a light shade of gray. Never before having found herself in just these particular circumstances, she wondered if it were polite to speak to him or if it would be best to look away and pretend as if she hadn’t taken notice of him. The decision was withdrawn from her, however, when he turned to see her watching him and stared back at her with a piercing look from his penetrating eyes that made her as weak in the knees as melted wax.

“Why, Miss Armistead,” he greeted her as he swept his hat from his head. “What a pleasant
surprise.” Somehow she had already forgotten that voice, one rich as cream and so low it sent her stomach to fluttering in a manner most distressing.

“We were out,” she stammered, “and when we passed by, I found I must stop. Our discussion of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels reminded me of how I do so love to read. My mother and the others will be back to collect me presently,” she added, turning towards the door as if she expected to see them enter at any moment. It was the most inane string of sentences she had uttered in her entire life and the pursuant humiliation froze her lungs. The rational portion of her brain urged her to breathe even as she noted that if he continued to stare at her in such a speaking way, she should surely suffocate and cease to exist except as a lifeless bundle of India muslin at his feet.

He smiled as if her thoughts had been read aloud and treated her to a canny look from the corner of his eye. “I am delighted to know that you enjoy reading,” he said as he ran a finger over the spine of a book that stood on a shelf between them. “I have found many hours of pleasure in so doing. But, see here,” he said as he turned back towards the painting, “perhaps you should be kind enough to tell me what you think of this.”

Free from his gaze, her lungs began once again to take in air. With a deep breath, she moved to stand in front of the picture that had him so absorbed. Instantly, she recognized it as depicting a common scene from India, that of the gaily dressed native ladies as they moved about the stalls in the open air market, their baskets balanced on their heads and their children following along behind with fistfuls of their mothers’ saris in their hands. The market stalls were aglow with colorful awnings spread below with equally colorful fruits, as cows, dogs and chickens wove in and out of the scene just as they were wont to do.

“Why, it is as if the artist plucked this from a scene of my childhood! I wonder how it came to be here. It is a scene of India, I am sure of it.”

Mr. Lloyd-Jones’ well shaped lips broke into a smile so breathtaking it could only have been rendered for the sole purpose of breaking her heart. “I thought it must be. It is quite beautiful.”

“How very lovely!” she managed to say in unexceptionable tones in spite of the way her lungs rattled against the sudden thunderous beating of her heart. “I wonder if it is for purchase.”

“With your leave, I should be happy to inquire about it.”

“Oh, yes, would you? It should make a perfect memento for the farmhouse, to remind me most pleasantly of India.”

Mr. Lloyd-Jones nodded and sketched a brief bow, whereupon he strode to the clerk who handled purchases. With their heads so close together, Elizabeth could hear nothing of what was said, but momentarily Mr. Lloyd-Jones returned to her side and divulged a sum of money that, though well within her means, was more than she wished to pay for something so self-indulgent.

“You are so very kind to have inquired and I thank you for having done so, however, I had not thought how presumptuous my intentions have been. How could I bring a painting so personal to my taste into what shall be the home of another? I daresay I shall not have much say in the furnishings as long as Mr. Cruikshank’s mother lives.”

A shadow seemed to cross the face of Mr. Lloyd-Jones and she thought perhaps he frowned a little before his lips turned, once again, into a smile. “Your mother-in-law is expected to stay on after your marriage? In what sort of dwelling? Something a bit bigger than a crofter’s hut, I should hope.”

Elizabeth worried that he might be exactly correct, but she would not allow him to think so ill of Duncan. “Certainly something larger, of course! Though, I hope not too grand as I shall be helping to care for Mrs. Cruikshank. She is ailing, and I have no wish to be tramping up and down stairs all the day long.”

“I pray that I do not overstep my bounds, Miss Armistead,” he replied, his smile looking more and more fixed with every passing moment, “but I must say that it seems an arduous life. Your Mr. Cruikshank must be all things wonderful for you to be willing to sacrifice so much for him.”

“It is not so much,” she said with a shrug, though she knew her words to be a lie. There would be Duncan to care for, as well as his mother, and the farm, whatever that entailed, exactly, and the
running of the house on top of that. “There are servants, to be sure, and local fishermen who come in and help when there is the need.”

“Indeed.”

Why that one word should convey such a wealth of meaning, Elizabeth did not perceive, nor did she have any desire to puzzle out his intent. This, however, made it impossible to formulate a sensible reply. She turned again to the painting and made as if she examined it for the artist’s name, one that turned out to be an illegible scribble and worthless as the topic of a new line of conversation.

They stood together in silence and gazed fixedly at the painting. Elizabeth felt that his thoughts were most likely more plentiful than his words, if the manner in which he turned his hat round and round in his hands was any indication. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision, placed his hat on his head, sketched a bow in her general direction, and strode away.

As Elizabeth watched him go, she felt her heart plummet into her stomach. She had said or done something that had disappointed him, but she could not begin to fathom what it might be. She was unable to collect her wits enough to select a book and when Katherine, Miss Hale, found her some minutes later, she was more than ready to join the other ladies in their shopping.

“Come, Elizabeth, we go next to the dressmaker’s,” Katherine insisted as she took her friend’s arm and led her from the shop, “for I am persuaded I never had more reason to have a new gown made up than I have at this very moment.”

“Why, has something particularly fortuitous happened whilst we were apart?” Elizabeth asked though she was only half interested in the reply.

“But of course! We encountered Mr. Lloyd-Jones in this very street not five minutes since. He was very attentive to me and asked after me most particularly. He wished to know if I planned to attend the dinner party you spoke of only this morning. To think, I have come all of this way to witness your wedding and might very soon be a married lady, myself!”

Elizabeth felt a surge of some unnamed emotion fill her breast. “Whatever can you mean by
that, Katherine? Surely, you have no aspirations in that quarter!”

“If by ‘that quarter’ you mean Mr. Lloyd-Jones, why ever not?” Katherine asked with an arch air. “He might be a mere quarter to you but in my eyes, he is possessed of all the four quarters that make up the perfect man.”

Elizabeth laughed in spite of herself. “And what are those, silly goose?”

“He is handsome, rich, well-spoken,” Katherine said, ticking off fingers, “and thoroughly unattached.”

“Yes, all you say is true, except for the last.” Irked, Elizabeth forced herself to look down the street in anticipation of the shop where they were to meet the older ladies. “I am persuaded he is still in love with the young lady to whom he was most recently betrothed.” Once the words were out, Elizabeth knew them to be untrue but she could not account for why she had said them.

“What has that to say to anything?” Katherine asked with a shrug. “He shall not marry her, of that I am certain. Even if he were to change his mind, it is too late. Her name is sunk below reproach and, if you are to be believed, he loves his sister too well to look back, now.”

“My opinion does not greatly differ from yours on such matters. However, I should not wish to wed a man who loved another, no matter the circumstances. I should wish better for you, as well.”

“You needn’t worry about me on that, score, Elizabeth. I do not ask for love. Also, I am weary of soldiers! I wish to marry a man, not a boy, one who has property and privilege. I want to be someone, perhaps even a lady or a countess. Is that too much to ask?”

“It would depend, I suppose on the man. Mr. Lloyd-Jones certainly could not give you a title, and yet, unlike yourself, he comes from a landed family, one whose parents should not wish him to marry the daughter of an upstart mushroom such as your papa.”

“And yours is not?” Katherine cried.

“I never said he wasn’t. I am not the one under discussion, Kate.”

“Yes, but you could be. I see the way he looks at you. You need only snap your fingers and he
is yours.”

Elizabeth laughed though she was far from amused. “And yet, he has done nothing, said nothing, to make me believe he prefers me to anyone else. There have been no notes or flowers, no lovelorn poetry, no lingering below my bedchamber window, nothing!”

“Elizabeth, I am surprised at you! Those are the actions of the young boys that pine after you at home. A man such as Mr. Lloyd-Jones doesn’t stoop to such drivel.”

“Oh?” Elizabeth remarked with some uncertainty. “In what manner does the admiration of such a man differ?”

“Well, he most surely would invite her to go out with him, perhaps for a walk, or a ride, or even offer to accompany her to the sweets shop.”

“Is that all?” Elizabeth asked, unimpressed.

“No. He would pay calls on her, invite her to dance more than once of an evening, invite her and her family to dinner,” Katherine said with growing enthusiasm.

“Aside from the dinner party to which we are both invited,” Elizabeth pointed out, “Mr. Lloyd-Jones has taken none of these actions.” She failed to mention the two dances they had had the night prior, but she was persuaded that it was of no consequence. “As you shall recall my saying, dinner was originally his sister’s notion.”

“We shall see,” Katherine quipped. “Though, I daresay it hardly matters. You would never leave Duncan. It would break his heart.”

“And even more so, mine!” Elizabeth insisted as she pushed open the door to the dressmaker’s upon which they had just descended.

They walked into the shop and all disagreeable feelings fell away as they gazed on an impossible number of bolts of gorgeous cloth. The muslin was beneath their notice as it was plentiful in India. However, the velvets and wools were of such quantity and depth of color that Elizabeth thought she might weep. There were also rows of other fabrics too heavy for use in Bengal, all most suitable
for walking dresses and riding habits as well as a veritable treasure trove of ribbons and fripperies to trim bonnets and hats. Long elbow-length kid gloves, another article of clothing not much used at home, claimed Elizabeth’s fascinated attention.

“Look here at the shawls!” Katherine breathed. “To think that one should need a shawl of such length and thickness! Though I suppose London winters are quite cold.”

Elizabeth sighed her approval. She loved a ball gown as much as any other young lady, but she felt a particular yearning for cold weather clothing as they had rarely been of the least use to her. To own a velvet pelisse, a red wool cape, sturdy jean boots and gloves that felt like butter from the tips of the fingers to the hem of one’s tiny, puffed sleeves seemed the pinnacle of her fashionable desires.

“Oh, there you are, my darlings,” Elizabeth’s mother called. “Lady Augusta and I have been discussing styles with the dressmaker. I am determined that you should each have a new gown for the dinner at Lloyd-Jones House.”

Elizabeth felt a blush rise in her cheeks at her mother’s shameless gloating. At the same time, Elizabeth owned that it was very pleasant to contemplate the construction of a new gown, English made, and up to the very minute in London fashion.

“I have decided,” Katherine announced, “that none other will do but this emerald green silk.”