Whatever the last few years might have taken from Gareth, they’d somehow left his ability to tie a formal necktie. God, it seemed, had a sense of humor.
The provenance of his clothing was further proof. Gareth had brought evening dress overseas with him, not knowing how long he’d stay, doubting the social life but certain he wouldn’t be able to find a tailor in the event someone did call on him to attend a party. No such thing had happened, and neither jacket nor trousers nor shirt had emerged from the bottom of his trunk for the duration of his service. When Simon had informed him of the dinner party, complete with awkward mention of a spare suit in case he hadn’t thought to pack one— “And really, why should you have? Silly idea of mine, I know…” Gareth had doubtfully said he might have something.
He’d expected to find moth holes or at the minimum, the smell of mothballs, but there had been no such thing. The clothes were fresh and in good repair. Gareth suspected Helen, whose sisterly inclinations had always overcome her respect for his privacy, of doing both mending and washing when he’d been home. He’d handed the clothing over to one of the servants, had it taken in, and thought no more about it until the night of the dinner party.
Looking at the altered suit that night surprised him. He’d never been plump, and he’d thought he’d been recovering his frame quite well once he got to Englefield, but all the same, it was a jolt to see the seams, just as it was to look at his face in the mirror. The young man he’d last seen above the white collar and dark coat seemed very far away.
Gareth made one final adjustment to his tie, straightened his shoulders, and went out to face the evening.
***
Over the last few weeks, Gareth had not had much occasion to be in the parlor, and his strongest memory of the room was of Fitzpatrick’s panic about Elizabeth and of his own brief conversation with Mrs. Brightmore. That was probably why she was the first person Gareth noticed when he walked through the door.
Granted, her dress helped in that regard
It was deep red satin, the color of good red wine or old garnets, with a slim skirt and a square neckline. Not low cut. Nobody but the most old-fashioned of Puritans could have accused Mrs. Brightmore of immodesty. And yet it made a man very much aware of the fullness of her breasts, of the way what skin she did expose looked like satin, and of the long, graceful line of her neck. After the first glance, Gareth did the gentlemanly thing and kept his eyes above her neck, but that was almost worse. Surrounded by a loose cloud of chestnut hair, her face was almost luminous, and her eyes shone brightly.
He thought of fine sherry held up to light.
Then he wondered why he was thinking of metaphors for Mrs. Brightmore’s eyes in the first place.
Gareth bowed politely, saw her curtsy in return with what seemed like an inborn grace, and then noticed Simon and his wife standing nearby amid a small crowd of other people. “Good evening,” he said and felt more than saw their eyes on him.
Fortunately, if he’d been standing there like a dunce for any length of time, everyone was too polite to notice. Mrs. Grenville came forward briskly and made the introductions. The tall, stocky man was Dr. Gardiner. A younger and less-rectangular-looking one was Simon’s friend Mr. Desmond. The plump and balding one was Reverend Talbot, and the plump, brunette girls in pale dinner dresses were Miss Rosemary Talbot and her sister, Miss Elizabeth. Gareth thought Miss Rosemary was wearing blue and Miss Elizabeth lavender but he wouldn’t have wagered any amount of money on it. He would have wagered on Waite composing bad poetry to the one in the violet gown before the evening was out, judging by the way the boy was looking.
Luck wasn’t with Waite that night. Mrs. Grenville took the vicar’s arm when they went in to dinner, Simon the arm of his blue-gowned daughter, and Mr. Desmond the one in violet. To his credit, Waite made some effort to disguise his regret as he offered an arm to Miss Woodwell. That young lady, far from being grateful, returned a sardonic elder-sister grin and a whispered comment that made Waite look like he’d swallowed a frog.
That left Gareth with Mrs. Brightmore. He turned away from Waite’s predicament to look for her, and found her a fellow spectator, with one corner of her mouth turned up enough to suggest suppressed laughter.
“Youth,” she said in a low voice when Gareth drew within hearing distance. Then she did laugh softly. “No matter what the poets say, I cannot think it a great tragedy that it passes.”
“Some aspects of it, yes,” said Gareth. After all, he could offer his arm to her without stammering or feeling vaguely ill: a decided benefit of maturity. At seventeen, he’d either have fallen over himself, regardless of Mrs. Brightmore’s past, or done something hopelessly adolescent to rebuke her for it. “Do you look forward to old age, then?”
“Say rather I’ll be happy if I reach it,” she replied, smiling up at him. “And I’m disinclined to try for physical immortality.”
Her lips were remarkably red. Part of Gareth wanted to think it was rouge, but, probably not. Not for this company. The woman knew her audience. “It’s good to know,” he replied, “you have scruples in this area. I’m quite reassured.”
Mrs. Brightmore’s cheeks flushed. Embarrassment? Anger? Both? Neither showed in her voice. She laughed again, tilting her head back a little. “Practicality, sir, I assure you. No good end has ever come to those who sought the Fountain of Youth, or none I’ve ever heard of. I’d rather not waste my life trying to prolong it.”
“One might ask how you consider a life best spent,” said Gareth. He should probably stop trying to provoke the woman. He wasn’t sure why he’d started in the first place, except perhaps to remind himself he shouldn’t be considering metaphors for her eyes.
“One might indeed,” Mrs. Brightmore replied smoothly as they reached the dining room. Chandeliers and candles blazed with light there, reflecting on old silver and throwing little prisms out of cut glass. She paused a moment, out of appreciation, he supposed, then let him help her to her seat and glanced down the length of the table. “Indeed, I might consider it an eminently suitable topic for our guests.” She spoke loudly enough to catch the attention of Reverend Talbot, who was sitting on her other side.
“If you think so,” the vicar replied, turning toward her with a smile, “you’d best lay it before us. I know I’ll be too curious to pay proper attention to my food otherwise.”
“Man’s purpose in life,” said Mrs. Brightmore. “Or woman’s.”
“A weighty subject for dinner,” said Mr. Desmond, eying Mrs. Brightmore across the table. There was more than intellectual appreciation in that look, Gareth saw. “Do you often discuss such things?”
Mrs. Brightmore nodded. “Someone in my profession is obligated to consider these matters, I believe, almost as much as someone in the reverend’s.” She glanced very briefly, almost imperceptibly at Mrs. Grenville, and then added, “And I believe all of us have a duty to attend to certain higher callings…and to better prepare the next generation for the world that is to come.”
Conversation rose around her, as if she were the moon calling the tides, and Gareth let it carry him along.
***
“And I hear you’ve come up from London to serve this calling of yours, Mrs. Brightmore?” Desmond was eying her with a lifted eyebrow and the hint of a grin. “You must have been very sorry to have left so much society.”
The evening, as far as Gareth could tell, had been quite a success. The conversation had flowed along smoothly, from ideals to art to the state of the government, never stopping too long on any topic that might create too much controversy. At his end of the table, Mrs. Brightmore had always seemed aware whenever anyone hesitated or frowned, and had chosen that moment to inquire about the state of the crops or ask one of the Misses Talbot if she played or sang.
Even he had found it enjoyable. True, he’d neither eaten nor spoken as much as any of the others, but the mutton had been good, the soup better, and the company more interesting and less irritating than Gareth had been anticipating. He’d even brushed the dust off some memories to talk about boating with Desmond, who’d turned out to be the younger son of Simon’s nearest neighbor, pressed into service to make up an even table.
The man had conducted himself creditably, under the circumstances, and had even had a brief discussion of Morris with Reverend Talbot and Mrs. Grenville. Still, he knew little of the school, lacked some of the motives for investigation which propelled Talbot and Gardiner, and had seemed more than a bit lost in some of the more philosophical turns in conversation. His question was no surprise.
Mrs. Brightmore shook her head and smiled. There was nothing furtive in her face, no hint of tension or of guilt. “Society can be wearying after a time,” she said, “and I never moved in any particularly eventful circles. I’m quite glad to be in the country.”
“Oh, I see,” said Desmond. Clearly attempting to be subtle, he glanced at Mrs. Brightmore’s hand and the gold ring there.
It was the only jewelry she wore, Gareth noticed now. No earrings danced when she shook her head; no onyx or rubies rested around her neck. Not like the other women. He glanced around and was certain of it. Even the Misses Talbot had small pearl beads made into necklaces and hair ornaments, Mrs. Grenville wore gold and sapphires, and emerald earrings dangled above Miss Woodwell’s lace-covered shoulders.
Now that Gareth came to think about it, Mrs. Brightmore’s dress seemed rather plain too. Granted, her neckline was lower than the one on Mrs. Grenville’s blue velvet gown, but higher than on either the Talbot girls’ dresses or Miss Woodwell’s. He didn’t know much about fashion, but all the others also had ribbons or lace or both.
Maybe she’d decided she would look more responsible without ornament, or maybe simply that she’d look better.
And if there was another reason, if necessity rather than choice had guided her, what of it?
“I was raised near Kent,” Mrs. Brightmore said, breaking into Gareth’s observation, “and came to London only once I’d married. So, you see, it’s a bit like coming home for me.”
“You must have married very young,” said the blue Miss Talbot, impervious to her father’s warning look.
Again, if the comment disturbed her, Mrs. Brightmore didn’t show it. “I was seventeen,” she said. Wistfully? Perhaps. Gareth couldn’t be sure. She was still smiling. “At the time, I think I believed myself quite mature.”
Reverend Talbot chuckled. “And so do we all, I suppose.” He gave his daughters a fond glance.
“Did your husband live in London, then?” asked the same Miss Talbot. She sounded a little wistful herself, though, Gareth guessed, for reasons very unlike Mrs. Brightmore’s. “It must have been quite a change.”
“Yes and no,” said Mrs. Brightmore. “Or not at first. He was a lieutenant. His regiment was quartered near us for a time. They departed shortly after my wedding, and, naturally, I went with them.”
As far as Gareth could tell, she spoke the truth. Indeed, he had no reason to doubt her on this particular point, or to care. A woman could invent a husband, or a hundred if she wanted. It was nothing to him. He’d never really stopped to consider whether she had any right to the “Mrs.” before her name.
Yet hearing her speak of it was somehow strange. Gareth could connect Mrs. Brightmore and Madame Marguerite without too much difficulty. It was far harder to connect either of them with a schoolgirl roaming around Kent or a young bride on the arm of a man in regimentals or, for that matter, a new widow in London.
He would almost have preferred to believe her husband a fiction.