Olivia squirmed a little at Mrs Buxted’s vulgar words. Charlotte, always ready to say exactly the right thing, diverted her by asking about her other daughter.
‘Oh, my dear Henrietta is well, though suffering from great tiredness. She has just written to tell me her fifth petit paquet will be delivered in the winter!’ Since Henrietta’s fourth child had been born last November, and her firstborn had just turned five, this news, naturally, caused some exclamations. ‘Oh, never worry about Henrietta,’ said Mrs Buxted, in a confiding manner, ‘she always wanted a large family.’
Faith, Henrietta’s sister, looked dubious at this assertion.
‘You will be wondering, I am sure,’ continued Mrs Buxted serenely, ‘why Miss Manning and her brother look so little alike!’ Olivia almost gasped. She had met Mrs Buxted many times, yet never failed to be astonished by her impropriety. ‘And why should you not, for I wondered exactly the same thing myself!’ She patted Miss Manning’s arm affectionately. ‘You are so fair, my friend, and your brother is so dark in his colouring, so everyone who sees you must wonder at it!’
Miss Manning’s expression did not change, apart from a slight hardening of her lips.
Perhaps, thought Olivia, the friendship with Miss Manning is not so firm as Mrs Buxted says it is.
She glanced at George Manning. He looked decidedly uncomfortable and as she watched he drummed his fingers on his strong thigh. Olivia sympathised. How uncomfortable the Mannings must be, to have Mrs Buxted talk about them as if they were not present!
‘George favours his father,’ said Miss Manning coolly, ‘while I am like our mother in looks.’
‘Are your parents also staying in London?’ asked Charlotte politely.
‘Our parents died many years ago,’ said Miss Manning calmly. ‘Smallpox.’
Great-Aunt Clara, who had a morbid fear of the disease, gasped. ‘Oh, dear, how unfortunate! I am so sorry you lost your parents, Miss Manning.’
Miss Manning shrugged slightly. ‘It was a long time ago.’
Another silence ensued. This time, even Mrs Buxted seemed aware of the tension. She looked from face to face uncertainly.
George Manning spoke. ‘We are delighted to have been included in the invitation to stay at Monkton Park. Mr and Ms Foxley are generous hosts, indeed, to have included people they had never met. We are exceedingly grateful.’
Olivia could almost feel the tension ease. George’s speech struck a perfect note, diverting attention from Mrs Buxted and the topic of the Manning parents’ unfortunate demise. Mr and Mrs Foxley both responded enthusiastically, declaring that, of course, they were happy to welcome Mrs Buxted’s friends and that visitors enlivened their common routine.
Olivia could not resist sending a thankful glance in the direction of Mr Manning. The look he returned her was half-amusement, half...something darker.
He is interested in you.
He was still looking at her and she, as if turned to stone, was returning his gaze. Becoming aware, she blushed and, breaking her gaze, wriggled slightly in her seat. Beside her, she noticed, Jem’s back was ramrod straight. She stole a glance at him. His face was rigid, impassive. Despite George’s intervention, Jem was probably still uncomfortable with Mrs Buxted’s rudeness. She hoped he would feel at ease soon.
Tea was served and they all supped politely. Charlotte, Faith, George and Clara carried the conversation, while the others remained largely silent—even Mrs Buxted. Charlotte promised to call at Monkton Park tomorrow, which made Olivia sit up straighter. She must go, too!
She was still unsure what her opinion was of Mr George Manning, but one thing was certain—she very much wished to see him again so that she could find out.
Monkton Park was a pretty estate bordering Chadcombe to the east. Since the Foxleys had wed and taken up residence, the friendships between them all had deepened. Olivia had visited many times and had enjoyed seeing how Faith had adapted to her new roles as wife and mistress of Monkton Park. The birth of little Frederick had added to the happiness of the young couple and Olivia always looked forward to seeing how he had changed since she saw him last.
Today though, Olivia’s thoughts were not on Frederick, or Faith, or indeed any of Monkton Park’s permanent residents. Foolishly, her preoccupation was solely with only two people: Jem and the enigmatic George Manning.
The carriage lumbered on and Olivia let the lull of voices wash over her. Lizzie and Juliana were engaged in some frivolous talk about Juliana’s new fan, while Jem and Harry remained silent in the facing seats. The others were travelling in the new carriage, which gave more comfort and safety for Great-Aunt Clara’s old bones and Charlotte’s delicate condition. This could well be Charlotte’s last excursion away from home, as her confinement was only weeks away.
They had completed their courtesy call earlier in the week, staying for less than an hour. Olivia had enjoyed no further conversation with Mr Manning, as he had been seated with Lizzie during their call. However, Faith had invited them all to a dinner party tonight, in honour of her guests. They would all stay the night, as there was to be no moon, which would make it too dangerous to travel the road home.
‘Lord, I am hungry!’ announced Lizzie. ‘I deliberately took no nuncheon, as I knew we were to dine out tonight, but now I wish I had indulged myself. Even some thin gruel would be welcome for my present distress, for I declare I shall faint if no one feeds me soon!’ They all chuckled at Lizzie’s pronouncement—even Jem, who seemed generally more taciturn than he used to be.
Encouraged by this sign of animation, and under cover of Juliana and Lizzie’s speculation about what food might be offered by the Foxleys tonight, Olivia leaned forward and spoke to him.
‘It will be good to spend time with the Foxleys together, as we did that summer when you stayed with us in London. Do you remember? We went for a picnic.’
‘Of course I remember!’ he retorted. ‘You wore a yellow dress and I gave you a yellow flower that matched the colour exactly.’
She smiled, surprised he had remembered. She still had that flower, had treasured it. She could still recall the thrill that had gone through her when he had handed her the flower.
Finally, she had thought, here is a sign he is interested in me!
How wrong she had been. She had read too much into the situation, had been wilfully blind. He was looking at her expectantly, so, in a rush, she responded.
‘As I recall, I told you my dress was a perfect shade of jonquil, not yellow. A high-class dressmaker would never make anything in a colour as common as yellow!’
‘Yellow,’ he repeated and there was a definite twinkle in his eye. ‘It did not suit your complexion. You were decidedly sallow that day.’
She took this in good spirit. ‘Sallow? Sallow? I did not look sallow! Why, did not Charles Turner tell me I looked beautiful that day?’ Her eyes danced with merriment.
‘“Angelic”, I believe, was his epithet.’
‘Angelic, then. He certainly did not call me sallow!’
