“As you wish,” he said, feeling drained. He turned to the butler. “Find whatever greenery you can for Her Grace’s decorations.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed and withdrew.
Callum looked at his mother tiredly. “When will we commence the ball this evening?” he asked.
“At eight of the clock. We will be hosting an early tea. Some of the guests will be arriving earlier and we will be expected tooffer them refreshment.” She raised a brow, as though insisting that he be there on time.
Callum sighed again. “Yes, Mother.”
She was about to reply, when a voice called from the hallway.
“Brother? I needed to ask you something...”
“Harriet!” Callum called with some relief. “I am in the drawing room.”
“Oh, good,” Harriet replied, hurrying in through the door. She turned and looked at their mother and then looked back at Callum. “I can wait for you, if you are occupied...?” A thin line appeared on her brow.
“I believe we had discussed all the matters we needed to discuss,” Callum said swiftly. He gazed at their mother. She nodded.
“I think we have discussed all that we needed to,” she said tightly. Her eyes fixed on Callum as if to suggest that their discussion would continue, and would not be limited to decorations and tea-times. She turned and walked out of the room.
Harriet gazed up at Callum. “Brother, is aught the matter?”
“Nothing, sister,” Callum answered tiredly.
“Is Mama angry?” Harriet asked anxiously. “She was shouting. I heard her voice in the hallway.” She was always worried by raised voices and disruption, her gentle nature distressed by any sort of argument.
“It was not anything serious, sister,” Callum said gently. “She and I just have a difference of opinion. A few opinions. Like, whether or not cabbage should be served at Christmas dinner.” He chuckled. He did not like the taste of cabbage—a fact known by everyone in the house—while his mother insisted that it be served as a winter vegetable. Harriet smiled.
“You and your cabbage,” she said with a laugh. She was chuckling, the earlier worries forgotten, and that was all that Callum wanted.
“Have you been out to the stable?” Callum asked Harriet. She was a keen rider, and the horses helped her to ignore the rising tension in the house. She nodded.
“I was out yesterday. I took Buttercup for a ride. It was very cold. I did not want to overexercise her.”
“Quite correct,” Callum nodded, walking out into the hallway. He stopped, remembering something. Mother’s house party would be arriving later on in the day, and he had to plan what he was going to wear to the ball that night. He had not given it a thought.
“Brother? Will all the guests from Sussex also arrive today?” Harriet asked him, her blue eyes wide as she gazed up at him.
“Yes,” Callum replied. “Or, at least I presume so. Mother expects them,” he added, sounding purposely disinterested.
“I look forward to meeting them,” Harriet told him, her smile hesitant and shy as she gazed up at him.
“You are a dear sister,” Callum said fondly. He had reached his bedroom door, and he turned in the doorway, inclining his head. “I must plan my outfit for tonight before my manservant works himself into a state of frenzy.”
“Brother! The ball is tonight! Have you really no idea yet what you are going to wear to it?”
“None whatsoever,” he assured her. “I can only hope I settle on something that will not also give our mother a fit of apoplexy.”
Harriet giggled. Callum inclined his head in a slight bow and opened his bedroom door. Harriet was still laughing as he retreated inside and shut it behind him.
He stared blankly at his open wardrobe. Rows of neatly starched shirts appeared before his blank gaze, the collars highand the sleeves long. Beside them hung a few tailcoats—thick velvet, appropriate for winter. The colours ranged from sombre grey to deep blue to black. Trousers and knee breeches in similar shades hung beside them.
Callum sighed and reached for a pair of dark knee-breeches, holding them up to assess the colour in the brighter light afforded by the fireplace. It was dark grey.
“Those are sufficient,” Callum murmured to himself and selected a dark blue tailcoat at random, adding a high-necked shirt as he tossed the pile over the chair-back. He gazed at his selection. It was tasteful, restrained and nothing out of the ordinary. That was as he wished it to be. He wondered, briefly, at the door, what Miss Rothwell might think of his outfit. He pushed the thought away. She was hardly there to gawp at what he wore.
He was about to go out when a vivid recollection of Miss Rothwell cannoned into his mind. He remembered her slender hand reaching up to stroke her horse, the gentle way she spoke to the mare. He had been impressed by her handling of the horses, her easy confidence and unconcealed care.She will love our stable,he thought with a small grin.
