My thumb caressed her lower lip. “An excellent thought.”The earlier the better.
We joined the others at a respectable time, yet Lady Catherine greeted us with an expression one might display after sucking on a lemon. In any event, I should not waste time deliberating upon my perpetually disapproving aunt’s mercurial moods.
Still, I struggled to steer my ruminations away from the prospect of my possible impending death. It occurred to me that my sustained resentment towards Graham for forcing his presence on myself and my family made little sense—if not for him, I should already be dead.
During the main course, Graham paused his avid consumption of food long enough to ask Elizabeth to play the pianoforte for us after the meal.
“Yes, of course.” My wife glanced at him. “And perhaps you will sing for us.”
Graham’s overly laden fork hovered near his mouth. “I should be delighted to do so if you would select a duet for us.”
“Very well.”
My aunt stirred from her silent brooding to glance between the two of them. “I am eager to hear this dual performance.”
In the music room, I settled in a comfortable chair with a clear view of my wife. The sweet arioso sounds she generated in accompaniment to Graham’s able voice assuaged my troubled mind.
“Do you not think that Mr. Graham’s voice blends exceedingly well with Elizabeth’s?”
I spared a quick look to Lady Catherine. She displayed a benign smile, but I did not miss the mischievous cast to her eyes. “Yes, that is true.”
At the ballad’s conclusion, my aunt clapped with enthusiasm and suggested several more titles for them to perform—all love songs.
When their voices filled the room with the romantic lyrics, my aunt sneaked repeated glances at me. If she expected the performance to incite my jealousy, she would be disappointed.
I held a comfortable position and devoted my attention to Elizabeth. If Lady Catherine paid more attention to my wife, she would observe that while enunciating the lyrics that spoke of amour, Elizabeth’s sight remained upon me in a compelling conveyance of passion.
Tuesday, 19 September
Elizabeth
Fitzwilliam and I stopped at the nursery to collect Bennet. This morning, he would meet his birthday present—the new Welsh pony. Our son responded with his usual eagerness at his father’s suggestion of a visit to the stables. He fidgeted and specified thehorses he most wanted to see whilst we awaited our footman, Sam, who had gone to fetch a bag of carrot and apple slices from the kitchen.
On the way to the stables, Bennet ran alongside Fitzwilliam and me to keep pace with our walking tread, but he stopped and reached his arms up to Fitzwilliam at the entrance to the stables. With a grin, my husband lifted Bennet into his arms.
With my son well occupied, I slipped away to the paddock. A stable boy waited there with the pony, equipped with a child’s saddle. Earlier, Fitzwilliam had assured me that the groom assigned to the pony had described the animal as “gentle and obedient.” I took the pony and led him to the stables.
Fitzwilliam turned with our son in his arms as I approached them. Bennet’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the unfamiliar animal.
“This pony is for you.” My husband indicated the animal. “He is your birthday present. Does he please you?”
“Yes, Papa!” My son’s head bobbed several times. With his attention upon the pony, he patted Fitzwilliam’s shoulder—a signal to be let down. My husband set him upon the ground. Bennet went to the pony’s side and stroked the animal’s sleek fur.
I bent down to meet my son’s gaze. “Would you like to sit upon your pony’s back?”
Bennet nodded, but his broad smile receded and his forehead creased. He leaned against me, wrapping his arm around my leg.
He wants to ride the pony, but he is scared. It is a long way for him to fall.I met Fitzwilliam’s eyes with an intent stare as I addressed my son. “You need not be concerned. Papa will hold you, and he will not let you go.”
“Indeed, I shall ensure you are safe the entire time.” Fitzwilliam held his arms out to Bennet. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
With the utmost care, my husband lifted Bennet and set him on the pony’s back, keeping his arm around Bennet’s waist. Our son grasped the saddle’s pommel to maintain his balance.
I led the pony out into the stable yard at a sedate pace and took frequent glances at Bennet. His beaming countenance attested to his joy for the novel experience of sitting upon a moving pony. In his enthusiasm, he bounced or kicked his feet a couple of times, as though to urge the animal to move faster. Each time, Fitzwilliam cautioned Bennet to cease, and he did so.
We strolled around the barn area with Bennet extending the ride twice with a gleeful yell of, “Again!” before we returned the pony to the stables. Bennet leaned forwards reaching to the pony’s neck to bestow a makeshift hug before Fitzwilliam lifted our son into his arms.
