“Oh? Pray, enlighten me as to why we cannot both be sensible, rational men.”
He smiled, lifted one leg onto a nearby stool, and after a sip at his brandy, he said, “One rational man is always to be valued. There is, however, no jackassery worse thantwosuch men sequestered in a country house, agreeing with one another on every subject, by turns applauding one another, and congratulating themselves long into the night for their great, good sense.”
“That is the silliest thing I have yet heard you say.”
“You would call me a sage had you ever spent an evening at headquarters.”
I reached for the decanter and poured another finger of brandy into his glass. “Very well,” I said, replacing the glass stopper, “I shall be rational, and you may be a jackass. Are you satisfied?”
“Passably so. By the way, Donaldson says there is a pretty young miss staying at the parson’s cottage.”
“How thrilling for you,” I said, turning my book over and searching for my place. “Does your batman regularly procure your entertainments?”
My cousin had perhaps been a soldier for too long. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him shrug as he replied, “He is a connoisseur. Why waste a talent?”
We fell silent as I read several paragraphs.
“What is a citizen of the beau monde doing at a parson’s house?” I asked, continuing the conversation purely out of politeness.
“Alas, she is respectable. Some relation of Mrs Collins from Hertfordshire.”
My eyes lifted off the page involuntarily. I dragged them downwards and again searched for where I left off.
What then took place was a full half an hour of continuously applied effort to retain my position as the rational man in the room. It was entirely feasible that Mrs Collins had female relations I had not met. She had a sister, did she not? Was she a ‘pretty young miss’? Not in my opinion, but Donaldson may have found her to be. I accepted this as the most likely explanation and attempted to redirect my mind. However, a particle of doubt would remain, because rational men must be capable of entertaining many possibilities. Only the witless think they know anything for certain.
Perhaps, I mused—now only pretending to read—the rumour was not entirely correct. Perhaps the lady was not a relation but a friend or acquaintance. She might not even have come from Hertfordshire and may, in fact, have arrived from elsewhere.
“Well?” Fitzwilliam said. “Would you care to go with me to the parsonage tomorrow to lay eyes on the lady?”
“What? You must be drunk. I do not pay calls on anyone unless I cannot avoid the duty of doing so. And I most particularly do not pay calls at the parsonage of Rosings Park.”
“Excellent,” he said, putting down his glass decisively, implying he would in some way stake a claim on the lady before me. “I am for bed.”
CHAPTER 2
Idid not generally lie to myself. I know many men who do, and I have observed that this is a particularly vicious habit. Therefore, by morning I was forced to admit that the urge to send word to my cousin that I had changed my mind—that, in fact, I would join him in paying a call at the parsonage—had kept me awake half the night.
This urge was persistent. Yet, aside from being a practical man, I also possess a healthy sense of self-respect. Some unnamed persons have called this pride, and though I disagree, I refuse to make the distinction for those who, for lack of sense and subtlety, cannot discern it for themselves. In this particular instance, therefore, I simply had too much self-respect to fall prey to a mere curiosity that would prove to be a disappointment.
Wait. Disappointment is not the word I wish to use. Relief? Even worse!
“Hmm.”
“I beg pardon, sir?”
Had I actually murmured aloud?
“I was just clearing my throat.”
“Is this too tight?” Carsten asked as he made the final adjustments to my neckcloth.
“Perhaps a little,” I said, though in fact it was no tighter than usual.
Where was I? Oh yes. I had been engaged in an irritating reflection. I searched around my head and settled upon what I had originally wished to conclude. I had too much self-respect to fall prey to a mere curiosity that would prove to be aconfirmationof my expectations. The young miss would not be all that young, nor would she be terribly pretty, and she would most certainlynothave any qualities of note to recommend her to any self-respectinggentleman. Moreover, Fitzwilliam would very shortly discover that if this lady were anything, she was not the bit of skirt he wished her to be. She was the guest of a parson. He would soon discover her to be drab, dull-witted, and uninteresting.
So it was that after breakfast, my cousin and I parted ways.
In high spirits, he ambled towards the main gates where the parsonage stood just beyond, while I, not in particularly high spirits, went to the stables. My horse was saddled in good time—by my people, not my aunt’s—and soon I was trotting outward, beyond the house, to do my annual review of the estate.
