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“I’m afraid I completely disagree, Sir Henry. I adored Pride and Prejudice and thought it portrayed true emotion and timeless struggle, especially for those of my own gender.” Her chin tilted. “Perhaps you could do with reading more of that author’s work, to appreciate the truth of a woman’s plight in this day and age – reliant upon family or the apparition of a husband, threatened with ruin should she wish for more.”
Mrs Ashby lightly applauded.
“You must be keeping the wrong company, Miss Griffin.” The baronet sniffed with a glance in Seth’s direction. “The boorish type that believes we can be more than we should be. That all women and even the working man can enjoy words, when most of them can barely read a song sheet.”
Seth could remain silent no longer. “If one finds pleasure in reading a song sheet, then why naysay them? It should not matter what words bring you joy – be they Shakespeare, pig breeding, biblical or romance – but the fact they do bring joy to the beholder. On occasion, words are the sole pleasure to be found within this oft chaotic world.”
“I daresay that is the commonman’s view,” the baronet twittered. “But you mentioned the Bard, and after all, we are a literary salon. Perhaps you would care to share your favourite sonnet? Or are you merely acquainted with song sheets?”
Matilda glowered.
What an odious, intolerant sneaksby, but by the hostess’s scowl, Matilda knew he’d never be invited back.
It angered her so – that the baronet sought to belittle a man such as Seth Hawkins, a knowledgeable and courageous gentleman who had built his life from naught rather than inherited it, fought hand to hand for a place in this world; she thought to tell the baronet so, straightened her shoulders and–
A broad palm slid to her waist and she glanced up at Seth, who bestowed upon her that tender lopsided smile before placing his claret glass to the table.
He gave the assembled company a short bow before striding to the centre of their circle, and with merely a pause and that Herculean stance, his magnificence stole everyone’s breath.
The striped waistcoat of mustard and black with a honeycomb design and brass buttons accorded him sophistication, but the scarred eyebrow and calloused hands reminded all that this was no ordinary gentleman.
She recalled Mr Finlay’s words – how Seth never did anything he did not wish to, how he hid a will of iron beneath that amenable poise.
Now she witnessed it.
The room stilled, recognising a master showman of the ring.
“This afternoon you discussed a sonnet of loss and pain, but these lines will remind us of another emotion. One which eases life’s burdens and should forever be written of and cherished.”
And so he began…
“‘Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.’”
Mrs Ashby sighed with a hand to heart, the slender hawk-nosed poet fell to the chaise in rapture and the baronet grouched.
“And on that beautiful note,” called their hostess, “I declare our salon concluded. We are to be at Mrs Tenby’s next month. Mr Keats?” She patted the young poet as he recuperated upon the green chaise. “I’ll make you up a food bag, dear.”
Seth strode back to Matilda’s side, a wicked tilt to his lips.
But she waggled a reproving finger. “I recall at my interview how you declared you’d little time for literature? You, Mr Seth Hawkins, have honeyed lying lips.”
“I used to badger the charity school teacher for spare books, and later, I swept the floors of a circulating library in return for borrowing them, but I only ever had snatched moments to read. And even now, I rarely get more than an hour. So ’tis true, I have little time for literature, but…” He leaned close. “I never said I didn’t enjoy it.”
“Semantics,” she whispered as their hostess approached.
Mrs Ashby held out her hands to them. “Well, Mr Hawkins, please accept my thanks for such a moving sonnet.” She slanted a brow. “And next month, will we be seeing you…both?”
“In all probability, Mrs Ashby. And my thanks also,” Seth replied whilst a heat crawled to Matilda’s cheeks.
