He had once been plain Vincent Hunt, and Sophia had weaved stories about him. He had been a leader among the youth of the village, good at all sports and the ringleader of all mischief. One night, for example, after Sir Clarence had boasted of a red carpet he had walked across to enter some grand house in London, he had painted the steps outside the front doors of Barton Hall a scarlet red.
Now he was a very grand gentleman with a different, imposing name. And he was a very well-mannered gentleman too. He scarcely stopped smiling and making polite, noncommittal replies to all the pomposity that was being said to him despite the fact that Aunt Martha and Sir Clarence were almost openly and really quite embarrassingly courting him, and Henrietta was simpering. It was actually rather hard to simper effectively before a blind man, but she was doing quite well at it.
When the conversation finally threatened to flag, Henrietta was sent to the pianoforte to dazzle the viscount with her talent on the keyboard. And then she was directed to sing as she played and went through a repertoire of five songs before remembering that the music for the sixth, her particular favorite, was in her mother’s private sitting room, where she had been practicing earlier in the day.
“Go up and fetch it,” her mother said, turning her head in Sophia’s direction.
“Yes, aunt,” Sophia murmured as she got to her feet.
And she was aware of Viscount Darleigh, a look of slight surprise on his face as he raised his eyebrows and turned his eyes her way. She would have sworn he was looking directly at her, though she knew it could not be so. But for that moment, before she left the room, she felt a little less anonymous than usual. And she found, before she reached the staircase, that she was scurrying rather than walking like a dignified lady.
They had not, of course, been introduced.
“When you stepped into the drawing room with me,” Vincent asked as the carriage swayed its way over the short distance between Barton Hall and Covington House, “was there someone else there in addition to Sir Clarence and Lady March and Miss March?”
“Hmm.” There was a pause, during which Martin was presumably thinking. “Apart from the butler, you mean?”
“A woman,” Vincent said.
“I can’t say I noticed,” Martin told him.
“Someone was sent for more music,” Vincent said, “and she said yes, aunt before going. It was the first and last I heard of her all evening. She must walk very softly, for I did not hear her return, though the music certainly arrived. She was obviously not a servant. She called Lady March aunt. But we were not introduced. Is that not strange?”
“A poor relation?” Martin suggested.
“I daresay,” Vincent agreed. “But it would have been good manners to introduce her to a guest anyway, would it not?”
“Not necessarily if you were a March,” Martin said.
“Go up and fetch it, her aunt told her when Miss March wanted the music,” Vincent said. “There was no please. And, worse, there was no name.”
“Hmm,” Martin said. “You are not betrothed yet by any chance, are you?”
“Eh?”
“They have serious designs on you,” Martin told him. “Be warned. The servants are not very close-lipped in that house, a sure sign the Marches don’t inspire a great deal of loyalty.”
“Serious designs,” Vincent said. “Yes, I believe the servants may be right about that. I shall tread with great care during the coming days. In particular, if I should happen to hear the fateful words I understand and I do not mind come from Miss March’s lips, I shall flee to the tip of Land’s End.”
“You had better have a boat with you,” Martin said. “That might not be far enough.”
They were home already. What a very strange day it had been. He had arrived here before dawn with the happy idea of relaxing quietly for a few days and doing some serious thinking before going back home to Middlebury Park to take command of the rest of his life. And then—
He laughed as Handry set down the steps of the carriage and he climbed down outside his front door without assistance.
“Miss Waddell and her welcoming committees,” he said.
“I was upset you did not invite me to come and listen to the vicar’s welcome,” Martin said.
They both snorted with laughter.
“Actually, you know,” Vincent said as he made his way up the steps to the front door, “it was touching. They were all so much a part of the fabric of our childhood, Martin. And kindlier, more well-meaning people one could not hope to encounter. It is unkind of us to laugh at them, except that our laughter is well meant too. We were fortunate to grow up here.”
“That we were,” Martin agreed cheerfully. “There are some of Mam’s cakes left, sir. Would you like one or two with a drink?”
“Hot milk, if there is some, please, Martin,” Vincent said, making his way to the sitting room. “And one cake, please. Your mother has certainly not lost her touch, has she? One of her cakes is worth four of anyone else’s.”
Goodness, he must be feeling nostalgic. What had he just asked for? Hot milk?
He was actually glad he had been discovered here. He had been a bit ashamed or embarrassed or … or something to be seen blind like this when these people had known him as he used to be. But that had been foolish of him. His morning visitors had been kind and, solicitous though they had been over his blindness, they had still treated him as a thinking, functioning adult. They had been happy to reminisce about the past, when his father was schoolmaster here and his mother was active in the church and the community and Vincent and his sisters had been growing up with all the other village children and getting into all sorts of mischief with them. Vincent too had been happy to remember and had joined in the conversation with some enthusiasm.