Read Encounter with Venus for Free Online
Authors: Elizabeth; Mansfield
subtleties of the feminine mind to him, he would worry himself over those few words for the remaining five days. Oh, blast! he cursed inwardly, blast Harriet, blast her mother, and blast the whole female sex!
SEVEN
In Yorkshire, shortly after dawn on Friday morning, three men gathered for the shooting expedition— Leyton, Lord Stoneham, and George. But just as Kelby appeared with a tray of hot toddies to warm the hunters before they set off, Horace Thomsett clamored down the stairs. “Oh, good!” he chortled. “You haven’t left yet!”
Leyton was surprised. “Well, well, Horace, old fellow, I’m glad to see you,” he greeted. “After your late arrival yesterday, I didn’t expect you up so early.”
“Getting up wasn’t a hardship for me,” Horace said with hearty enthusiasm. “Algy ain’t up to it, but I’ve been looking forward to a good shoot since the day you sent me the invitation.”
The other men heartily agreed. A good shoot was just what they wanted, and after hasty introductions and equally hasty downing of their drinks, they shouldered their rifles and started off. They were all in high good humor, in spite of the overcast sky and a cold wind. But they’d no sooner flushed out their first flock of grouse when an icy rain began to fall. It continued to fall steadily throughout the morning, the downpour squelching their spirits and their marksmanship. By the time they gave up and turned back toward home, they had gained only a cold soaking to their hunting jackets and two dead birds. It was a glum and sodden group that tramped back to the Abbey. As soon as they’d changed into dry clothes, they one by one made their way downstairs to the East Salon where the ladies were gathered. The sight before them of the enticing ladies, who’d spread themselves about the room in various poses of ennui, and the smell of hot food emanating from a large buffet table set before the windows were enough to restore their good spirits. In short order they were sipping Felicia’s famous hot drink called Lambs’ Wool (a concoction of hot cider, home brew, and wine) and loading their plates with cheese biscuits, honeyed ham slices, coddled eggs, cabbage flowers with Parmesan, and sugared buns.
Thus warmed and provisioned, they mingled with the ladies, answering questions about their morning’s activity by transforming their misadventures into feats of comic or heroic proportions. Horace regaled Beatrice and Elaine with a boastful account of how he managed to shoot one of the two birds they’d snared, while George set his sister and Lady Stoneham into peals of laughter by demonstrating how one tries to take aim on a highflying bird while sleet is pelting down on the eyelids.
Algy, who’d come down before the hunters returned, had managed to insinuate himself beside Beatrice. His altercation with his brother the night before had stiffened his backbone, and he was determined to come out from behind his brother’s shadow and assert himself. “You, Miss Rossiter,” he declared boldly, “are the prettiest creature in this room.”
The shy little lady, who usually tried to hide that shyness by babbling about anything that came to her head, was so flustered by this astounding compliment that she was stricken dumb. Thus Algy was able to hold forth, uninterrupted, on his favorite topics—the problems of London’s sanitation and the ridiculousness of tying one’s neckcloth in complicated folds. With Beatrice’s wide eyes fixed on him attentively, he glowed with pride.
When the hunters returned, Algy called his brother aside. “I think I’ve made a mark on that young lady over there,” he whispered urgently, “so I warn you, if you wish to avoid a frightful contretemps, don’t dare interfere with me!”
Horace only shrugged. He was not interested in Beatrice. He’d already intended to make Elaine the object of his attentions, and he promptly and purposefully crossed the room to her and
SEVEN
In Yorkshire, shortly after dawn on Friday morning, three men gathered for the shooting expedition— Leyton, Lord Stoneham, and George. But just as Kelby appeared with a tray of hot toddies to warm the hunters before they set off, Horace Thomsett clamored down the stairs. “Oh, good!” he chortled. “You haven’t left yet!”
Leyton was surprised. “Well, well, Horace, old fellow, I’m glad to see you,” he greeted. “After your late arrival yesterday, I didn’t expect you up so early.”
“Getting up wasn’t a hardship for me,” Horace said with hearty enthusiasm. “Algy ain’t up to it, but I’ve been looking forward to a good shoot since the day you sent me the invitation.”
The other men heartily agreed. A good shoot was just what they wanted, and after hasty introductions and equally hasty downing of their drinks, they shouldered their rifles and started off. They were all in high good humor, in spite of the overcast sky and a cold wind. But they’d no sooner flushed out their first flock of grouse when an icy rain began to fall. It continued to fall steadily throughout the morning, the downpour squelching their spirits and their marksmanship. By the time they gave up and turned back toward home, they had gained only a cold soaking to their hunting jackets and two dead birds. It was a glum and sodden group that tramped back to the Abbey. As soon as they’d changed into dry clothes, they one by one made their way downstairs to the East Salon where the ladies were gathered. The sight before them of the enticing ladies, who’d spread themselves about the room in various poses of ennui, and the smell of hot food emanating from a large buffet table set before the windows were enough to restore their good spirits. In short order they were sipping Felicia’s famous hot drink called Lambs’ Wool (a concoction of hot cider, home brew, and wine) and loading their plates with cheese biscuits, honeyed ham slices, coddled eggs, cabbage flowers with Parmesan, and sugared buns.
Thus warmed and provisioned, they mingled with the ladies, answering questions about their morning’s activity by transforming their misadventures into feats of comic or heroic proportions. Horace regaled Beatrice and Elaine with a boastful account of how he managed to shoot one of the two birds they’d snared, while George set his sister and Lady Stoneham into peals of laughter by demonstrating how one tries to take aim on a highflying bird while sleet is pelting down on the eyelids.
Algy, who’d come down before the hunters returned, had managed to insinuate himself beside Beatrice. His altercation with his brother the night before had stiffened his backbone, and he was determined to come out from behind his brother’s shadow and assert himself. “You, Miss Rossiter,” he declared boldly, “are the prettiest creature in this room.”
The shy little lady, who usually tried to hide that shyness by babbling about anything that came to her head, was so flustered by this astounding compliment that she was stricken dumb. Thus Algy was able to hold forth, uninterrupted, on his favorite topics—the problems of London’s sanitation and the ridiculousness of tying one’s neckcloth in complicated folds. With Beatrice’s wide eyes fixed on him attentively, he glowed with pride.
When the hunters returned, Algy called his brother aside. “I think I’ve made a mark on that young lady over there,” he whispered urgently, “so I warn you, if you wish to avoid a frightful contretemps, don’t dare interfere with me!”
Horace only shrugged. He was not interested in Beatrice. He’d already intended to make Elaine the object of his attentions, and he promptly and purposefully crossed the room to her and