An Unusual Courtship (4 page)

The interior of the church was warmly lit with the coloured light from the windows, which combined into a sort of honey glow throughout the nave. Percival supposed the lighting had been intentional, and there were plenty of panes with white or golden glass in order to perpetuate the colouring. His guests explored with interest through the lovely old church, exclaiming praises for the architecture. Percival answered their questions about it as best he could, and was about to go and fetch the rector for a more thorough history of the church when the man appeared of his own impetus.

“Mr. Humphrey!” Percival exclaimed happily at the sight of him. “Here you are. May I introduce you to the new tenants of Linston Grange? Mr. Bolton, Miss Bolton, and Mr. Everett. This is Mr. Humphrey, our rector. Mr. Humphrey, I was just finding myself at a loss to answer regarding the provenance of the glass in the windows.”

Mr. Humphrey knew at once, and was perfectly delighted to regale the Boltons with the history of it. They had far more interest than did Mr. Everett, who set off to explore the balcony above the congregation. Percival followed after him, since the Boltons were engaged and he supposed that it was his duty as a host not to let Mr. Everett go off alone.

“It is a lovely old church,” said Mr. Everett. “You may find me an awful heretic, but I am sure that I like it better while it is empty and echoing like this than I should when it is filled with a congregation. I suppose it is on account of my love of ruined and abandoned things.”

“Ah,” said Percival, “then how fortunate it is that we have several of them. The Saxon and the Roman fortifications, and a bit further afield is a gorgeous old monastery, all crumbled now. We will have to ride out to it one day. I am certain that you will like it.”

“How thoughtful of you,” said Mr. Everett. “I am certain that I will.”

“Mr. Valentine! Mr. Everett!” Miss Bolton called from below.

Percival leaned over the railing to reply. “Lo, here we are!”

“Mr. Humphrey has offered to show us the village school, which he oversees.” Miss Bolton smiled up at them, eyes bright with cheer. “Mr. Everett, I would not want to keep you from your ruined fortifications, which Mr. Valentine has promised, and I know that you have less interest in schoolrooms, as I likewise care little for ruins. Mr. Valentine, will you be so good as to show Mr. Everett the promised ruins? Perhaps we may meet again here in an hour. Will that suit?”

“I am well-suited,” said Mr. Everett. “Will you, Mr. Valentine?”

Percival thought that he was rather less well-suited, since this would in no way further his hope of courting Miss Bolton, but he did very much enjoy the company of Mr. Everett, and had no reasonable grounds for objection. “Yes, certainly. It would be my pleasure, and I leave you in very good hands with Mr. Humphrey.”

The Boltons went out with their new tour guide, leaving Percival with Mr. Everett. He had a fleeting thought that it may have been intentional to strand him in the charming company of Mr. Everett, but Percival could not imagine what purpose Miss Bolton might have for wishing to further Percival’s distraction.

Mr. Everett smiled at him, with blue eyes that were full of pleasure. “Shall we?”

“To be sure.” Percival took his arm once again and they went out of the church.

Linston Village only had one main road, which ran through the length of the little village and on past Linston Manor at the one end and Linston Grange at the other. Small paths and lanes branched off from it to the farms and houses surrounding Linston, but none of these lanes went more than a mile from town.

Percival led Mr. Everett along one of the quiet lanes, enjoying the warm, sunny day and the good company of his companion. Whenever he glanced over, Mr. Everett’s eyes were very likely to be upon him, so that it did seem that Mr. Everett was paying more attention to Percival’s profile than to the very lovely meadows and fields all around them. In Percival’s opinion, he could not possibly be more interesting than the rolling hills and scenery of rural England, and he did his best to draw Mr. Everett’s attention to various sights as they passed them. There were not many specific landmarks that could be pointed out in the overall loveliness of the Cotswolds, but Percival did his best by denoting the farms by their tenant’s names and indicating the branches of the river Avon which were visible from the crest of a hill.

“Was Linston of particular strategic importance?” Mr. Everett asked, while they were still paused on the lane atop the hill.

This seemed a peculiar non sequitur. Percival peered at him in confusion. “What?
Linston
, strategic?”

“There are Saxon fortifications,” Mr. Everett reminded him. “And Roman ones, as well.”

“Oh!” This significance had never occurred to Percival. “I suppose there are. I confess I don’t know. It is rich country, and lovely. And there is the river Avon. I don’t… forgive me, Mr. Everett, I’m no tactician.”

“That’s quite all right,” Mr. Everett assured him. “It is merely my perpetual curiosity about everything.”

Percival smiled at him, thinking that Mr. Everett was ever so clever in addition to being very handsome and kind. He stared fondly until he realised that he was staring, then quickly cleared his throat and looked away. Resuming their journey along the lane, he soon drew Mr. Everett’s attention to the Saxon ramparts.

The fortifications they sought were just at the edge of the village proper, and easily visible. Crumbling ramparts of honey-coloured limestone formed a boundary between two green fields and dwindled to nothingness at the edge of the lane. A few honey-coloured remnants continued on the other side of the lane, in much reduced profusion.

Intrepid by nature, Mr. Everett mounted at once upon the ramparts, bounding up a ruined set of stairs to the crenelated top and gazed from there out across the countryside. Percival followed at a more decorous pace, being mindful of his clothing.

Turning back with a wide, jubilant smile, Mr. Everett offered Percival a hand up the last section of damaged steps. Percival accepted the aid, and found himself pulled up at once to Mr. Everett’s side.

“Here, Mr. Valentine,” said Mr. Everett, with an adventuresome smile. “We are Norman conquerors upon these Saxon ramparts. Shall I be William?”

Percival found himself at a loss in the face of this childlike playfulness in his acquaintance. “What?”

“The Conqueror,” Mr. Everett specified, still grinning.

“Oh!” Percival blinked at this revelation, and then remained befuddled. “And what shall I?”

“Harold, perhaps, to defend your native England.” Entirely whimsical, Mr. Everett sat back against the edge of the ramparts. “Or William FitzOsbern, if you will be Norman alongside me.”

“Come, Mr. Everett,” Percival scolded him, unable to help a smile in the face of Mr. Everett’s contagious cheer. “Are you here to conquer?”

“No, certainly not,” Mr. Everett said, rising to his feet and taking a step forward, backing Percival against the wall of the ramparts. His eyes were intense and piercing, making Percival think once again of him as a sort of predatory cat. “I will only take what is freely offered.”

Percival coloured deeply, eyes widening at what seemed the possibility of Mr. Everett indicating some sort of amorous intent.

A kiss, perhaps
, Percival thought.

“Mr. Everett!” he said. “You forget yourself.”

Mr. Everett stepped back quickly. “Perhaps I do,” he said, and dropped his eyes away. “Forgive me.”

A weighty moment of silence hung between them. Uncertainty stopped Percival’s mouth, and he stared at Mr. Everett, heart pounding with the yearning that Mr. Everett
would
kiss him.

“I think,” said Mr. Everett, with his polite, friendly smile returned to his face, “that I may come here sometimes with a book, to study. Do you suppose anyone would mind that?”

“No, certainly,” Percival assured him. “Perhaps the old stones might enjoy the company.”

“I hope they might,” Mr. Everett agreed. “I know I should enjoy study in such a restful locale. Will you show me the Roman ruins now?”

“I will,” Percival said.

Everything seemed almost returned to normal, as they made their way back down the ramparts and further along the lane. The ruins, in Mr. Carlton’s skirret-field, were only around the next curve in the lane, set just along the edge of where the bank dropped down toward the river Avon.

What remained of the Roman stone walls were now merely low piles of rubble. Percival seated himself upon one of them, gazing out across the river and the rolling hills of Warwickshire. Mr. Everett sat beside him companionably.

“Would it be rude of me,” Mr. Everett asked, “to comment that I do not believe this to be a Roman fortress?”

“What?” Percival looked over at him in surprise. “But it is, most certainly. Linston records do indeed speak of the ruins here as pre-dating the time of the Saxon invasion, of a surety, and there was known to be Roman activity in this area, and—”

“Rather I believe it to be a Roman
villa
,” Mr. Everett corrected.

Percival stopped himself in surprise. “Oh. Why so?”

“The plan of the building, or what we can see of it. Even supposing that part of it may have been lost from the way the bank there encroaches and crumbles away, it is not laid out with defensive fortifications. It is laid out like a private residence. There, the atrium. These, cubiculi. The peristylium toward the edge of the field.”

Percival looked where he indicated, but saw only crumbling stones and pillars. “I confess I don’t know the first thing about Roman villas.”

“Shall I teach you?” Mr. Everett asked.

“Yes,” Percival decided, with a pleased smile. “Do.”

Mr. Everett rose and offered his hand, but seemed to almost immediately think the better of this and retracted it, putting his hands behind himself like a scolded child.

“The cubiculi were the bedrooms. It looks as though there are six of them on this side of the house, though the rooms might also have been libraries or drawing-rooms, I suppose. You can see their outlines, there and there. Here in the centre, the impluvium, would be a rainwater pool.”

“Why would anyone want a rainwater pool at the centre of their house?” Percival asked.

Mr. Everett pressed his lips together with mirth at the question. “Well, I suppose it’s a folly here in England, but, well—I suppose you’ve had the opportunity to visit Italy?”

It was instantly clear that Mr. Everett was assuming that Percival, like most gentleman of good birth, had completed his Grand Tour of the continent.

“I’m afraid I have not,” he confessed.

Immediately realising his mistake and the unintentional insult he had given, Mr. Everett blanched. “Forgive me. Italian summers get very hot, and the shady courtyard with the pool aids in cooling the house.”

“I understand.” Percival bit at his lip, feeling provincial next to such a fine London gentleman, and stared glumly down into the grass.

“Shall we return to the others?” Mr. Everett proposed. His voice was gentler than it had been.

“Yes.” Percival got to his feet, glad of the opportunity to return to the social buffer of the Boltons. When he was alone with Mr. Everett, everything felt more intense, and somehow they both managed to keep making fools of themselves.

They went quickly, and spoke along the way only of bland topics regarding the management and health of the farms in the district.

The Boltons and Mr. Humphrey were engaged in conversation on the front steps of the church. Mr. Bolton first caught sight of them approaching and waved. “Ho, there!”

Miss Bolton turned to see them and waved likewise. “Mr. Valentine, Mr. Everett. Did you have a pleasant excursion?”

“We did indeed,” Mr. Everett answered, his good humour returned as he greeted his friends.

Percival felt forgotten the moment that Mr. Everett’s full attention turned away from him. As much as he had wished to return to the company of the Boltons and escape the embarrassment of the revelation that Percival was a
very
country gentleman who had not even the benefit of a Grand Tour, he worried that he may have lost Mr. Everett’s interest and friendship. Surely Percival was nothing more than any other aspect of Linston: charmingly provincial, but not the sort of person that a gentleman of London society ought ever to take as a friend.

Or to kiss, for that matter.

“Mr. Valentine,” Miss Bolton said. “Mr. Humphrey has been telling me that you intend to engage a teacher for your school.”

She had her hand hooked around Mr. Humphrey’s arm as if they were already very dear friends, and Percival felt a prickle of indignation at himself regarding what a poor job he was doing of courting the lady’s affections.

“Yes, indeed,” Percival agreed, pushing his indignation aside so that he could focus on his delight in Miss Bolton’s interest in yet another topic about Linston. “As soon as the renovations for the schoolhouse are complete. It had been out of commission for years, and …” It occurred to him that Mr. Humphrey had just concluded giving the Boltons a tour on this topic. Percival reddened and cleared his throat. “And it seems to me that the children of Linston ought to have a proper school.”

“That is very good of you,” Miss Bolton said.

“Shall we continue our tour?” Mr. Everett proposed. “I would very much like to see Linston Manor, if Mr. Valentine is willing.”

“Oh, certainly!” Percival said, glad to have the group back together and to resume his discourse on his favourite topic. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Oh!” said Miss Bolton, and frowned. She looked between Mr. Everett and Percival, then shook her head. “No, I fear you must go on without me! I fear I am developing the headache.”

“My dear Miss Bolton!” Percival exclaimed. “We shall return you home at once.”

“Nonsense!” she said. “I’ll hear none of it. Horatio may escort me home. Mr. Everett did so want to see the manor. I am certain you will have us as guests on some other day, and I am less in need of history lessons and estate quotas than Mr. Everett.” She smiled fondly at her friend, and released Mr. Humphrey’s arm in order to take her brother’s. “Do go on without me, Mr. Everett.”