Sir Valerian, perhaps aware of the general air of disapprobation, announced to the group at large, “Mr. Tisdale is acting as my secretary tonight. Naturally, I have cautioned him as to the need for the utmost discretion. He will not repeat anything he hears within these four walls.”
The devil I won’t, thought Theo, bestowing upon the group a bland smile.
His intention had been to write at once to Sir Ethan in London, informing his brother-in-law of any havey-cavey dealings by his opponent and trusting that this second letter would not go amiss, as had, apparently, the first. But it soon transpired that there was little, if anything, to report. Indeed, the order of the day appeared to be the planning of an autumn festival for the mill workers and their families, since Lady Helen Brundy, who usually hosted just such an event, was currently in mourning for her father.
“I’ve spoken to the squire, and he is willing to let us use his barn for the occasion,” Sir Valerian informed the group.
“Aye, that’s all right,” put in one of the men, nodding in approval. “It’s near enough to the mill to be reached quick enough, even in the dark, but not so close as to arouse any suspicions.”
Several of the men shifted uneasily in their chairs, and Davy’s gaze dropped to stare fixedly at the tablecloth. Sir Valerian said, with a hint of steel in his voice that had not been there before, “I don’t know why you should think there would be any need for ‘suspicions,’ Ainsworth. What could anyone find objectionable in a simple night of music and dancing? Unless, of course, you intend to partake a bit too freely of the liquid refreshment, and don’t want your wife to know.”
It seemed to Theo that all the men laughed a bit too heartily at this witticism, but he was forced to agree with Sir Valerian. True, the man was taking advantage of his opponent’s bereaved status in order to ingratiate himself with the locals, but that wasn’t objectionable in and of itself; all was fair in love and politics, after all, and these men would not be able to vote in any case, so Theo failed to see what Sir Valerian hoped to gain by this show of generosity. In any case, the highest sticklers—who could vote—would certainly hold it against Ethan if he were to fail to show the proper respect for his father-in-law’s passing, so Theo was inclined to think his sister was right in not hosting the event.
“Of course, I will need a lady to act as hostess,” Sir Valerian continued, glancing at Theo to make sure he was committing all these details to paper. “I hope to persuade Mrs. Drinkard to oblige me in this, as she has been so gracious in allowing me to hire her dining room.”
Theo frowned a little over his writing. Surely it was unnecessary to belittle the lady by betraying to these men that she was being compensated for her hospitality. Or did he mean to hint that Mrs. Drinkard’s straitened circumstances gave him some hold over her? If so, Theo could assure him that no such coercion was necessary; Mrs. Drinkard would no doubt be over the moon to be returned, even if only for one night, to what should have been her proper sphere.
Nor would she be the only one. As the details were discussed of what musicians were available locally to play for the dancing, as well as what food and drink should be procured from whom, Theo was a bit taken aback by the air of suppressed excitement underlying the preparations. In his experience, most men were content to leave the finer points of entertaining to their wives, while as for attending such events, the general lack of enthusiasm with which the male of the species regarded them was the bane of hostesses throughout London. He supposed, without much conviction, that such pleasures rarely came these men’s way. Yes, that must account for it. For there was no denying the intensity on the faces of the men seated around the table, as if they were plotting a military campaign instead of a night of revelry.
The only exception appeared to be Davy Williams, who spoke up at one point to say, “I don’t know—I think maybe we ought’n’t to—” Seeing that every man in the room (every man except Theo, anyway) was regarding him with thinly veiled hostility, he continued in a quavering voice, “That is, what I mean to say is, Sir Ethan’s been that good to me after my old man died. I—I wouldn’t want to do anything he wouldn’t like.”
Sir Valerian bent a rather brittle smile upon him. “That’s quite all right—Davy, is it? I’m sure no one is asking you to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re welcome to leave us right now, if you so choose.”
There followed an uncomfortable silence. Davy slumped down in his chair and mumbled, “I’ll stay, sir.”
“Very wise of you,” commended Sir Valerian. He glanced at Theo and nodded slightly, giving his secretary to understand that he was to make a notation of the boy’s unwillingness. With considerable reluctance, Theo wrote, Davy Williams voiced his objection to—to what? Granted, when Theo had been Davy’s age, he wouldn’t have submitted meekly to an evening of doing the pretty when he might have been more agreeably occupied in riding hell-for-leather over the countryside, or bagging a rabbit or a partridge or two. But there seemed to be more to Davy’s reluctance than a youth’s indifference to a night of dancing. —to the plan, Theo wrote.
Alas, he was no more enlightened when the meeting broke up several hours later. He didn’t know
