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Chapter Fourteen

Richard Thornton tried to control his gait as he ascended the steps to the Tooting residence, not letting unseemly enthusiasm overcome him, keeping the bliss and rapture from his face. 

It had been so very long since he had been able to call upon her. There were so few social events after the season had ended that, in recent months, he had only seen her at an evening so general and dismal that he had scarcely been able to pay his respects before being swept up by the hostess to make up the fourth for a desultory card table. Everyone else there had been mooning for the country.

When Richard had been a child, his father had taken a small property where they had stayed between June and December, and Richard had considered it more his home than their house in the town. 

All that had gone, of course, along with the paternal fortune and his father’s life. No doubt it was leased to a new family who were happily settled there, and the years of labouring at Mr Figges’ bank, then serving at the Treasury had robbed Richard of the boyish dreams he’d once clutched of riding out there, his living established, to take the place once more. 

His and Serafina’s beginnings would be pronouncedly more humble than the future he had once envisioned, but he had her assurance that she would stand by him, and it was with this in mind that Richard took his card from his pocket and his hat from his head before presenting himself at the door. 

Jones opened it to him, bowed, but offered no other sign of recognition, for while the Mr Tooting resided in a village, they expected town manners from their staff. Richard breathed, and thought about Serafina, the way that her eyes would dart to his face and then away again, as if gazing at him for any length of time would bring all of her secrets spilling out of her.

Sometimes, when he thought of her, he wished to catch her chin with his fingers, and hold her there so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze, to reveal her whole soul to him. It was presumptuous to think so, he knew, but she said that she loved him, and at times it was all he could do to control the effect of his passions for her. 

All the same, he would show control. That was what he owed her – loving her had saved his soul. He would be courteous, respectful, would serve only her happiness. Whatever happened, however much it stifled him, he would keep that vow - regardless of how many nights he lost in hazy, sensual thoughts of her, how many guilty imaginings were shot through with the memories of his old, dark days.

After a few minutes, Jones returned and led him up to Mrs Tooting’s parlour. Another man, whom he did not know, spoke with the mother while Serafina worked elegantly on a piece of embroidery. Richard watched her as he waited to be announced. She sat with her spine beautifully straight, her soft, white hands gripping the shining needle, the brightly coloured thread trailing, the trace of a smile touching her lips. Her mouth was one that was made to laugh, and she was often smiling, as though amused by some private joke. When Jones said Richard’s name, she looked up for a moment with wide, wondering eyes, then down and away again to hide the soft blush that crept around her neck. 

He would have given his life to kiss it. 

Richard bowed, and paid his respects. After a few moments of chatter, the other gentleman made his excuses and left. 

Mrs Tooting watched him go with a slight smile, then said, “Mr Thornton, I expect you wish to tell Serafina the challenges and joys attendant upon your new position.” She scooped up some work from the basket beside her, and proceeded to ignore him. 

Richard stared.

Serafina was smiling, a little teasingly, “Do come and sit by me, Mr Thornton.”

He looked back again at Mrs Tooting, then at where Serafina sat. She patted the chair beside her. 

“We don’t expect father home today,” she said in a half whisper as he sat. There was about her almost a girlish clarity that morning. She seemed fresh, and pure as the air was when it had been cleared out by rain. Their legs were almost close enough to touch. 

“I don’t understand, Miss Tooting.”

“I have told mama,” she said, as though explaining something to a child.

He felt something cold pass along his spine, and he straightened a little. “You have told her what?”

“Of your prospects, Mr Thornton. Of our hopes.” She lifted her eyes again, the bright, deep hazel of them staring in to his own, with a touch of reproach, and utterly without guile.

“I see,” he said.

Serafina looked away, and pushed her needle into the fabric, not speaking. He had the urge to grab her wrist, to pull it towards him so that she would turn to him again, see the furious expression upon his face.

“Do you not think, madame, that was rather indiscreet.”

She only smiled and continued to work her needle, “I’m afraid you were the one who refused to elope,” she said quietly.

Richard glanced at Mrs Thornton, and knew he could not grab her wrist and shake her out of that childish, teasing tone. He pressed his teeth together and pulled his head back as far from her as he could.

Now, she deigned to look up at him, to measure the anger upon his face, but her expression remained playful, impertinent. Edward had looked at him like that, too, when he wished to be aggravating. 

“Miss Tooting,” he said, as sharply as he might dare here. “I do not believe that is a matter for jest.”

“A trip to Gretna Green, sir? Or confiding in a parent my hopes for a more legitimate marriage?”

“If you believe my affections are there to be trifled with, Miss Tooting...”

And, sweet girl that she truly was, she lowered her eyes again. The vapid smile left her lips. “I am sorry, Mr Thornton. Do not be cross with me, I beg you. It has been so long since last we spoke.”

She was so tender that his anger died entirely. Richard smiled and let his eyes travel along the soft lines of her jaw, the sweet pink of her lips and the shadows of freckles upon her cheeks. “No,” he said. “Forgive me, Serafina. I should not speak to you so.”

Again, she blushed, the colour coming up her neck and flushing her cheeks, her forehead. “I do not mind, if you always apologise with such grace. But you will find my mother is not so unsympathetic to our feelings as I had supposed. Now that your prospects are…” But she bit her lip and looked away, suddenly shy. 

He thought of his the stern creature who had faced him along the laurel walk, after he had dared to kiss her, of the sensible planner of public good and household sense, or the ardent girl with her straightforward and passionate declarations, and compared them to this charming bashfulness. 

He could not decide which facet of her he preferred. 

“One more season,” he said. “If I might count upon your patience for that, then by winter I would willingly tell the world of my ardent admiration of you.”

“Not the world, sir,” she said, quietly. “Not yet.”

“Is this the young woman who was suggesting post horses to Scotland?” he teased.

“You have my mother’s approval, sir, my father’s may be more difficult to obtain, especially now that...” But she shook her head, sending a tumbling curl of red-gold hair falling down upon her cheek.

“Now that what?”

“It is of no matter. Let us not speak of such things when we do not know how long we have before us.”

He longed to reach out, and tuck the stray curl of hair away again, to soften it against her scalp, to... 

But his model of lovemaking was too tainted with Valance’s crudity.

“I am at your command, madame.”

So, for sweet, timeless moments, they spoke, and he allowed himself a gradual unfolding of his heart to her, his modest plans for a small house on a respectable street, the size of establishment they could maintain, how his mother and his unmarried sister would help them.

All of this while Mrs Tooting stayed impressively silent, working at her embroidery at the other side of the room, permitting them unwonted privacy to whisper between themselves. 

Of course, such condescension to his passion could not last. After what could only have been a little time, she said, “I’m afraid we cannot invite you to dinner with us, Mr Thornton. Serafina and I have an engagement this evening.” 

He made a gracious refusal of even having contemplated the honour, and asked if might enquire with whom the arrangement was made.

“We are invited to a concert hall, sir, by the Earl of Forthenby.”

“Who, madame?” The name had a ring of familiarity to it, and when he looked to Serafina, her hands were folded in her lap, her eyes fixed upon her work. 

“I believe he is a kinsman, Mr Thornton, of that old school fellow of yours.”

Edward Valance.

He tried not to flinch.