any manner. Countrified though he might be, Percival was determined that he should not be a brute! “Then please send a polite refusal. I do not feel at all well, and I do not believe I will feel up to calling upon them tomorrow—certainly not tonight.”
“Very well, sir.” The butler nodded his understanding, and went to see to his duties.
From his bedroom, where he was very soon ensconced with hot tea and a rich supper, Percival could see the glittering lights of the Grange from afar. At least eight of their windows were lit, and perhaps more. It seemed bright and extravagant, a place of charm and laughter.
“Would he truly have struck her?” Percival murmured to himself, not wishing to believe such a thing of the charming Mr. Everett.
Heart aching, Percival pulled the curtains shut.
T here was nothing from the tenants of the Grange the next day, which was Monday, nor on Tuesday, most likely with respect to his claimed ill health. Percival kept himself at home and saw to his correspondence, which had piled up while he had been away in London.
On Wednesday, there was a missive from Miss Bolton, inviting him to Linston Grange the next day for tea.
Torn with guilt and anxiety at the certain insult of refusal, Percival sent a polite reply declining the invitation and claiming that he was too awfully busy with matters of the management of Linston and simply could not be drawn away from them.
On Thursday, he encountered the trio in Linston Village.
Occupied with the business of arranging the renovations and expansions of the village, Percival had gone to the village with the intent of speaking with Mrs. Peters, mother of six and most in need of some expansion to her home. Bringing along some of the samples and proposed blueprints for the new houses to be built, Percival intended to put to her the question of whether she and her children would prefer an expansion upon her current farmhouse, or if they would rather be uprooted entirely into a fine new domicile.
He had not gotten halfway through the village when he encountered the Boltons out walking with Mr. Everett. The three of them were in the company of Mr. Humphrey, the village pastor, who had Miss Bolton upon his arm. This seemed quite familiar of him, in Percival’s opinion, even though he did think that Mr. Humphrey was a very charming and trustworthy gentleman who was of course entirely above reproach.
“Mr. Valentine!” Miss Bolton called, and waved.
Trapped by etiquette, there was nothing for it but that Percival should cross to them and greet them, unless he intended to give very public insult and cut them visibly in the centre of the village. Public insult was not a capability of Percival’s nature.
“Good day, Miss Bolton,” Percival swept off his hat in greeting. “Mr. Bolton. Mr. Humphrey. Ah, um. Mr. Everett.” He fidgeted uncertainly with the hat, which he kept in his hands in the manner of a shield.
“Good day, Mr. Valentine,” said Mr. Everett. “I hope your health has improved? I know that the journey from London can be a tiring one.”
“Yes,” Percival said, looking down at his hat rather than at Mr. Everett. “I am quite well, thank you.”
“I hope you’ll come soon to visit us at the Grange?” Miss Bolton expressed. “It has been so terribly lonesome without you!”
“I,” Percival said, and cleared his throat nervously as he strove to find a means of polite refusal. “Perhaps, certainly,” he said, and just then lost his hold on his hat due to fidgeting.
It bounced in the dirt before Percival rescued it, feeling further humiliated by the rim of dirt now clinging to his fine new hat. How foolish he had been when he bought it! He had thought of how Mr. Everett might find him charming in the latest style.
“I hope you will forgive me,” Percival said, dusting fretfully at his hat and not looking at any of them. “I am expected by Mrs. Peters on some business.”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Bolton
“Very well, sir.” The butler nodded his understanding, and went to see to his duties.
From his bedroom, where he was very soon ensconced with hot tea and a rich supper, Percival could see the glittering lights of the Grange from afar. At least eight of their windows were lit, and perhaps more. It seemed bright and extravagant, a place of charm and laughter.
“Would he truly have struck her?” Percival murmured to himself, not wishing to believe such a thing of the charming Mr. Everett.
Heart aching, Percival pulled the curtains shut.
T here was nothing from the tenants of the Grange the next day, which was Monday, nor on Tuesday, most likely with respect to his claimed ill health. Percival kept himself at home and saw to his correspondence, which had piled up while he had been away in London.
On Wednesday, there was a missive from Miss Bolton, inviting him to Linston Grange the next day for tea.
Torn with guilt and anxiety at the certain insult of refusal, Percival sent a polite reply declining the invitation and claiming that he was too awfully busy with matters of the management of Linston and simply could not be drawn away from them.
On Thursday, he encountered the trio in Linston Village.
Occupied with the business of arranging the renovations and expansions of the village, Percival had gone to the village with the intent of speaking with Mrs. Peters, mother of six and most in need of some expansion to her home. Bringing along some of the samples and proposed blueprints for the new houses to be built, Percival intended to put to her the question of whether she and her children would prefer an expansion upon her current farmhouse, or if they would rather be uprooted entirely into a fine new domicile.
He had not gotten halfway through the village when he encountered the Boltons out walking with Mr. Everett. The three of them were in the company of Mr. Humphrey, the village pastor, who had Miss Bolton upon his arm. This seemed quite familiar of him, in Percival’s opinion, even though he did think that Mr. Humphrey was a very charming and trustworthy gentleman who was of course entirely above reproach.
“Mr. Valentine!” Miss Bolton called, and waved.
Trapped by etiquette, there was nothing for it but that Percival should cross to them and greet them, unless he intended to give very public insult and cut them visibly in the centre of the village. Public insult was not a capability of Percival’s nature.
“Good day, Miss Bolton,” Percival swept off his hat in greeting. “Mr. Bolton. Mr. Humphrey. Ah, um. Mr. Everett.” He fidgeted uncertainly with the hat, which he kept in his hands in the manner of a shield.
“Good day, Mr. Valentine,” said Mr. Everett. “I hope your health has improved? I know that the journey from London can be a tiring one.”
“Yes,” Percival said, looking down at his hat rather than at Mr. Everett. “I am quite well, thank you.”
“I hope you’ll come soon to visit us at the Grange?” Miss Bolton expressed. “It has been so terribly lonesome without you!”
“I,” Percival said, and cleared his throat nervously as he strove to find a means of polite refusal. “Perhaps, certainly,” he said, and just then lost his hold on his hat due to fidgeting.
It bounced in the dirt before Percival rescued it, feeling further humiliated by the rim of dirt now clinging to his fine new hat. How foolish he had been when he bought it! He had thought of how Mr. Everett might find him charming in the latest style.
“I hope you will forgive me,” Percival said, dusting fretfully at his hat and not looking at any of them. “I am expected by Mrs. Peters on some business.”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Bolton
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