All the Tea in China Page 3

  David glanced at me for a moment, then away, his cheeks flushing.

  My mind was all sixes and sevens as Phineas politely held out my chair. He was the man Catherine had in mind for me all along? As I settled into my seat, I glanced around the table and saw that save for Uncle Toby, Phineas, and myself, everyone was paired off like animals preparing for Noah’s ark.

  Suddenly it seemed that every set of female eyes was trained on Phineas Snowe and me. Their gazes were quick but not enough so for me to miss their shift to Catherine. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that she smiled triumphantly, and when the other women turned to their husbands or betrotheds, I knew that somehow they, too, had been a part of my public humiliation. For as surely as I knew my name, they were setting me in my place.

  This was what Uncle Toby had tried to relay in the carriage but had not the spirit to make plain. Or perhaps I simply had not the ears to hear. But the truth was that I was past hope of finding a husband. My place in life had suddenly been reduced to gossiping with the matrons and entertaining this foreign man, a social stray.

  In society’s eyes, I was officially on the shelf. The battle was over.

  Or was it?

  Through the years, I had learned that one of the greatest mistakes in fencing occurs when one does not allow proper distance between himself and an opponent. You simply cannot be hit if you maintain a more than adequate separation. Maestro Antonio had repeatedly emphasized that I should always set the distance between myself and him as one small step beyond where I believed the tip of my weapon could strike him. Time and again, his advice had proved advantageous, and I trained to perfect my lunge across the gap.

  Catherine Ransom had failed to leave herself just such adequate space to avoid my riposte to her parry. I would let her think that she had done me a favor by pairing me with Phineas Snowe, though the thought turned my stomach. She and every woman in the room would see that Isabella Goodrich was not done for, that they need not consign me to spinsterhood just yet. Though he had been rude beyond measure, Snowe was only a man, after all. I abhorred flirting, but that did not mean I was ignorant to its methods and results.

  I turned my most beguiling smile to my dinner companion, taking care to lower my eyes a trifle and peer through the fringe of my hair. “You have already spoken to Uncle Toby, but I should love to hear about your travels if you do not mind the repetition. I am certain that you can moderate your speech so that even I can understand.”

  Snowe glanced at my uncle, who was still in conversation with Mrs. Marston, then presented me with a thin, oily smile. “I would not mind at all, Miss Goodrich.”

  2

  Ever the romantic, Flora once said that every young woman should have at least one secret vice. I would hate to disappoint with something so seemingly useless, but mine was fencing. Uncle Toby had taken me, as a child, to view a student fencing exhibition, and I was enthralled by the flash of blade against blade. I insisted upon being shown the basics, and Uncle laughingly obliged what he thought mere whimsy by hiring a fencing master. We worked first on footwork, then added wooden swords. Both the master and Uncle assumed I would weary of the endeavor, but they indulged my increasing interest as the years went by. Eventually I graduated to real swords and a more skilled fencing master, for time sown in persistence reaped undeniable skill.

  I thrilled to the sport for its cat-and-mouse qualities, each thrust and parry designed to work an opponent to my will. When I fenced, I felt as though I were a human chess piece, as well as the player, calculating and executing moves in sequences designed to ensure victory. Had I been born male, I have no doubt I would have been drawn to the military or, more imaginatively, to life as a benevolent highwayman, like Robin Hood. I understood implicitly that fencing should only be employed with the purest of motives, though I, like many other fencers, romantically desired to execute a botte secrète—a perfect thrust that would ensure victory.

  To guard my reputation, my practice remained secret for many years. The rattling tongues at the Ransoms’ party only reinforced society’s opinion: young women simply did not fence. How long my rule breaking had been common knowledge, I could not say. But I would not let a few clucking guineas stop me from my favorite pastime. I met my instructor in his salle d’armes the very next day.

  Signor Antonio and I sparred diligently, as was our custom. Our fleurets met, parted, and met again, our blades clanging with metal against metal. However, I could scarce keep my concentration as I daydreamed about the Ransoms’ party of the previous night. Flora’s superb work on the new dress still enthralled me, as did the memory of the slippers. They had been works of not only beauty but comfort too. After dinner, we had adjourned to the ballroom, where a four-piece orchestra played for the remainder of the evening.

  “Ah! You are slowing. Too much dancing last night, eh?” Signor Antonio beamed. I could see sweat forming behind his mask as we broke. “If you must participate in useless exercise, you must know your limits. Reserve your strength for fencing.”

  I nodded as we continued. If only Signor Antonio knew that I had not set even one of my beautifully slippered feet to dance. Phineas Snowe had kept me cornered all night with his fustian chatter, waving off all who approached. Not that any man would willingly dance with me!

  Signor Antonio broke free, gesturing with dismay. “Signorina Goodrich, it is not like you to lose your concentration. If you are not willing—”

  “I am sorry, Maestro,” I said, bowing. “Please forgive my lack of attention.” I assumed the stance.

  Uncle Toby paid poor Signor Antonio handsomely every week not only to keep my unladylike secret but to train me well. Why, I do not know, but I had accepted my practice all these years without question. Before my first failed social season, however, I fretted that the skill would be all for naught. When I thought I would marry, I knew I would eventually have to put away my sword as a childish plaything; it would serve no purpose in my womanly future.

  Now, however, I could foresee a future of freedom to pursue my beloved sport. Oddly, the idea of being a spinster did not sadden nor frighten me, but it did leave me yearning for some divine call. An evening with Snowe had showed me one thing: a high purpose would no doubt help me fill the many days of solitude ahead of me. Most of the men with whom I was acquainted were men of leisure or academicians. The former seemed to have no desire for busyness, and the latter found employment enough in mental athletics.

  Snowe, however, was a man with purpose. He could scarce sit still for ten minutes last night without resorting to a nervous pace. I could see the hunger in his eyes as he talked about the poor heathen Chinese. He had obviously spent much time among them and desired to improve their lot in life, particularly regarding the spread of the gospel.

  If only I had not been forced to play the simpleton young woman. I would have dearly loved to ask Snowe an intelligent question about his work. Most of the evening he spoke down to me, but on an occasional moment, his eyes seemed fixed on a distant spot, and he seemed to speak a trifle more freely. Almost as if he had quite forgotten I was even present.

  I felt the faintest tip of a fleuret at my heart. A touch. Signor Antonio had not landed one so lethal for years. “Be careful, Signorina Goodrich!”

  I could almost see him smile as I bowed. “I am sorry, Maestro.”

  “Bah! That is all for today. You are wasting my time.” He waved his hands in the air, pretending anger, but I knew he was secretly pleased. Signor Antonio was not usually a teacher to berate me for carelessness, thank goodness. In truth I believe we both knew that I had surpassed his abilities as my teacher several years ago. Old age and dissipation had overtaken his better days. Signor Antonio had trained under Domenico Angelo, both of them Italians who excelled in the French school of fencing. Though Uncle Toby and I never spoke of it, we knew that Signor spent most of his payment on the wine he loved dearly. After every lesson I somehow managed to send him ’round to Cook for some hearty victuals before his next lesson. D
espite his once-proud reputation, he had lately been shunned by many of the students in favor of other fencing masters, ones who taught fencing as a competitive sport and not as a true martial art. I worried about the leanness of Signor’s purse and feared he did not sup well during the week.

  We finished, bowing low to each other. “I believe Cook said something about making two extra meat pastries today by mistake, Maestro. She would be pleased if you would help by eating one now and taking the extra one for later,” I said.

  “Grazie, Signorina Goodrich,” he said as he did after every lesson. “I would not mind just a taste from your kind uncle’s kitchen. Just a taste, per favore.”

  After I changed from my fencing clothes back into my morning dress and adjusted my hair into a less disheveled style, I walked home, accompanied by Flora. We spoke little, for I felt as sober as a vicar. Was fencing to be the highlight of my future? Was there no higher goal to which I should aspire? Surely there was some lifelong service on which I could fix my sights!

  Our home, the deanery, was a residence in Christ Church’s main quadrangle, affectionately known as Tom Quad. Normally I marveled at the fountain in the center as I passed, but instead I hurried Flora and myself home. As we entered, I thought to spend time alone in my room, in contemplation of my future, when I passed Uncle Toby in his study. I doubled back. Because he spent much of his time here, it was our accustomed sitting room. Full bookshelves lined the walls, and cozy chairs were arranged in front of the fireplace. Silhouettes of my mother and father—created, I am told, a few years before my birth— stood on the mantel as though watching us. Down through the years, Uncle Toby, Frederica, and I had passed many a pleasant moment together before the fire in either solitary reading, chess matches, or long discussions of political or religious nature.

  Now he sat in his favorite leather wing chair, pondering a dusty tome between his hands. Unaware of my presence, he smiled faintly to himself, and I knew him to be lost in a world of literature that excluded all reality.

  I cleared my throat at the doorway to gain his attention. Uncle Toby had been known to read straight through dinner if not alerted.

  “Oh! There you are, Izzy.” Uncle Tobias looked up, peering at me through the spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He gestured to the high-backed chair beside his own and waved the book in his other hand. “I was just reading the most amazing story. Have you time to share your opinion?”

  I admired that he thought me an academic equal, but at the moment my conscience was preoccupied as I sat. “I am afraid not, Uncle Toby, but perhaps you can answer a question for me. How do I learn my life’s calling?”

  He shut the book and removed his spectacles. “I had feared that last night would reveal the truth to you. I hoped to soften the blow beforehand, but I—”

  “You were nothing but kindness, Uncle.” I patted his hand fondly. “I was a silly goose to be enamored with my new slippers when you tried to speak to me about my future.” I straightened in the chair, feigning maturity as I folded my hands in my lap. “So now I am all attention. How do I learn my life’s calling?”

  Uncle Toby smiled anew. “Society would tell you that it is to become some fortunate man’s wife.”

  I lifted my nose a trifle. “Society has not helped much in that regard, then. Perhaps I like being unwed.”

  His eyes twinkled, and he chucked my chin. “I am not sure that I quite believe you on that, dear Izzy, and I wish I could help where you feel society has not. I have no doubt that my poor dead sister would despair to hear you say such words.”

  I swallowed, glancing up at the silhouette. From what Uncle had told me of my mother, I knew his words to be truth. Mother would have reveled in Frederica’s chosen life and no doubt been appalled to have a younger daughter turn out to be a . . . dear, I hate to use this word, but it is becoming more true each day. I am a spinster.

  I squared my shoulders. “Nevertheless, Uncle, I know God chooses a path for each of his children. If it is not marriage, I would like to know mine. A life of solitude, perhaps?”

  Uncle Toby smiled. “I do hope it is not in a cloister, Izzy. You are far too intelligent to seal yourself away in a life of contemplation.”

  “All that seems left to me is to be a governess then.” I sighed. “Some days I fear that is my only ordained path.”

  He raised his brows. “‘Fear,’ Izzy? Do not embark on a journey of unhappiness, for I do not believe that we are called to tasks that make us miserable, but rather those that bring joy not only to others but to ourselves, as well.”

  “Then I should be a modiste, for I love fashion.”

  He frowned. “You are also too intelligent to spend your days hunched over fabric and thread.”

  “But I am on the shelf, Uncle. No man has seen fit nor apparently ever will see fit to claim me for his wife.” I sighed. “I know that God orders our every path, but I must confess that I am puzzled. What would he have me do?”

  Uncle Toby touched my cheek. “Ah, Isabella, I fear it is my fault.”

  “Yours?”

  He nodded. “I have raised you with too much inquisitiveness and too much of a thirst for knowledge. It is true that you have learned the ways of fabrics and fans, but you have not, apparently, acquired the secret art that women pass so heartlessly from one generation to another—flirting.”

  “Is that the sum of all skills to acquire a husband?” I asked, arching a brow.

  “You see?” He laughed. “You are too straightforward by half. Ah, well, I shall look forward to my niece attending me in my dotage then, if no one will speak for you.”

  “But Uncle, did you not hear me? Perhaps God has another plan for me. If it includes you, that is good and well, but sadly, I worry that it may not.”

  “Then I shall look forward to your telling me of its nature,” he said, reopening his book, then winking. “Once you find it. Good day, Isabella.”

  “Good day,” I replied, rising, knowing when I was dismissed.

  “Isabella?”

  I turned. “Yes?”

  “I do not mean to belittle your worry for your future. You are my dearest niece and a great comfort to me. I hope you know that.”

  I smiled fondly. “Indeed I do, Uncle.”

  He returned to his book, his mind already wandering from me. “If your presence will not intrude on Signor Antonio’s meal in our kitchen, please inform Cook that we will expect one more for dinner tonight,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  Uncle licked his finger and turned a page. “I invited Phineas Snowe to dine with us. I should like to hear more about his charitable work. You two seemed to enjoy each other’s company last night. I also thought it would be a good chance for you to further your conversation.”

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. “I’ll make sure Cook knows,” I finally said, turning to leave.

  My head began to ache as I headed for the kitchen. Must I endure another night of Phineas Snowe and his condescension? Because I had already acted a role at the Ransoms’, I would be forced to repeat it tonight as well. The thought of smiling endlessly and nodding gamely at his every pronouncement . . . It would take a great deal of not only physical strength but mental agility to continue the missish role.

  I came to a full stop in the hallway. “But why should I? I owe nothing to Snowe.”

  Last night had only been a chance to hold my own with Catherine Ransom and the others. Uncle Toby would not expect me to be anyone other than who I truly was, and in the safety of our own home, that is exactly who I would be!

  Phineas Snowe arrived at our doorstep at the precise hour for which Uncle Toby had issued the invitation. Flora ushered him into Uncle Toby’s study, raising her eyebrows at me behind his back. She knew from my description of Snowe last night that he wore the same threadbare attire tonight. Either he was more destitute than I believed or he truly had no sense of fashion. I was quite sure that if I had mentioned the name of the dandy Beau Brummel, he would have stare
d at me like a sapscull.

  “Ah, Mr. Snowe,” Uncle Toby said, rising from his wing chair. “It is so good of you to join us.”

  He gestured Uncle back down. “Pray do not stand on my account, Mr. Fitzwater,” he said, then bowed in my direction. “Miss Goodrich, you look well this evening. Is your health compatible with your appearance?”

  “I am afraid I cannot answer that, Mr. Snowe.”

  “Indeed?”

  I nodded. “If I answer yes, I might stand accused of conceit.”

  He frowned. “How so?”

  “To answer yes might be construed that I took your comment to mean that my appearance, while ‘well,’ was equivalent with ‘pleasing.’ However, if I answer no, then you would, of course, inquire as to the nature of my negative response. Then I should be forced into prevarication by inventing some imaginary ailment to appease any further questions.”

  Snowe glanced at Uncle Toby. “Is it always this difficult to exchange pleasantries with your niece?”

  Uncle smiled blithely. “Sometimes it is more so.” He rose. “If you two will excuse me, I will see about procuring a bit of wine before dinner.”

  Snowe bowed, and I curtsied at Uncle’s departure. I thought Snowe would continue the subject, but he affected a solemn sort of smile. “Miss Goodrich, I owe you an apology.”

  I blinked. This was most unexpected. “Whatever for?”

  “I fear that I nattered on at far too great a length last night about my work. You must think me the most dreadful of bores.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Snowe, it is I who should apologize to you. I am sure that any number of guests could have held up their end of the conversation better than my feeble attempts.” I paused. “I was not quite myself last night.”

  He smiled. “You were kind to allow me to discuss my life’s mission. It must seem a simple life, compared to what you are accustomed here with your uncle in a thriving town like Oxford.”