On a Cold Dark Sea(14)
Esme waited for the next polite observation: Your father tells me . . . or, When I was your age . . . but Mr. Harper’s mouth had reverted back to a half frown. Esme felt genuine pity for him then. How lonely he must be, if he could barely manage this much conversation!
Despite Mr. Harper’s reserve, the dinner proceeded smoothly, thanks in large part to Mrs. Ayres, a chatterbox who never allowed a lull to linger. As they finished the dessert course, Father prompted Esme to play piano for their guests, an offer she modestly declined.
Father leaned toward Mr. Harper and observed, “We have to watch out with these modern girls, you know. They’d rather play ragtime than Chopin.”
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with modern music,” Mr. Harper said.
“Take my Esme,” he said, glancing at his daughter with a mischievous look. “I’d be the first to admit she’s a flibbertigibbet, always chattering about dances and the latest fashions.”
“Father!” Esme admonished, but only because she thought it was the right thing to do, not because she was truly offended.
“There are some who’d say I haven’t been strict enough with her. But my proudest accomplishment is to have raised a happy daughter. She wasn’t always so carefree. My wife’s death was a trial for both of us. Mr. Harper, you know what it is to suffer the loss of a dear companion . . .”
Mr. Harper’s face seemed to droop even further, his mustache sinking down over his frowning mouth. Esme looked at her father’s empty sherry glass, and the empty decanter next to it, and wondered how much he’d had to drink.
“Esme was denied a mother’s love and comfort, yet she has grown into a young woman of great spirit. She is the joy of my life, and one day, I hope, she will bring equal joy to her future husband.”
Father looked meaningfully at Esme, and Esme glanced at Mr. Harper’s wooden, self-conscious expression, and her face went hot. So this was why Mr. Harper had been invited to dine. She would have been furious at Father’s machinations if it weren’t for the guest of honor’s obvious mortification. He was as much a victim as she was, a realization that softened her anger.
With practiced ease, Esme summoned an expression of amused nonchalance. “I have much to learn before I’m ready to marry. Mrs. Ayres, what do you believe are the ideal qualities in a wife?”
As she’d hoped, Mrs. Ayres went off on an extended discussion of duty and self-sacrifice, with the occasional nod or grunt from browbeaten Mr. Ayres. Esme would have very much liked to hear his thoughts on the matter, guessing he’d rank muteness above anything else, and she stifled a laugh. When she realized Mr. Harper had noticed her amusement and seemed perilously close to cracking a smile himself, she turned away, blushing. Afterward, the men turned to their port and cigars, and Esme retired to the sitting room with Mrs. Ayres. Her anger at Father’s meddling had eased. He was concerned for her future, that was all, and now that she was nearly twenty, marriage was the next logical step. Tomorrow, she’d tell him about Theo and John, and he’d be thrilled to hear she had two prospective suitors. Together, they would work out which one was the best match.
“I was surprised to see Hiram here this evening,” Mrs. Ayres said, settling next to Esme on the sofa. “He declines most invitations.”
“I was just as surprised,” Esme said. “I don’t think I’ve said more than two words to him before.”
“Be ready to say more than that!” Mrs. Ayres let out a braying laugh. “He was quite charmed by you.”
“I don’t see how. He looked miserable most of the evening.”
“Oh, that’s Hiram’s natural state. You didn’t see the way he stared at you, when your attention was elsewhere.”
Esme looked down modestly, pretending to be embarrassed, but secretly she wanted to know everything about the way Hiram Harper looked at her.
“He’s a good catch,” Mrs. Ayres continued. “Huge house, very well off. Inherited everything when his father died a few years ago. He may seem a dour old man to you, but he was considered very handsome in his time. Just between us, I was quite smitten with him! That was before I met Mr. Ayres, of course.”
Despite Mrs. Ayres’s self-satisfied smile, Esme could see from the woman’s eyes that a part of her would always see Mr. Harper as the beau he once was, when they were young.
“There’s no understanding between me and Mr. Harper,” Esme said. “I hardly know him.”
“That’ll change, if he has anything to do with it!” Mrs. Ayres teased. “Don’t dismiss him out of hand. A girl could do far worse.”
The fact that Mrs. Ayres had such high regard for Mr. Harper piqued Esme’s interest, for she’d always found that there was nothing like another’s admiration to stir up her own. When Mr. Harper sent a card the following day thanking Esme and her father for dinner and inviting Esme to his sister’s for tea the following Saturday, she sent her acceptance the next morning and sprayed the notecard with a touch of her eau de cologne. Mr. Harper was formally polite during Esme’s hour-long visit, not at all the kind of man she could imagine stealing a kiss behind a tree. But his sister seemed delighted to have Esme join them, and her children were charmingly affectionate with their uncle Hiram. The Harpers were such easy company, in fact, that Esme found herself agreeing to future plans—an evening at the theater, a lunch at the country house of his sister’s in-laws—and the more time Esme spent with Mr. Harper, the less impressive her other prospects began to look.