Salvation of Ignorance - Chapter 4: Previous Tomfoolery

Chapter 4: Previous Tomfoolery

“Really?”

Mrs. Emmons nodded. “Mr. Barrettmore has taken to the novel task of employing a slave to be her governess. By the name of Mary, I believe.”

“So, she has received no proper education.”

“Not by conventional standards, no.”

Standards had to be ignored to explain her education. Niall believed some pity had to be paid to the girl, for she was clearly the product of neglected parenting. Mr. Barrettmore’s pre-occupation in salvaging his isolation encouraged him to forgo his responsibilities to his daughter’s upbringing, but to allow employment of a negro governess was ludicrous.

“However, from what spells of speech can be expelled from her, she seems quite adept in Herbology.”

Most likely a product of her studies in voodoo.

“Though, it seems that plants are the only thing that stirs her interest,” Mrs. Emmons added to her statement.

“Perhaps, but from my impression, I’ve seen very few things that haven’t received her mirth.”

Mrs. Emmons’ grip on his arm tightened. “Yes, her tempers are easily pleased, but she’s a fervent listener.”

After the departure of the person of topic, the two at present resumed their morning leisure in the woods, but this time, with Niall redirecting them toward the origins prior to this venture for fresher air. Any sanctity nature provided initially was now a scintilla and tainted with remnants of previous tomfoolery.

Peter and Miss Barrettmore were a match in their inducement of embarrassment on their behalf when forced to observe their floundering behaviors. It was a painstaking task to be the audience of Miss Barrettmore’s twitching, forced sentiments, and hunched shoulders. He never believed himself capable of finding someone who could best Peter’s ridiculous utterances, but unfortunately the unwanted search was complete.

Despite the new acceptance in the match, Niall re-examined the image his mind now canvassed after taking her details. Her bonnet had improperly been abandoned, but noticing the lack of it was an after-thought to the blotch coloring in her cheeks. The white, blonde locks made a feeble attempt to conceal them as the ribbon in her hair meagerly attempted to restrict their freedom. All this on his mind, what captured his attention most was the wrinkled jacket she adorned. A gentlemen’s jacket.

Perhaps the lack of bonnet could be explained by her flighty persona and the rosy color of her cheeks by exercise. The jacket, however, provoked mental stirrings of a serious matter and her smiles only furthered to support said stirrings.

“Did you notice the book?”

Niall turned his head to the woman, but avoided eye contact.

“A few years back, she had the habit of attaching a book to her in all forms of events. Social and non. She--,” The widow placed a gloved hand to her lips to quell her giggle, “I caught her once whist she dropped her book and the aggregate of twigs and leaves hoarded there was sight.”

Although distracted by her other attributes, he did find the swell of her book a peculiarity.

“I see,” Niall gave permission for the woman to relinquish her giggles.

“Does she often venture here?” He slipped.

Any remaining giggles were expelled in weak coughs. “Possibly. I know she often spends her time in nature, but her home is five lots south from here.”

His upper lip twitched. “Such lengths without a chaperone? Perhaps it would be more responsible of her to keep to her lot.”

“She did have her hound.”

“Who chose the company of a stranger over his master.”

“Yes, but was it the hound who chose the stranger or the stranger who encouraged the hound?”

“Philosophize as you will, she’s still trespassing sans chaperone.”

“I’m sure she’ll mention nothing upon today’s subject. Poor thing was more terrified of us.”

A gust of pristine air opened his lungs and a smile that couldn’t be repressed. “She was, indeed.”

“She truly is a lovely girl.”

From the corner of his eyes, Niall noticed the decent of her head and creeping intensity of her grip on his arm. Extracting one of her hands, finger by finger, he cradled it between his hands and brought the amalgam of appendages to his lips. He breathed a kiss upon the knuckles, grateful for the glove that shielded them from the cold.

Niall allowed his lips to linger, and dared a look at her through his lowered lids. “Any charms of hers were lost with you in company.”

His grasp loose to begin with, he took extra precaution in expanding them further to assist Mrs. Emmons’ retrieval of her hand. She took advantage of the newly achieved freedom to adjust her gloves and her scarlet cheeks ebbed his unease.

“Do not be modest, Louisa,” He egged on, “Remember, even Athena posed a match to Aphrodite before tempting Paris.”

“Omens, you truly are familiar with this trade.”

He expelled a laugh from his nostrils, enjoying a chip in the fourth wall. “’Familiar’ seems a minimal definition.”

Louisa coughed a laugh, encouraging facial expansion by the corners of Niall’s mouth. “Well, you certainly hold a bone for modesty.”

“As I recall, there wasn’t a modest bone in my familiarity.”

Another cough was earned.

On a mirth inspired whim, he peered down upon the lady through his peripheral vision. Louisa was a petite woman and although age had loosened portions of her skin, previous expeditions exploited their cushioning. Aided by the illumination that snuck through hovering leaves, he could see past the sagging and piled groves to be able to identify the contours of her high cheek bones and narrowly-bridged nose. At the age of seven and fifty, she generally seemed capable of keeping some charms of her youth. Or was she three and fifty? Well, she was old enough, and that was most important.

As her eyes turned to catch his, Niall made a desperate attempt to cleanse his vision with an aggregate of trees. It was a meager attempt to distract his attentions from the abrupt churn of his stomach. He certainly couldn’t understand Miss Barrettmore’s appreciation for the subject.

“My son often skylarked this lot as a boy. He’s about your age, I believe. Four and thirty next May.”

“I’m seven and twenty.”

“Oh, yes. That’s right.”

Niall released a sickly sigh, quite familiar with the tactic being employed by Mrs. Emmons. He was accustomed to being compared to sons, nephews, and the occasional grandson. After over-seeing initial slight from the first few occurrences, he could now reap the benefits of severing previous sentiments.

Striving for a last impression of propriety, he offered an arm to the widow, “I would be honored to resume escorting you home.”

“No need, dear. It’s not much farther from here.”

He attempted to grasp her hand for farewells, but she used said appendage to pat the cheek of a parted lip Niall.

“Your mother must be proud of you.”

He nodded, though preferred not to discuss the accuracy of the statement at the present.

“You must thank your friend, on my behalf, for making the suggestion.”

“I shall.” He most certainly would not.

The Talwin’s country home had to be located on the polar end of Virginia to Miss Barrettmore and Mrs. Emmons. Having forgotten to secure a wagon from Peter, and guided by stubbornness to detour from acquiring a rental from the widow, Niall succumbed to the option of gaining knowledge of the distance via foot. Miss Barrettmore could monopolize her choice of exercise. He desired no share.

Wrinkled jacket in hand, he tore his cravat from his neck upon entering the home’s threshold. After applying the article to relieve his face’s sudoriferous state, he lethargically tossed both artifacts to the servant at the door. Managing to bear a few steps into the main enfilade, he stumbled into the front parlor and collapsed upon a willing settee. His feet quickly propped themselves upon the arm and the swelling that irrupted compelled him to separation from his boots.

Relief continued to be denied as the attachment of his locks to disagreeable nooks in his face reminded him of a condition he had intended to rectify two months prior. Annoyance toward this condition encouraged him to overcome his reluctance to rise once more. He would see to a barber once far from this barbaric half of the world. For now, he believed Peter kept a pair of clippers in his office.

Niall made the mistake of passing through the open door before acquiring its census. The desk was arranged before the room’s sole window, whose blinds were barely pulled back to make an exhibit of Peter’s back as he sat emerged in paperwork. Niall attempted to leave unnoticed, but screeching floorboards betrayed him.

“And how is my proliferate friend this,” Peter glanced at the mantel clock, “noon and two hours?”

Niall made his way to the office’s settee. “I say, Peter. How can you stand this stuffy room? Shouldn’t you be using your visit to explore the rich culture of Yankee soil?”

“I believe you’re better equipped for the task than myself.”

Now sprawled upon the settee, Niall obtained a view of his friend’s profile. Apparently Peter could not read his letters unless they were flamboyantly displayed in the air within an inch of his face.

Niall cracked his back, hoping it would assist the settee in providing comfort. “Your chit seems to enjoy the culture.”

Peter slightly turned his head, but the letter moved for naught. “What’s your implication?”

Tapping his fingers upon his abdomen, Niall pondered for a response. No, not ‘for it’, but whether to apply it. The question held an opportunity to salvage his friend from further ridicule and turmoil. An opportunity to reveal Miss Barrettmore’s reasoning for venturing five lots, blotched cheeks, and adorning a gentleman’s jacket. Niall’s ribs began to irritate his skin

No, he would not taint the girl’s image. Although a rarity, Niall reluctantly admitted his susceptibility for error and, though the evidence strongly supported his hypothesis, there was still a possibility that she may be innocent of the charge. A minute possibility.

In addition, Peter was impetuous enough to lash at his friend before a stranger. An accumulation of playful jabs seemed to hamper Peter’s belief in the legitimacy of their friendship. It wasn’t as if Niall traveled leagues of sea, abandoning his occupation at the busiest time of the season, to play cupid’s apprentice.

Niall retrieved the pillow, ill-placed below his calves, and began entwining his fingers in the bordering fringe. “Merely that Miss Barrettmore is favored for walks in the woods.”

The letter was placed upon the table so that Peter could gain a few inches of sight and turned to use them on Niall. “And how did you acquire such news?”

Niall shrugged. “It appears to be synonymous with the topic of ‘lovely ladies’.”

“You didn’t imply my regards to Miss Barrettmore, did you?”

Niall scoffed, “I’m sure you’ve seen justice to such an act.”

The hellcat hissed, “Niall, if you ruined my chances--!”

“Seize your temper. I’m sure she’s a flutter over you as well.”

An image of Miss Barrettmore’s distraught face, when Niall suggested the message, came to mind, but Niall shook the thought away. After all, ‘her tempers were easily pleased’.

“Did she say so to you?”

“She hardly spoke in general, let alone to me.” Niall caught the slip too late.

“So you did happen upon her!”

Niall rolled his fingers in the folds of skin at his left brow, quite ready for a nap after this childish exchange. “She might have happened upon us--.”

“‘Us’!?”

Eventually Niall would learn to curb his tongue around the Nancy boy. “We were walking five lots from her home.”

“I don’t care if you were doing a quadrille with hyenas in Africa!”

Niall couldn’t suppress a chuckle from the barbaric reference.

“Should she be made aware of the sort of cad I associate with!”

Narrowing his brows, Niall found himself quite finished with being lectured as he was as a schoolboy. “I’ll advise you to speak more kindly to a bearer of valuable gossip.”

“Oh, more gossip! Jolly!” Peter said, obstructing his vision with the letter once more.

“Your southern belle dances with two left feet.”

The letter and table closed distances once more, and, with brows lifted, Peter turned. “She’s unable to dance or is unfamiliar with the trade?”

“Both, I believe.”

Peter slouched in his seat, grasping the table for support. He seemed as withered as Niall was halfway through his walk back to the Talwin’s residence. The corners of Peter’s lips twitched, and he quickly brought his hand to his mouth in mid-turn back to his desk.

Niall’s lips peeled back upon seeing the alighted nature of Peter’s expression and felt a green monster bud for his friend. The monster concluded with allowing his friend to be a fool for he earned a form of blithe Niall could never imagine achieving.

Placing the pillow behind his head, Niall released a satisfied sigh upon finally gaining comfort in his seat. “I’ve also been informed of another favor of hers.”

“Hmm?” Peter inquired in the midst of reading flamboyantly.

“She’s a collector of twigs and leaves. Canvases them in her books.” Niall smiled at the ceiling, suddenly curious as to the reasoning behind the hobby.

“Ah.”

The smile vanished and Peter earned a parted lipped glance from Niall. “I’m not saying it out of ridicule. I mean, yes, it’s peculiar, but--.”

“Thank you, but I’m encumbered with the responsibility to respond to this letter expressly.”

Niall was tempted to ask for a summary of the contents, for clearly they held some consequence to his friend, but rationalized that Peter would slip vocalization for subjects of the slightest merit. Besides, the settee had lost any minimal comfort it held.