CHAPTER 7

For the next several weeks, Miss Yorke and Mr. Tennyson spent considerable time together. In order to convince a friendship, they endeavored at civility among company, but still found themselves occasionally bickering in front of attentive eyes and ears. Despite their frequent arguments, Josephine dreaded their encounters a little less each time. Tennyson had given her a truthful apology for his rude behavior when they first met, recognizing it was low, even for him. And since Josephine handed out forgiveness like stale bread, giving it to anyone in need, she never brought up his behavior again.

Constance had accepted Josephine's explanation that Mr. Tennyson was merely being kind out of guilt for his wretched behavior toward her. This was not hard to believe, since Josephine had fully disclosed the horrid way which he had spoken to her at dinner. Constance thereby satisfied, he should feel guilty and thus atone. But in reality, she suspected Isabella's influence was to blame for his newfound interest in Josephine. Perhaps Tennyson's sister vexed him so thoroughly, he compromised. Exactly as she had convinced Josephine.

Isabella, however, was leery. She was confident that with time, his opinion of Miss Yorke would shift, but knew her brother would never advance from retreating soldier to ardent pursuer in a week's time. Isabella chose to remain silent on the subject biding her time.

Josephine hoped to could keep her own secret for once in her life. Neither her, nor Mr. Tennyson, could risk their families discovering the truth. If exposed, any hope of governing their own futures would be lost, and the wrath of deceiving two imperious fathers was seemingly worse than the unwanted marriage itself.

Both fathers detested defiance, and both fathers were experts at instilling fear.

Josephine never doubted her father's love, but was not immune to his numerous punishments. At twelve, she assured a naively trusting stablehand that father and her governess had approved her riding alone for the morning. An outright fabrication. Constance had begged Josephine to meet her beside the old bridge for a 'secret friends meeting', which was only devised to assess their abilities to sneak away unnoticed. Constance successfully waited at the bridge, meanwhile Josephine had barely descended the hill before being ambushed by her father. The next day, he had sold her favorite horse, and explained the difficulty in riding off alone when one does not possess a horse. Josephine had cried for three days straight.

Charles, similarly, understood punishment. At the age of ten, he had the audacity to borrow Second Treatise of Government from his father's extensive library. This treasonous act earned Charles multiple bruised ribs, three days in bed, and empty apologies from his spineless mother. He refused to shed a single tear.

Mr. Tennyson and Miss Yorke played chess in the corner, while the rest of the group was gathered around a small card table.

"You are quiet this evening," Josephine observed, as Charles captured one of her pawns.

"And you are losing," he responded with determined eyes upon the chessboard.

"It is difficult to focus, when I can sense something plaguing you. You are scowling more than usual." Josephine mimicked his expression.

"Fortunately, my plagues are not your concern."

"In that, you are wrong. We have an unconventional alliance, but borne from that, like it or not, has been a sort of friendship," she began, as he grunted disapproval. "Deny all you wish."

Mr. Tennyson pleaded, "Can we not play in silence, just this once?"

"No, we cannot," Miss Yorke protested, as he impatiently rolled his eyes. "You are unhappy tonight, and I am determined to discover the cause, and then promptly remedy it."

"Have you ever considered, some people may neither want nor need your assistance?" he informed, leaning forward to study his next move.

"No, I have never considered it," she said smiling.

"Do you practice being irritating, or is it an inborn quality?" He tried his best to sound sincerely annoyed but came up short.

"A recently required trait, produced from a friendship with you," Josephine countered, and then sighed a defeat. "If you truly wish not to speak of it, I will cease asking."

"Thank you," Tennyson clipped, but eyed her suspiciously as if waiting for her to break.

It took every fiber of her self-control to change the subject. Josephine was a mender. If one has a problem, one confides in her, and she quickly calculates all possible solutions to said problem. One accepts solution, and one lives happily ever after. The only impediment, is if one will not share their problem. Aside from despising an arranged marriage, he shared little to nothing of himself.

Josephine...a wide open book.

Tennyson...a closed book...each page meticulously glued together...and bound with intricate knotted ribbons...locked in a chest...and sunk into the Atlantic.

But Josephine was a relentless mender, and overly confident in her ability to eventually read his story. Mr. Tennyson had learned from childhood, the less a person knows, the less they can command. If father did not know Charles enjoyed drawing, father could not tell him it was a worthless pastime. If father did not know he invested half his monthly allowance, then father could not inform him that his investments were speculative. Silence preserved his sanity and came with fewer bruises. Secrecy his greatest protection.

Mr. Charles Tennyson was feeling friendlier toward Miss Yorke, but he had no desire to confide in a self-proclaimed talebearer. He did, however, admire her keen ability to decipher his moods, which usually ranged from indifferent to downright furious.

"I wrote my father about you," she said, as his hand froze above a black knight.

"And?" he shortly replied.

"Annnnnddddd, there was little to tell. Merely, we are often in one another's company, which is true. And that you are an obstinate person, which I bear admirably. My father, a rarely pleasant man himself, understands my uncanny ability at handling your sort...And I told him I was enjoying our time together, also true." She offered a coy smile.

"Do not do it too brown, Miss Yorke," Mr. Tennyson replied.

"You doubt my veracity?"

He refused to look up, maintaining concentration on the board. "At the moment, my greatest doubt, is your ability to play a decent game of chess, Check."

"Or your sour mood has prompted me to lose spectacularly on purpose, exploiting your competitive tendencies. Thus, my attempt to improve your mood this evening." Mr. Tennyson gave her a disbelieving glare, and she continued, "Alright, you know I would never lose on purpose...Have I told you how brilliant you are at chess? A very thoughtful player you are! And such a fine coat your wearing this evening, makes you look...almost regal."

"Miss Yorke," he began to scold, "empty flatteries are as useful to me as a diamond tiara, and both have little effect on my mood. Again, I would prefer silence."

"I am not sure of that. I think you would look quite lovely in a diamond tiara, and it would certainly enhance the regal design of your coat," Josephine grinned. Tennyson lost the war with his body and succumbed to laughter, the sound only leaving her wanting more.

checkmate

Mr. Tennyson wouldn't deny the appeal of Josephine's levity. "We have plans for the theatre in three days," he diverted.

"But I thought you hated attending the theatre?"

"Yes, but Isabella adores it, and it is an excellent place to be seen. You will join me in my box, and I will graciously provide you several introductions to further our purpose," he informed as he moved back in his chair rubbing a balled fist.

"You imply," Josephine leaned over the chessboard and lowered her voice, "introductions of the husbandly variety?"

He nodded, amused at her clandestine behavior.

She unabashedly replied, "Then I accept...In truth, I would have accepted even if you and I were the only ones attending."

Unlike the shameless mothers and daughters of the ton, Mr. Tennyson appreciated Miss Yorke's sincerity. She never peppered her opinions to suit his liking. If she said her favorite color was blue, it was blue. If she said she hated cabbage, she hated cabbage. And if she said she would attend the theatre even if he were the only one present, then certainly she meant it.

Josephine continued, "There are a few husbandly attributes, I wish to discuss."

He smirked assuring her, "You have my full attention."

"Understand, I will throttle you if you tease me," she threatened.

"I would not dream of it." His expression said the opposite.

Mr. Tennyson's curiosity was fully peaked. He imagined the many attributes Miss Yorke might think she required. Funny thing about what we think we want...it is rarely what we get, and even less often, what we need.

He watched closely as she pulled a small, white slip of paper from inside her left glove.

"You have immortalized these attributes by pen and paper?" he curiously asked.

"Remember, you promised not to tease! I write lists for many occasions. I adore lists. There is a measure of comfort in having one's thoughts written down."

"May I ask, what sort of lists you find necessary?"

"All kinds of things! Presents I wish to buy, places I hope to travel, books I long to read. The many ways you fatigue my patience, but unfortunately I ran out of paper for that one."

"Such wit," he said dryly. "How many attributes for a husband have you written? I am curious to know the difficulty of my task."

She eyed the small paper, "I think I ought not show you. I doubt you can refrain from tormenting me."

Tennyson swiftly seized the paper from Josephine's grasp before she could reflexively tighten her grip. Visibly proud of his own prowess, he briefly perused her list.

"Shall we begin from the top?" he rhetorically said. "Hmmmm...one, he must be exceedingly conversational. Interesting."

Tennyson's face remained inscrutable, his expression prompting Josephine to defend her first, yet not foremost, attribute on her husbandly wish list.

"You know how much I enjoy talking but I loathe conversation in which I am the only participant. Hence, he must be conversational."

"I see," he said, still expressionless, as Josephine nervously fiddled with a black knight. "Let us move on...Two, he must be smart but not too smart." Tennyson raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Josephine again explained, "If he enjoys talking, I prefer the subject matter to be interesting rather than insipid. But if he is too intelligent, that offers another set of...challenges. Men think their minds superior to that of a women's, which is unequivocally false! I would prefer not to support their case by marrying an intellect greater than my own."

  Nothing.

  No response.

  Absolutely no emotion.

  Silent staring.

Josephine felt her palms begin to sweat beneath her gloves.

Ugh! Why did I even bring the list?

Before she could begin analyzing his silence in too great of detail, Mr. Tennyson cleared his throat and continued, "Number three, he must be...cheerful. Cheerful?" His tone implied the last one as a question.

"It may sound silly, but number three is important to me." She went on to defend, "I have spent almost my entire life surrounded by my father, whose little joy in life died the day my mother did. And my sister, Elise, whose somber nature would make even you seem a court jester."

Tennyson heaved a deep sigh, and rubbed his chin in contemplation.

"I love them both," Josephine continued. "But, I cannot and will not willfully spend my life bound to someone unhappy. Nor will I risk my own happiness."

"No, I would think not," he simply stated.

Josephine had little desire to discuss her family dynamics further, and thus prodded him, "You may proceed to number four."

"I was unaware that your permission was required, but rather than argue...Let us see...yes...number four..." Again, he raised an inquiring brow. "Romantic. Looking for a Byron are you? Miss Yorke, you do understand, flesh and blood men are not the same as the characters you read of in your ridiculous books?"

At that remark, Josephine quickly snatched her list from his grasp, skimmed the familiar contents, and stuffed it back inside her glove. "I owe you no more explanation. And I am hardly the first female to hope for poetry, or floral arrangements, or...or special trinkets."

"Maybe not the first to hope for it, but unlikely to attain it...Your list has been informative. Now that I know just the sort of husband you are searching for...a blabbering, moderately intelligent, jolly, and shall we not forget sentimental sap, I have no doubt in finding you the perfect match!"

Josephine scowled.

Tennyson grinned.

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