Martha burst into the front room, startling Rose from her daydream. Rose's needlework lay abandoned in her lap, her mind having drifted to faraway places that she would likely never see. She glanced up in surprise; she had rarely seen her usually composed friend so flustered.
"I guess we have you to thank for this, Rose. Mr. Smith would never have come to call so quickly just for me," Martha quipped lightly, her sharp gaze landing on her husband's untidy desk, which she quickly put to rights.
Rose stared at her friend, stunned by her appraisal of things. Why on earth would she think that? Of course they had known that Lady Yvonne expected Mr. Smith and Colonel Fitzwilliam today, as she had been talking about it for some time. But for the gentlemen to visit here on the day of their arrival, which, as it was still morning, meant they could not have arrived too long ago, was unexpected. Yet how it had any connection with her, Rose was at a loss to comprehend.
Further contemplation was put off as the callers were announced. Latent feelings of anger and indignation washed over her upon hearing his name. Drawing herself up, the fire in her heart glowing in her eyes, she was caught off guard to find his warm brown eyes already on her, regarding her with wonder and a hint of regret. She inhaled sharply. Oh, she'd forgotten he could do that. She was so angry with him for the way he'd manipulated and hurt those she cared about, yet somehow he befuddled her with just a glance, tipping her world off-kilter. Chiding herself for her own foolishness, she gathered her wits and made a slight curtsy, forcing herself to hold his gaze. In all truth, she wasn't sure she could look away.
And then the moment was gone, and he was once again the familiar, proud John Smith they knew from Torchwood. They soon found his cousin, Colonel Robert Fitzwilliam, to be most gracious and kind, and they all fell easily into conversation, leaving Mr. Smith to brood quietly in the corner. Just before leaving, however, the silent gentleman surprised Rose by asking after her family. Recovering quickly, she replied, "They were all quite well when I left, thank you."
The next question left her lips before she could check it, curiosity and a certain amount of her ire returning. "My sister has been in London for the last month or so. Have you happened to see her?"
To his credit, he looked a bit surprised at that. "No, I can't say I've had that pleasure." While he did not meet her eyes again, she could feel the weight of his gaze as she continued to converse with the others.
Rose's brow furrowed as she watched their visitors leave shortly thereafter. She had always prided herself for her understanding of people, but she felt at a loss when it came to John Smith.
The following week was a quiet one. Apparently their company was no longer required at Rosings since the gentlemen had arrived. Rose enjoyed the time alone with her friends but felt a growing restlessness within her, though she could not name a particular reason for it. She assuaged her antsy-ness by exploring the grounds of the parsonage, up to and occasionally onto her ladyship's bordering land. Nestled up against the trees at the outskirts of Lady Yvonne's property, she found a quaint gazebo, ivy curling up its sides, seemingly forgotten. It lay out of sight of either house, beckoning to her when the others were away or she just needed a bit of quiet. As it came into view she would allow herself to break into a flat-out run, finally collapsing against its pillars wonderfully breathless, her heart pounding. She would slide carelessly to the ground, letting her thoughts drift with the passing clouds or escaping into the book she'd secreted away with her, lulled by the quiet sounds of the forest.
After Easter service the next week, Lady Yvonne finally invited them to dinner again. They readily assented, having grown accustomed to the outing and eager to learn more about the amiable Colonel Fitzwilliam.
The man in question seemed quite happy for their company, relieved even. And no wonder, Rose thought with a smile, having either silence or condescension for company. He and Rose fell into easy and engaging conversation covering all manner of subjects, and their naturally animated and sometimes exuberant discourse attracted the attention of both Lady Yvonne and Mr. Smith. While the look he directed at her seemed primarily one of curiosity, it darkened as his eyes swept past her to where Robert sat, leaning toward her in earnest conversation. Perhaps they had had an argument, she reasoned, as their friendship had seemed quite open and affable before.
After dinner Robert entreated her to play for him as she had promised. Rose had secretly hoped he would forget but moved to the piano obligingly. She requested his help in selecting a piece, which led him to tell her about some of the concerts he'd attended in town, both the lovely and the wretched. Rose yearned for such opportunity and smiled hugely at his candidness.
As she began to play, Lady Yvonne demanded to know what subject had so diverted them. Rose didn't miss the way the Colonel rolled his eyes as he answered her, his face conveniently hidden from her sight.
"Music? You really should include us in your conversation then, Robert. I am well-known for my excellent taste in music, as I'm sure you've heard, and would have excelled at it if I had been inclined to learn. As would Isobel, if her health had allowed it. How is your sister's playing?" she asked of Mr. Smith.
"Quite wonderful, I think," he replied with an affectionate smile.
"Excellent. And I am sure she practices dutifully, which is the only true means to improvement. I have told Miss Tyler that she will never get better unless she devotes herself to practice. I invited her to play on the piano in Mrs. Jenkinson's room; she won't bother anyone there."
Rose focused on her song as she tried to contain her amusement at being thus "called out," biting her lip as she watched an appalled look cross Colonel Fitzwilliam's face. Mr. Smith was staring intently in the other direction, seeming quite ashamed of his aunt's tactlessness. Far from taking any offense herself, Rose smirked slightly. Apparently even the great Mr. Smith could be embarrassed by his family.
As Rose began her next piece, Mr. Smith rose, striding purposefully across the room and halting at the side of the piano, where he could observe her as she played.
Unthinkingly, as if she couldn't help herself, a coy smile lit Rose's face as she peered up at him, all austere and handsome and focused entirely on her. "Do you mean to frighten me, Mr. Smith, by coming in all this state to hear me? Because I don't scare easily. I am too stubborn to be cowed by the will of others. Those who challenge me often get more than they bargained for."
A gleam of amusement danced in his eyes. "I won't bother to protest, because," he remarked shrewdly, "you do not truly believe I meant to alarm you. I have had the pleasure of knowing you long enough to realize that you sometimes enjoy claiming opinions that are not your own."
Laughter fell from her lips at his pronouncement. Was he teasing her? Shaking her head a bit in disbelief, she addressed Colonel Fitzwilliam, her fingers still tripping lightly, if imperfectly, across the keys. "Your cousin paints a rather unflattering picture of me, I'm afraid; he will lead you to doubt anything I say. Away from home and all, I thought I might be able to pretend to be finer and better than I really am, but he will not allow it. Don't you think that's rather unkind? I might be provoked to retaliate and share truths he would rather keep hidden."
The amusement in his eyes spread to rest of his face, and she could not help thinking how well it suited him. He smiled at her declaration of war. "I am not afraid of you."
"Oh, now I must know," Robert demanded, smiling as well. "How does he act among strangers?"
"You should prepare yourself, for it is quite shocking," Rose murmured, her voice low and somber. "At our first meeting, which happened to be at a ball, your cousin refused to dance. At all. Not a single dance, despite the lack of gentlemen! Do you deny it, Mr. Smith?"
"Welll," he replied, drawing the word out and looking slightly uncomfortable, "we had only just arrived, and I did not know any of the ladies outside of my own party."
"True, and no one can be introduced in a ballroom," she replied, shaking her head with mock solemnity.
"Perhaps I should have done, but I do not easily recommend myself to strangers."
"Should we ask him why?" Rose demurred, addressing Robert once again. "Why a man of such intelligence and wit," here she was sure she caught him preening slightly, "would have trouble introducing himself to strangers?"
"Probably because he simply couldn't be bothered," Robert answered astutely.
John regarded them, a bit of the familiar hauteur slipping back into place. "I admit that I have little talent or patience in making small talk, particularly with someone I've only just met. I cannot fall easily into their conversation or pretend interest, as others do."
"I do not play this instrument with the same elegance and emotion I have seen others achieve. Yet I have always believed that to be my own fault for not troubling myself to practice, not because I believed myself incapable of it." Rose's eyes met his, daring him to contradict her.
Much to her surprise, a charming smile crossed his face instead. "You are quite right. You have made better use of your time. Those lucky enough to hear you play can find no fault with it. Neither of us perform to strangers."
Caught in the sincerity of his warm gaze, Rose only realized she had stopped playing when Lady Yvonne's voice cut through her haze, demanding once again to be a part of their conversation. Rose quickly resumed her playing, but her thoughts kept returning to Mr. Smith. Her reaction to him made no sense, considering the fierce anger and defiance she felt toward him when they were apart, and yet she could seem to help it. The almost flirtatious banter between them and the odd awareness they had of each other were natural and irresistible.
Mr. Smith returned to his aunt's side with reluctance. While that lady continued to praise Isobel's taste and untapped musical potential, Rose did not mark any signs of affection between the lady's daughter and Mr. Smith; Colonel Fitzwilliam showed more fondness for the girl than he did. Perhaps Miss Harkness stood a chance after all, as Mr. Smith seemed to show the same degree of indifference for his 'intended' as he did for anyone else.
As they departed, Rose noticed that Isobel did not return her smile this time, and there was a sad resignation mingled with her usually quiet demeanor. Rose's heart ached to reach out to the girl, but there was no opportunity at present. Perhaps on their next visit she could enlist Martha's help in getting her to open up a little.
If nothing else, the characters at Rosings gave her much to puzzle over.
The next morning, Rose sat alone at Mickey's desk writing a letter to Donna, as Martha and Tish had gone into town. Her train of thought was abruptly interrupted as a visitor was announced. Moments later, John Smith entered the room, alone.
He was obviously surprised to find Rose on her own, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flitted about the room as if he expected someone to pop out from behind a piece of furniture. "I'm sorry. I didn't expect... I mean, I was sure Mrs. Collins and her sister would be here."
She invited him to sit, despite the slight tension in the air. After receiving his assurance that all was well at Rosings, the room fell into an awkward silence. Grasping desperately for any topic of conversation, she found herself broaching a matter she'd been curious about for some time.
"Your party left Torchwood so suddenly, Mr. Smith. Although I'm sure Mr. Harkness was pleased to see you again so soon. Were he and his sisters well when you left London?"
"Quite well, thank you." More silence followed, though she had rather expected it this time.
"I've heard that Mr. Harkness probably won't return to Torchwood," she pressed, hoping to elicit more of a response.
"He hasn't mentioned it to me. He is quite the socialite, though, so I would not be surprised if was often too busy to visit."
"If he doesn't plan to live there, it would be better for the neighborhood if he sold it. Y'know, so a family could settle there."
"I daresay he will sell it, if someone makes a fair offer."
Frustrated, Rose suddenly found herself unwilling to talk about Mr. Harkness or his plans any longer. She fell silent, leaving the task of further conversation to him.
Pulling on his ear, a nervous gesture Rose found annoyingly endearing, John glanced about the room again. "This is a nice place, isn't it? I hear Lady Yvonne offered her unparalleled decorating advice when Mr. Collins first arrived," he offered, mirth evident in his voice.
"Yeah. He was most grateful, too. But I think his priorities have... shifted a bit," Rose ventured, making no effort to hide her joy.
Mr. Smith's eyes darted up to lock with hers before he grinned. "That's a bit of an understatement. Your friend appears to be very good for him. The difference is astonishing, really, if my first impressions of him were at all accurate. Oh, I'm sorry, that was a bit rude, wasn't it?" Rose nodded, but she was smiling, which he took to mean he wasn't in too much trouble. He considered her thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. "She must be happy to be settled so near her family."
Rose started at that. "Near? It's almost fifty miles!"
"Welll... what's fifty miles of good road? Half a day's journey? A nice little trip, that's all." He looked up, studying the ceiling a moment, then said, "Roughly fifty miles, eighty kilometers, er, 264,000 feet, as the crow flies. I've always wondered - why a crow? Why not a sparrow, or ooh, an eagle! Nice majestic bird, the eagle! Anyway. All in all, a rather agreeable distance, don't you think?" He studied her as he spoke, watching her reaction intently.
Rose gaped at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Unsure how to answer, she bit her lip in concentration, contemplating the man before her. "Depends on your definition of agreeable, yeah? I s'pose a woman may be settled too close to family."
Scooting to the edge of his seat, he leaned forward, his earnest gaze making her forget to breathe. It was all a bit disconcerting. "You don't wish to always live near the Powell estate, do you? To always stay in one place?"
His intensity and perceptivity surprised her into momentary speechlessness. As she tried to form a coherent reply to his peculiar line of inquiry, she realized that she had hesitated too long.
His face hardened as she remained silent, resuming its usual cool imperiousness. It almost hurt to witness the change, but really, how had he expected her to respond? Having composed himself once again into the picture of dignity, he asked her whether she was enjoying Kent.
They discussed the countryside with quiet civility and were joined minutes later by Martha and Tish. The shock on their faces at finding Rose and Mr. Smith in private conversation was undeniable. The gentleman quickly explained it away, however; he remained only briefly after their return and spoke very little.
Rose had seen the curiosity brimming in Martha's eyes and so was not at all surprised to have her friend's full attention the moment the front door clicked shut. "What on earth was that all about? I think he must be in love with you, Rose, to call on us in such a familiar way."
They had talked before about Mr. Smith and his mercurial moods, though Rose had never admitted to the discomposure she often felt in his presence. However, once Rose told of his cool silence and reserve, even Martha agreed that it was unlikely that love was the cause.
They concluded that he must be bored or restless. Indeed he did not seem the type of man to be content with staying long in any one place, especially in such a house and with such company. He and the Colonel often visited the parsonage, lured outdoors by the pleasant walk and the variety of companionship. Colonel Fitzwilliam quite obviously enjoyed visiting with them. Rose, who took pleasure in their candid talks, could not help comparing him to Mr. Saxon, and while he did not have the same smooth charm of her former friend, Rose admitted that he had the advantage in intellect and sense.
The reason for Mr. Smith's frequent visits, however, was more of a mystery. He spoke infrequently, and then only seemed to do so out of a sense of obligation.
Colonel Fitzwilliam often teased him for his reticence, leading Martha to believe that such behavior was unusual for him. She was intrigued, as she herself had seen little evidence that the man spoke. Still hopeful that perhaps love was to blame, she made a discreet study of him, particularly in his interactions with Rose. However, her observations proved inconclusive, for while he seemed to be very aware of her friend, following her movements and conversation closely, she saw little emotion behind it. It seemed almost to be habitual, done without any thought on his part.
On the two occasions when she had suggested to Rose that he might care for her, her friend had laughed outright at the very idea, and Martha had dropped it. Martha knew that Rose claimed to detest the man who had betrayed Mr. Saxon and aided in Donna's heartbreak. Yet she could also sense an attraction there, an undeniable pull that they both seemed to deny. She didn't press the matter, though. That family had had enough of the disappointment borne from false hopes.