Chapter 3
Chapter 3
The sound of Mr. Dashwood’s arrival echoed up the staircase as she finished reviewing his latest article. Her hand trembled, betraying her nerves. She rehearsed conversations in her head. Outside of her father, she rarely had the opportunity to speak freely on matters of national importance. She could only hope Mr. Dashwood would be one of the rare men who welcomed a woman’s opinion.
Ella descended promptly to join her parents in welcoming him. Betty had eaten early and been sent to bed, as was custom when guests were expected. Ella was surprised to see the dust-covered rider standing before. She had imagined a man closer to her father’s age—graying, with spectacles and a thoughtful brow. Instead, she was introduced to someone not much older than herself, dust still covering his overcoat. He bore the casual confidence of someone unconcerned with impressions. Mr. Grant Dashwood was not as she expected.
Ella momentarily feared a match attempt until she noted his worn coat and untidy countenance. Not a man of means, and thus unlikely.
Mr. Dashwood hardly spared her a glance before her father ushered him into the dining room to begin the meal with a glass of sherry. Mrs. Rutherford, ever the proper hostess, inquired after his health and travels with mild politeness. Ella, feeling uncertain, remained quiet.
Dinner was called, and seated across from the guest, Ella listened in growing silence. The two men commanded the conversation, but she listened attentively from her place. To her disappointment, their discourse was far more lighthearted than she had expected. She had imagined an evening of thoughtful discussion, military strategy, political affairs, perhaps even a respectful disagreement or two. But instead, her father and Mr. Dashwood conversed mostly in jest, trading cheerful anecdotes and laughing at recollections of Philadelphia.
After the second course, as her father bent over his plate and laughter dulled to the clink of silverware, Ella found her moment. Her pulse ticked faster—but she steadied it.
“I quite enjoy your articles, Mr. Dashwood,” she said, voice more cautious than intended. “Do you find the current field strategy sufficient to thwarting the enemy?”
Grant turned to her for the first time. He had, in truth, taken early notice of Miss Rutherford; he had found her too distracting and thus forced his attention on his host and hostess. But now, faced her with a direct gaze, he offered only a smirk before turning back to Mr. Rutherford.
“Mr. Rutherford,” he said instead, “it appears you have an aspiring war correspondent under your roof.”
Mr. Rutherford chuckled, “Quite so, if it were permitted, I daresay she would be out on the battlefield with the troops.”
Grant laughed, “Best to concern yourself with bonnets and ballgowns, Miss. The battlefield is no place for the gentler sex.”
He did not offer her a second glance before turning back to Mr. Rutherford, seemingly satisfied with his jest.
She stared at him, stunned. She had not expected reverence, but neither had she expected dismissal. Indignation swiftly eclipsed her admiration. She knew her mother would prefer her tongue bitten, but his arrogance was intolerable.
“I see,” she said sharply. “So, you believe women the weaker sex? Tell me, Mr. Dashwood—have you ever witnessed a woman in childbirth?”
He turned back to her, a flash of amusement in his eyes. “And have you ever seen a man lose a limb?”
She glared. He grinned, amused by her spirit, a dimple hidden between his unkempt stubble.
“Now, now,” Mr. Rutherford interrupted, sensing a storm brewing. “Let us agree there is much to recommend both sexes. You would agree with me on that point, I hope, Mr. Dashwood? While women may—or may not—be the weaker sex, they are the fairer.”
“They most certainly are,” Grant replied, smirking, his eyes on Miss Rutherford.
For the rest of the meal, Ella fell silent, brooding. She began rethinking everything she had read by him, suddenly noting faults and hypocrisies.
Mr. Dashwood was not as she had imagined. Boastful, irreverent, and unserious, he was entirely lacking in gravity. He was handsome, but not in a way Ella had encountered before. His hands were rough, marked with ink and dirt beneath his nails. He had dark brown hair that needed a trim and seemed to be tamed only by the rake of his fingers. His eyes were warm, but roguish, and when they met hers, she had the troubling sense he could read her thoughts.
He folded his hands in his lap and turned to her again. “And what say you, Miss ‘Future War Journalist’?” he asked, clearly having noticed the scrutiny, his tone edged with condescension.
“I should not presume to have an opinion, sir—being, as you say, of the weaker sex,” she replied, thoughts back to the present, her sarcasm veiled in civility.
He laughed, though whether out of genuine amusement or victory, she could not tell.
Still, the notion that he might consider her outfoxed nettled her and as her mother was currently dotting on the dessert, she straightened, lifted her chin, and, in a measured tone, said, “I find myself wondering, Mr. Dashwood, why you have chosen not to enlist, if war so worthy of your attention. Surely an honorable man of your age ought to serve, rather than merely observe?”
Grant turned to her once more, taking on a more serious look.
“I have no inclination to kill another man,” he said with surprising solemnity. “Even an ‘enemy.’ He and I are no more enemies than the ant and the beetle. War is for kings and presidents. They are the only ones who profit.”
Ella sat back. She had expected cleverness, perhaps even arrogance. She had not expected conviction. Ella continued though, unwilling to relent. “Would you have told General Washington to stay home?”
“That war was for liberty. This one, I suspect, is for land.”
“Yet is that not what we are trying to offer the Canadas?”
“If the people of Canada longed to share in our liberties,” he interrupted, “they would have welcomed us with open arms. That is not what happened.”
“You think the British speak for all of Canada?” she pressed.
“No,” he answered, unfazed, “but it is telling that they rose to defend their land against us, not with us. One may conclude, then, that we are not fighting for the interests of our people—nor theirs.”
The tension between them held taut and unyielding. She studied him with narrowed eyes, seeking some fault in his logic, some crack in his confidence. He met her gaze with an infuriatingly calm expression, a smirk once again tugging at the corner of his mouth—as if daring her to challenge him further.
So much for conversation between equals.
“Well, Mr. Dashwood, shall we retire to the drawing room? I find myself in need of a new chess opponent. My girls have quite caught on to my strategy, and I’m in want of a win,” Mr. Rutherford said, rising from the table and cutting short the growing tension between his daughter and their guest.
“Chess?” Grant echoed, blinking as if waking from a trance.
“Yes, you do play, do you not?” Mr. Rutherford asked, while Mrs. Rutherford also rose, her expression betraying that, unlike her husband, she had enjoyed the verbal volley just witnessed.
“I try,” Mr. Dashwood admitted, standing with the others.
Mr. Rutherford chuckled at the rare note of uncertainty in the younger man and led him into the drawing room.
“Shall we join them, Ella?” Mrs. Rutherford asked, linking her arm through her daughter’s. “It is not every evening we entertain such interesting company.”
She spoke lightly, but there was something speculative in her tone. Too often she had watched gentlemen falter under Ella’s wit or shrink from her opinionated speech. Mr. Dashwood, however, not only held his ground but appeared to enjoy the battle. He might not be the match she had hoped for her daughter, but being in the same line of work as Mr. Rutherford, and with the right influence and grooming... he might do.
Mr. Rutherford busied himself at the chessboard while Mrs. Rutherford and Ella settled on the settee. Grant perused the bookshelves, his eye drawn to the sheer volume of the collection. He imagined Miss Rutherford had read most, if not all, of them. Women like her, he thought with some amusement, always overachieved as if to prove a point.
“Shall you be attending the Fourth of July celebration in the coming month, Mr. Dashwood?” Mrs. Rutherford inquired.
Grant turned. Mrs. Rutherford regarded him with gracious attention; Ella, meanwhile, had taken up her needlework, her expression one of faint disapproval, as though hoping that a furrowed brow might render her less attractive, though the effort failed entirely.
“I shall but on a matter of business,” he replied. “I hope to meet with Secretary General Armstrong. With the Treaty of Paris signed, I’ve written twice on the risk of renewed aggression from Britain—but Armstrong has yet to answer. I intend to press the matter in person. He cannot ignore if I stand in front of him.”
At this, Ella’s head lifted, her eyes sharpening with interest. She opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of it and returned to her embroidery—though not before Grant noticed the spark of understanding behind her gaze.
Feeling a touch of guilt over his earlier dismissal, Grant offered a conversational olive branch, one that would not bring an argument. “How are you enjoying your first year in society, Miss Rutherford?”
“First?” she repeated, her annoyance barely veiled. “No, this is my fourth season out, sir.”
“Fourth?” he echoed, taken aback. “I would not have guessed. Did you come out at a younger age?”
“No, at eighteen, as most do. I am three and twenty,” she added coolly, glancing at him only briefly.
Grant was surprised. He would have placed her at no more than eighteen. Petite in stature, with a heart-shaped face framed in golden curls, and large pale green eyes. The longer he observed her, the more he puzzled over it: how could a woman of striking beauty, with wealth and connections, still be unwed?
“You look younger than your years,” he said finally.
“Yes. So, I have been told,” she replied without warmth, working her needle fervently, visibly displeased at the questioning.
By the second game, after Mr. Rutherford had defeated Grant decisively, Charles, the houseman, entered with a message that called Mr. Rutherford away for a moment. Mrs. Rutherford, unsurprised, wasted no time in insisting Ella take her father’s place on the board. Ella agreed with marked reluctance.
“So, Mr. Dashwood,” Mrs. Rutherford began, resigned to steering the conversation herself, “tell us a little about yourself. Mr. Rutherford is so reticent about his acquaintances. Where is your family from?”
“My parents live in Philadelphia, in the Old City, not far from The Democratic Press, where Mr. Rutherford was a mentor of mine,” Grant replied.
“Indeed. And your wife—Mrs. Dashwood—does she remain in Philadelphia while you travel with the company?”
Ella resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s transparent attempt.
“I have no wife, Mrs. Rutherford,” he said.
“Oh?” she answered, perhaps a little too quickly. Ella didn’t lift her gaze, but her smirk was barely suppressed. She pretended to examine her knight’s placement.
“My betrothed, Miss Smith, lives with her parents, also in Philadelphia.”
“Of course. I’m sure she misses you while you’re away,” Mrs. Rutherford replied. At her mother’s disappointed tone, Ella stifled a laugh. Grant caught it and diverted his attention to her.
“Your turn, Mr. Dashwood,” Ella said, with feigned innocence, though there was a sort of restrained vexation behind her eyes.
Grant gazed at Ella for what felt an uncomfortable time, seemingly rolling words around in his mouth, deciding whether to proceed.
“How is it that someone like you—wealthy, well-connected, and not unfortunate to look at—remains a ‘Miss’?” Grant finally asked, making his next move on the board and a rather poor one.
Ella perked her eyebrow up, glanced his way briefly before returning to the chessboard, pretending to plan her next move. Her eyebrows furrowed, biting her lip, annoyed by the question, but she soon wiped that look from her face to prove she was unbothered.
“When one does not wish to wed, one remains a ‘miss’,” Ella responded.
“Why does one not wish to wed?” Grant prodded.
Ella met his gaze. “It is not the institution I oppose, necessarily; I just have not met anyone I would like to wed.”
“Ah, then, it is not matrimony, but the high expectations for the candidates,” Grant tutted, mystery solved—or not.
“It is not high expectations, Mr. Dashwood, I do not wish to wed on the strength of my father’s banknotes, nor on being—what was it? —‘not unfortunate’ to look at- and I have yet to find a suitor interested in anything beyond those two things. “
“Well, is there anything else?” Grant responded with a devilish grin and a gleam in his warm brown eyes.
“For someone like you, I doubt it,” retorted Ella, holding his gaze for a beat. His grin only broadened, an exasperated sigh coming from Mrs. Rutherford over the entire exchange as she shut her book she was pretending to read.
“Eleanor, I fear it is time for us to retire.”
“Gladly, Mama,” Ella responded, smiling down at Grant as she stood, “Mr. Dashwood, it was a… pleasure.”
Grant stood as Ella excused herself with her mother. “it was all mine, Mrs. Rutherford, Miss Rutherford.” His bow was polite, but his gaze lingered a beat too long, enough to trouble Ella’s thoughts as she climbed the stairs.
