Little White Liar

Little White Liar

It was meant to be a lie. A little, white, innocent thing, but a lie nonetheless. He had asked me the question, and he expected an honest reply.

The poor fellow was in love. He had not confessed it, but I had seen him at the balls lately held. I had seen him dancing with Miss Hermione Hewitt, had witnessed his attempts to charm her. And I had seen how she had teased and taunted him and then turned her nose up at him in disapproval.

I had feared when he had first come to me that he wished me to encourage her toward him, for she and I were very close friends. I certainly could not have agreed to do it, and so I was greatly relieved to find that this was not the question he wished to put to me at all. That which he actually asked was perhaps more difficult.

“Do you find me disagreeable, Miss Woodson?”

“Disagreeable? I cannot imagine how you can ask such a question. You are one of the kindest, most honorable gentlemen of my acquaintance.” So far I had spoken the absolute truth, though it rather surprised me to give it. I had certainly never considered it so before.

“You are too generous. No, that wasn’t what I meant at all. My question is rather more superficial than that, I’m afraid. To put it plainly, do you find me lacking in more personal attractions?”

I regret to say I hesitated to answer.

“You must own it,” he insisted. “I know it’s true. Your dear Miss Hewitt has said so herself.”

This surprised me. I had known Hermione to be trivial, but I had never thought she would be so cruel as to communicate her objections outright.

“Mr. Crossacre,” I said at last, “I assure you any woman worth having would be honored to have your good opinion. You are, to my mind, everything a man should be.”

This appeared to be precisely the answer that was wanted, though I stop short at declaring it the ‘right answer’. Mr. Crossacre, though kind and decent, though a man of some little property and of sound moral fibre, was nevertheless wanting in personal elegance and good looks. To put it bluntly, he was not a handsome man.

It is cruel of me to say, I know, but this was the common opinion, well established and much spoken of in our little community by mothers and sisters, by aunts, maiden and married alike. It was a pity felt by many, for he was otherwise ideal. He had no claims to the extraordinary save in his height. His hair was nothing more than mousy brown, which he wore in that intentionally tousled fashion so popular, but with a lack of panache that made him look as though he had just woken up from a fitful nap on an uncomfortable chaise lounge. His eyes were an unremarkable gray, and set beneath a brow that was heavy and tended toward brooding.

“There you are, Crossacre!” my brother Charles said as he entered the room. “Is Madeline pestering you?” he asked him, then turned to me. “Gill doesn’t want to play dolls with you now, Maddy. We’ve got more important things to do.” Then, turning once more to his friend: “Didn’t you say you wanted to try out that new mare?”

“I did, Woodson,” Gill answered and turned once more to me. ”I beg your pardon,” he said, apologizing for my brother’s rudeness.

“It isn’t your fault my brother is a bore.”

“A bore?” Charles objected. ‘If I were so dull, who would entertain Crossacre, here?”

“I believe she means the boar of the tusked and porcine variety, Woodson. In which case I’d be inclined to agree. Thank you, Miss Woodson,” Gill said to me as my brother grasped him by one lapel and proceeded to drag him from the room. “You’ve given me much to think about.”

The smile he flashed me as he disappeared into the hallway beyond made me reconsider, for a brief moment, my opinion of him. Perhaps I had been a little too harsh in my evaluation of his appearance. It occurred to me that, from another perspective, he might be considered almost handsome. The idea startled me and gave me much to think about over the next several days.

And several days it was before I saw him again. In fact, whole weeks passed. They were off, no doubt, he and my brother, on their hunts and their Town excursions, diversions newly opened to them by University connections. What use had they for silly girls when they had Cambridge, Bath, and London? None, of course.

I had determined myself to be unaffected by their absence, however, and, by the evening of the Midsummer gala, I thought I had accomplished it. I wore a new gown and set my mind upon the occupation of attracting. My spirits were high, my confidence unshakeable… And then they arrived, my brother, Mr. Crossacre, and a pair of young ladies I had never seen before.

Perhaps to bolster my now shaken confidence, Hermione appeared at my side. “Who is that?” she asked.

“Friends, presumably, of my brother and Mr. Crossacre.”

She looked at me, then examined the party once more. “Well, if you aren’t going to find out, I am.” And she was halfway across the room before I thought to catch up with her.

“So you’ve decided to grace us, after all,” Hermione said, addressing Charles rather boldly.

“We’re late. It’s all Crossacre’s fault,” Charles teased, but Gill was preoccupied, it seemed, with his companions.

“You are late,” I observed. “I’d begun to miss you.”

Gill’s gaze met mine for half an instant. I felt the temptation to blush but turned back to Charles. “You are very rude, you know,” I said to him.

“Am I?”

“You are, and I believe you know it. Are you not going to introduce your guests?”

“Dash it! I am a boar. This is Miss Adelaide Lawson and her sister, Matilda.”

“They call me Maddy, too,” said the younger sister.

“You’ve travelled from London,” I observed. “You’ve missed dinner, but there is a table laid out for light refreshment. I’ll show you, if you like.”

“Oh yes,” said the younger Miss Lawson. “Thank you.” And she took my arm, leaving Hermione behind to gawp and to watch, as Mr. Crossacre led the elder Miss Lawson to the dance floor.

With a plate in her hand, the younger sister prattled on about the differences between London and country balls, but I’m afraid I was not listening. I could only watch as Gill—Mr. Crossacre—glided his companion around the floor, exuding that charm that I was now aware he possessed, and which, at the moment, was being heaped upon another.

“You are fond of Mr. Crossacre,” Miss Matilda observed.

“I... We have long been very good friends.”

“He is very handsome.”

“Do you think so?” I asked, not a little surprised.

“All of the Cambridge set thinks so.”

“Do they?”

“And he is very well received, even sought after, in London, you know.”

I am bewildered. “Your sister seems very taken with him.”

“Oh, she is,” Matilda answered with a sigh.

“But?”

She examined me half a moment and smiled. “He is in love with someone else, I believe. Poor Addie thinks she has a chance, but I don’t think so. Look at them now. Mr. Crossacre is charming, to be sure, but he is plainly preoccupied. See how he looks about? Clearly there is someone else he would prefer to be dancing with.”

“Miss Hermione Hewitt, no doubt.”

“That was your companion?” Miss Matilda asked with one eyebrow raised. “I don’t think so. There’s something rather... affected and haughty about her. Forgive me; she’s a friend of yours.”

But I was no longer so sure she was. Was it not she who had convinced me Mr. Crossacre wasn’t worth a second glance?

“I’m sorry. For your sister, I mean. Truly, I am.”

“Oh, Addie will be all right. She’d take your brother just as quick. It’s only a matter of which heart she can capture first.”

I watched for a moment longer, considering carefully what I saw compared with what I had believed all my life was there, and wondered at the difference. “Do you not find him a little awkward?” I ask my companion, testing her, and my newfound sight, further.

“Awkward? No. He is shy, reserved at first. But there is an air of deliberateness, of studied action, that I find lacking in the average young gentleman. They are, on the whole, too impulsive. Mr. Crossacre is different.”

“Do you not find him too tall? Too thin? Gangly, perhaps?”

“Gangly?” she said and actually laughed. “He’s lithe, to be sure. But not gangly. Never that!”

“And you think he is handsome, you say? He has hardly anything remarkable about him.”

“Do you not think so? His eyes, Miss Woodson. They may perhaps be as slate as the English sky, but when he speaks to you his eyes hold you, engage you. You know, at that moment, he cares for nothing else in the world but what you have to say.”

“You speak as if you were a little in love with him, yourself.”

Miss Matilda blushed, glanced at me, then turned away. “Perhaps I am a little. But, unlike my sister, I know when I haven’t a chance. There is someone already who has taken that gentleman’s heart, and I’ll bet my left earring he makes it known tonight.”

“And you are certain it isn’t Miss Hewitt?” I asked, observing how my dearest friend was watching Mr. Crossacre like a bird of prey.

“I’ll bet my right earring it is not Miss Hewitt.”

“You are prepared to lose a whole pair of earrings tonight?” I examined the adornments in question. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of gold and pearl earrings!

When I turned again toward the dance floor, Mr. Crossacre was approaching us. I stood and turned to my companion. A moment ago all I wanted in the world was a pair of earrings and to dance with my old friend Gill. Now it was all I could do not to run from the room.

“Miss Lawson has had no luck in finding a partner,” I said to him. “Certainly you will be a gentleman and...”

“It would be my honor,” he answered and looked at me strangely before issuing the request and then returning to the floor, Miss Lawson on his arm.

Ashamed of my cowardice, I took myself out to the veranda.

“They’re utterly horrid.” It was Hermione, come to bolster my spirits once more.

“They are not. Young Miss Lawson is quite lovely, but I’m afraid the elder sister has eyes for Gill.”

“The impudence!”

“What do you care, Hermione? You can hardly stand Mr. Crossacre.”

Hermione turned from me to look out over the balcony.

“Hermione?”

No answer.

Her reticence made me a little suspicious. “What do you think, truly, of Mr. Crossacre?” I pressed.

“What do you mean?” she said and tried to look unaffected. The effort was a failure.

“He is ugly. Everyone says so. At least you always say so.”

“I find him occasionally disgusting, but I find all men disgusting. Men are beasts. Take your brother for example. Certainly you don’t consider Mr. Crossacre anything remarkable.”

“To tell you the truth, Hermione, I’m not sure I don’t find him remarkable in every way. From his kind and engaging manner, to his good and sincerely honorable heart. Tell me, will you, who there is to match him?”

Hermione, during this speech, had grown very red, had begun to wring her hands and to look all about. At last she stamped her foot and turned away.

“Ehem.” It was the sound of the clearing of a throat. And not just any throat. It was that which belonged to Mr. Crossacre.

Slowly, I turned toward he who had joined us.

“Am I interrupting something?” he said with a smile he was clearly trying to keep in check.

“We were just having a debate about the deficiencies of the common gentleman. I’m afraid it did not bode well for your sex.”

“Is that so? And what deficiencies might those be? Never fear. You shan’t offend.”

I had suddenly lost my tongue. But Hermione, once again, was prepared to come to my rescue—if one could call it that.

“You are boisterous,” she said, “coarse and vulgar.”

“Am I?”

“Men in general,” she answered. “Were you not listening?”

“We are deaf, too, I suppose.”

“You are idle, wasters of time. You care nothing for the feelings of others.”

“I would dare to disagree with you on that point.”

“You do not speak your mind,” I found myself saying. “You keep secrets and leave us waiting and guessing.” It was bold, and I did not know why or how I dared to say it.

“On the mark at last,” he said to my astonishment. “But then you are rarely wrong when it comes to the quixotic ways of human nature. Which is why I have so often turned to you for advice.”

“Have you?”

“Haven’t I?”

“I suppose...”

“Come,” he said, interrupting me. “Dance with me, and I’ll reveal to you my secrets. For you are right in saying I have a few. At least I have one.”

He placed my hand in the crook of his arm and then led me through one set of doors, around the perimeter of the dance floor, and out again toward the doors that led onto a garden walk. But we stopped a moment to greet Miss Matilda, who took my hand and placed within it a small object. I did not have to look to see what it was.

“Not Miss Hermione Hewitt,” she whispered in my ear. And then I was walking again.

The air was cool but not chill. From within the garden, the music could still be heard, but we were alone. Was it right to be alone? I turned to look within. He turned me to face him.

“My secret,” he said. “You were right to say I have one.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it.”

“Aren’t you? You veritably demanded it a moment ago.”

“Did I?” I squeaked.

“You did.

He presented his hand, I placed my treasured prize in my reticule then gave him my own. As we danced, he whispered his secret. He revealed it as the music played, and he asked for no reply, no answer whatever. Not yet. And when the music ended, we stood, he looking at me as I examined the garden pavers.

“Am I so repulsive you cannot bring yourself to look at me?”

I looked at him. And oh, how I looked! “You are not repulsive at all.”

“Not at all?”

If I had ever considered him so, I had ceased to do it entirely. I had been mistaken, blind to the prejudices of others. I had allowed those prejudices to be reinforced by the memories of a man in his awkward boyhood, by the tuttings and sighings of mothers who would not choose him for their supercilious daughters, and by the machinations of a jealous young woman I had once considered a friend. But whatever he appeared to be on the outside, I had always understood his heart and had loved him for it. The rest did not matter. Not one whit. I wanted to tell him so. It seemed, after all, he understood.

“And your answer, then?” he asked me.

“It is yes, of course.”

He smiled. I cried. Together, we laughed. And when, a moment later, he pulled me closer to him and kissed me, I believe I was the happiest woman alive.

“Why, you rascal!” Charles had joined us, Miss Lawson with him and her sister, too.

Miss Matilda approached me and once more placed a small, smooth object in my hand. “I had a feeling...” she said and squeezed my hand closed around the prize.

“You little liar!” Charles said to me.

“It wasn’t a lie.”

“It most certainly was. You said you could never think of him as anything more than an awkward older brother.”

I could feel my cheeks burning. I flashed a glance at Gill, who was trying to hide a smile, and then turned back to my brother. “Call it a white lie, if you must. I’ve always thought very highly of him, I think you know that.”

“A little white liar then, is it?” But it was a question without need of reply. What point was there in explaining how a blind, supercilious girl like myself had failed to see what now seemed so obvious?

“Oh, do dance with me, Charles,” Miss Lawson begged him, and relieving me of any further humiliation. “I’ve waited this hour or more for you to ask me. And they don’t want us here.”

Charles smiled broadly, gave us an approving nod, and led Miss Lawson indoors.

I observed, then, our reflection in the window, mine and Mr. Crossacre’s. He was watching me still, and I was almost afraid to meet his gaze. Almost, but not quite. I met it at last and thrilled as my heart beat all the faster.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked me. “If we do it thrice it’s as good as a declaration.”

I laughed. “Why not then?” And he led me at last indoors, where we did dance, and where Gill sought a private word with Papa, and where we thereafter made our announcement, to the surprise and shock of all present.

But I no longer cared what others thought, and I regretted all the more that I ever had. Perhaps Gill Crossacre had not won the unalloyed admiration of everyone in the ballroom. He had won mine, however, and that was all that mattered.