‘Oh, my poor girl,’ whispered Lady Mardham, under her breath, and glided forward as Celia, marginally less astounded at the apparition before them, took her first step towards her erstwhile schoolfriend.
Miss Burton, apparently either unconscious of the effect she had upon everyone, or used to being stared at, came forward, her hands held out, and her beautifully shaped lower lip trembling.
‘Oh, Celia, my dear friend, how terrible! And you used to be the best of dancers and so very pretty.’
Her tactless comment made Celia wince, but it was made with total sincerity and genuine sympathy. Lady Mardham was prey to the uncharitable wish that Miss Burton might be nothing more than a nightmare of her own imagining. Not only was she ravishingly beautiful, but clearly liable to add to poor Celia’s discomfiture by advertising her disability at every turn.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Burton. I do hope you have not been wearied by your journey. I am sure that you will be glad of the opportunity to rest before changing for dinner.’
Marianne Burton made her hostess a very pretty curtsey, and blithely denied any feeling of tiredness, but agreed that she would be pleased to change her dress.
‘I will show you to your room,’ offered Celia.
‘Can you manage the stairs?’ Marianne was all concern.
‘Why yes, of course. I am not as swift, but quite capable you know.’ Celia concealed her dislike of the sympathy.
Before they had reached the door, the overdue Mr Wombwell entered. Being rather more used to comely feminine company, he did not succumb to the incoherent admiration of the other gentlemen. Only by the briefest widening of his eyes might it have been seen that Miss Burton made a favourable impression upon him. He bowed and awaited introduction very calmly, and did not watch her as she left the room. Lady Mardham heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps he already knew of Miss Burton’s origins and would treat her with indifference.
Lady Mardham did not know Mr Wombwell in the slightest.
*
Sir Marcus Cotgrave lived not more than eight miles from Meysey, across the Wiltshire border, and was expected to arrive a little before the time when everyone would change for dinner. Lord Corfemullen and his wife, who was one of Lord Mardham’s cousins, arrived several hours earlier, with her ladyship very voluble as to the appalling state of the road from Oxford. Miss Darwen was equally loquacious, complaining about the cast shoe that delayed her arrival as though the horse had lost it on purpose.
Lord Levedale was announced just after both ladies had retired to rid their persons of the ravages of travel, and made his bow to his host and hostess and Corfemullen, whom he did not know. His manners were good, and not by the least twitch of a muscle might one have guessed that he was regretting giving in to his parent’s demand. He had no knowledge of who else might be making up the party, and wondered whether the presence of younger guests, other than ‘the Heiress’, had been his sire’s invention. Lady Mardham soon made all clear, however.
‘You will be delighted to hear that my son, Richard, and his friends Lord Pocklington and the Viscount Deben, are also staying with us, and Mr Wombwell, and an old friend of the family, Sir Marcus Cotgrave.’
Levedale had never met Sir Marcus Cotgrave, was a couple of years older than Mr Mardham and his cronies, and knew them little more than by sight, and regarded Mr Wombwell as another example of a man gone to the bad in the manner of his brother. It did not bode well for an entertaining stay. He said something appropriate, however, and enquired as to the dinner hour, after which he withdrew to make his preparations.
Lady Mardham thought him pleasant enough in form and manner, perhaps a little tall, and for one who was reputedly hanging out for a wife, lacking a little keenness. She had expected someone more effusive, though she had no idea why that should be.
*
Miss Clandon, at least, fulfilled many of her hostess’s expectations. She was a very quiet girl, inclined to speak in barely more than a whisper, and blushed with surprise whenever addressed. In fairness, Lady Mardham admitted she was prettier than her mama had been at the same age, but this was damning with faint praise.
‘You cannot know just how delighted I was to see her, my lord,’ she declared, when that gentleman entered her dressing room as her maid completed the arrangement of her hair for dinner. ‘Quite a shy dab of a thing, she is, and I would have to be honest and say her ears stick out a little. If I had been Cora I would have had her wear a tight band about her head at night in the hope of them growing more normally. I have placed her next to Mr Wombwell and Lord Pocklington at dinner this evening. Celia is next to Sir Marcus and Lord Levedale. I have no idea why Richard brought Deben with him. He is a nice enough young man but patently not interested in setting up his nursery as yet. I thought it safest to place him next to the awful Burton girl, with Richard on her other side.’
‘Awful? I would not say that, my dear. Pretty thing, I thought her.’
‘Pretty? My lord, she is stunning. Had poor Celia not been … They would have been much on a par, but as it stands … I wish I had never let Celia persuade me into letting her come.’
Lord Mardham, unaware of the truth, merely nodded in conjugal agreement.
‘Does not help.’
‘‘Does not …?’ It mars all. What man would take a second glance at poor Celia with that girl in the room? And what is worse, the tactless innocent keeps saying things which highlight our daughter’s plight. I admit I would have happily strangled her this afternoon when she asked whether Celia was able to climb the stairs. What did she think? That we have her sleep in the morning room upon a truckle bed?’
‘She was just being solicitous, I am sure, my dear.’
‘But it was in front of the young men, all except Levedale. Oh dear, this is going to be a disaster.’ Lady Mardham’s voice trembled.
‘I think that it will only be a disaster if everyone is bored and miserable. You know, hoping that somehow Celia might receive an offer is aiming for the moon, my dear. We both know it, but the attempt is worthy.’
With which thought, Lady Mardham had to be content.
*
Their ‘poor Celia’ was at that moment thinking the opposite. It was not worth the attempt at all. Had her cousin and her schoolfriend come to visit without any gentlemen, she might have anticipated some pleasure. Marianne was far too inclined to pity, and Celia hated pity, but she was kind-hearted and might learn not to treat her as incapable of anything. Sarah was so overawed that it was difficult to know what to make of her as yet, and Celia would no more have invited Lavinia Darwen than the Tsar of Russia. The problem lay in the presence of men whom her parents were hoping she might attract. Well, she would not, or rather could not, with the exception of Sir Marcus, who sighed whenever he looked at her. Whether this was from pity or because he saw again his lost wife, it was hard to say, but both made Celia cringe.
Chapter 4
Celia came downstairs early for dinner. Not for her could there be the grand entrance to show herself off. It was far better, advised mama, that her ‘problem’ not be advertised more than necessary. Celia agreed, though from rather different motives. At least the guests, with the exception of Lord Levedale, were now all aware of her situation. She wore a gown of simple cut, with little embellishment, but of a deep straw colour which showed off her colouring to advantage. Lady Mardham had entered her room as she was dressing, and frowned, suggesting something rather more decorated, but Celia had shaken her head.
‘Knots of ribbon and a vandyke hem will not distract them, Mama, you can be sure. Let us be honest. I have a severe limp, and there is an end to it. Now, ought I to wear the pearl set, or the peridots Grandmama gave me last birthday?’
‘Would you at least wear the patten, Celia, so that when you are standing …’
Celia pulled a face. She hated the wooden patten that made her look level but, even with a suede leather sole, made a peculiar clumping noise as she walked, and not only failed to conceal the distorted
manner of her walking but made her shortened leg ache as much as did the good one, which bore additional weight and strain.
‘Mama, I—’
‘I understand you cannot bear to wear it all day, my poor child, but at least you can appear more normal in the evenings.’
‘More normal’ she had said, and Lady Mardham had no insight into how lowering, demeaning, were her words. When even her parent looked upon her as abnormal, what hope could Celia have of being treated as a woman, not a cripple or a freak?
*
Marianne Burton came down with Sarah Clandon, and the beauty of the one highlighted the very forgettable appearance of the other. Miss Burton had access to the finest dressmakers in Bath, ladies who were almost falling over themselves to dress her, since she showed their creations to such advantage as had other ladies imagining that they might look as good in similar gowns. She had taste, and was well aware that money was not best shown off by gewgaws. Her muslin was pearly white, and delicately embroidered all over the bodice, subtly drawing the eye to her curvaceous bosom, and the little puff sleeves showed off the pale slenderness of her arms for the brief inches before her long gloves. She wore pearls, as fitting for so young a lady, but they were of impressive dimensions and graded perfectly for size. When they entered the room, Lady Mardham only really ‘saw’ Marianne Burton. Everything about her was, admitted Lady Mardham to herself, and with great reluctance, perfect.
Sarah Clandon’s gown was similar in colour, and there the similarities ended. It had an edging of lace to the sleeves and neck that had been taken from an old gown of her mama’s, and she had applied it herself with neat little stitches. About her neck was clasped a pendant with a prettily cut aquamarine that successfully deepened the rather pale blue of her eyes, but she had neither bracelet nor hair ornament, and she wore no earrings. She would not be remembered for being ugly, but then it was doubtful that she would be remembered at all.
Lord Levedale walked in almost upon the heels of Richard Mardham, and for a moment he wondered if his father had inadvertently done him the greatest favour of his life. The young lady was beautiful, breathtakingly so, and he did indeed catch his breath even as he advanced further. Then he saw Miss Burton. To a dispassionate observer there was no doubt who was the most to be admired, but even as she turned towards him, a shy smile upon her cupid’s bow of a mouth, he dismissed her as ‘typical diamond of the first water’. His gaze was upon the young woman in the straw coloured silk, who looked at him questioningly. No man had ever looked at her like that before. Celia smiled, but wryly. Wait until he sees you move, she thought to herself, and then watch his expression change. Part of her wanted to stand still longer, to enjoy the feeling his gaze gave her, but she was an honest girl. She stepped forward, her stick made visible from among the folds of her gown, even as her mama tried to distract him by speaking to him, making introductions. He only half attended. For a moment his eyes registered surprise, and then, yes, the pity. Celia could have wept, but instead the twisted smile merely remained fixed.
‘Miss Mardham.’ He made his bow as his hostess introduced her. She sketched a curtsey, but with the hated and little used patten there was a wobble to it, and a moment’s unsteadiness. His arm went out and she laid her hand instinctively upon it.
‘I am sorry, my lord.’ She lowered her gaze, blushing in shame, and withdrew her hand.
‘There is no need, Miss Mardham.’
‘It was clumsy of me.’
His father had said that the daughter of the house was ‘a cripple’. Somehow he could not associate the term with the vision before him. The problem was that he had no idea what to say that would not sound patronising, or even offensive. He therefore said nothing, but shook his head.
Lady Mardham was making the other ladies known to him, whilst giving Celia a look which was half remonstrance and half disappointment. Celia ignored it.
Lords Pocklington and Deben entered, clearly in good humour, and the atmosphere lightened. They were evidently awestruck by Marianne Burton’s face and figure, but both were well-brought up young men and attempted manfully to disguise the fact, with, however, limited success. They were certainly not distracted by Miss Darwen, who was a strong-willed young woman who disregarded the sage advice of her maid, and liked to deck out her person with as many items of jewellery as possible. Mr Mardham whispered to Lord Deben that the ‘clanking’ of her bangles and bracelets reminded him of convicts sent to the hulks.
*
It lacked but five minutes to the dinner hour when Mr Wombwell made his entrance, and it was ‘an entrance’. Country hours it might be, but he was as resplendent as at a Mayfair dinner, his dark locks brushed to a glossiness that owed little to oils and much to the hard work of his valet, his linens spotless and snowy, his coat moulded to his elegant form. If Miss Burton was the ‘belle’, then he was most certainly the ‘beau’. He knew it, and had an air which indicated he expected to be treated as such. It made Celia’s hackles rise, and the look she gave him was far from admiring. He resented it. Miss Burton, however, was once more suitably impressed, and he rewarded her with a winning smile and one of his most charming ‘wicked’ looks. Her cheeks were delicately suffused with a soft blush, which made Lady Mardham groan inwardly. Not only was the girl going to ruin poor Celia’s chances, she would have to be guided from falling prey to Mr Wombwell’s dangerous charms. At least, thought Lady Mardham, his interest in her would dissipate when he knew of her ancestry. She was unaware just how deep in debt the gentleman stood.
The butler, Copthorne, announced dinner to be served, and the ladies were escorted to their places. Sir Marcus Cotgrave, who had spoken briefly with Celia and then stood back in a contemplative manner and given half an ear to Lady Corfemullen, stepped forward to escort her into the dining room.
‘Lean on me, my dear Miss Mardham,’ he offered, as if reaching the dining room without aid would be beyond her.
‘But Miss Mardham promised me the honour,’ lied Lord Levedale, smoothly.
Celia cast him a look of surprise, and saw him raise an eyebrow a fraction, as though daring her to deny him. There was a twinkle in his eye that she could not resist.
‘This is true, Sir Marcus, but another night …’ She would rather it was never, but felt duty bound to offer her unwanted admirer a sop. She laid her hand once more upon Lord Levedale’s arm, but determinedly kept the touch light.
‘You are mendacious, my lord,’ she murmured, without looking at him, as they left the room.
‘But you supported me in my mendacity, ma’am, so cannot castigate me for it. Besides, I saw it as a moral imperative.’
‘You did?’
‘Why, yes. The thought of you being treated as … forgive me, too frail to walk with stick alone . . strikes me as insulting.’
‘Even though I cannot execute a curtsey properly, my lord?’
‘Anyone might overbalance. Good Lord, I am heartily glad we gentlemen are not expected to perform such a manoeuvre. We would be dashed ham-fisted at it, toppling like ninepins, for certain.’
She smiled up at him at that, and his face grew suddenly more serious.
‘It must be very constricting, Miss Mardham.’
‘It is. Sometimes I dream I am as I was before. I miss … many things.’ She rarely admitted it to anyone and wondered why she should do so to this man whom she had only just met.
So it was some accident, he thought, not a disability with which she had grown up. How much the worse must that be. As if reading his thoughts, she provided the answer to the question in his head.
‘I had an accident whilst hunting, a year and a half ago. I broke the long bone. If I had been a horse they would have shot me.’
‘I can only say I am very glad you are not a horse, Miss Mardham.’ He spoke lightly, for it struck him that expressing sympathy would alienate her.
‘No indeed, my lord, since you would be hard pressed to explain leading a horse in to dinner.’ She felt a little light-headed, and
responded instinctively.
Lady Mardham, hearing the laugh behind her, assumed it was some joke between her son and his friends.
*
If Lady Mardham had thought her arrangement of the diners about the table had been safe, she was disabused of the idea in short order. For some peculiar reason it had not occurred to her that her son might be as bowled over by Miss Burton as the other young men, and the sight of him patently trying to impress her quite put his mama off her white soup. On the opposite side of the table Mr Wombwell, clearly affronted at being placed next to ‘the nobody’, was as good as ignoring Cousin Sarah, and devoting himself to flattering Lady Corfemullen, to that lady’s pleasure and her lord’s irritation, whilst sending occasional glances across to Miss Burton signalling that he would infinitely prefer to be flattering her.
Lord Pocklington, not a ladies’ man, was attempting to entertain Sarah Clandon with tales of hunting, to which she listened with little understanding, having never ridden to hounds, and Miss Darwen, who declared herself, with crushing finality, allergic to horses. Lord Deben, across the table from them, divided his time between trying to edge into the conversation with Miss Burton, and offering to pass dishes to Miss Clandon, since he could think of no other means of showing she was not forgotten. Sarah wondered if he thought her emaciated.
Meanwhile, Sir Marcus Cotgrave was not to be put off, just because he had not secured the position as Celia’s escort into dinner. He divided his time politely between Mrs Wombwell and Celia, and most certainly did not monopolise her, but what he did say made her long to hit him with the dish of fried sweetbreads that was placed nearest to her. Lord Levedale even overheard him ask her if she could manage to pass him the entrecôte of veal, as if it might be too much of an ordeal.
Bless Thine Inheritance Page 4